I’ve always believed that people are fundamentally separate. I envision us as tiny pilots in our own skulls, desperately slamming buttons and pulling levers to make our bodies walk and talk and touch. I try to tell people about the fact that I live in my head. Before I can say “and I think you do, too,” they start giving advice on how to “get out” and “live.” I don’t know how to talk about it without someone hearing “please help me” instead. I don’t know why it sounds like an insult to be in your head. I love my head. It’s where my brain is.