The first month was very bad. I couldn't remember how to put on my shirt.
All I could see was a garment with three holes in it. Which hole was it,
how many holes did I have to put my head through?

Gripping and clutching and avoiding twisting one's fingers, finding the
hole in which the head fits perfectly, not panicking when the shirt is over
your head. Caught, I stop and try to breathe slower: Jonathan, calm down.
Loosen your arms. Find each particular muscle and pull it upwards, tighten
it, hold it as the other goes slack.

If you don't learn now, when will you?

You did this all when you were three. You're forty-three now.

But sometimes the shirt is like a chinese thumb puzzle. It pulls tighter
and I am sure that I am going to be strangled. I rip it. I swear I'm never
going to wear another shirt again. Days like these, I lie in bed all day,
pinned to the mattress, my breathing shallow, a constricting pain in my

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