b'T3 Journal - Student Writing in Drama, University of Exeter 2020-21 Pauline Eller Freddie Venturi The female body in conversation: how taboos,Room to Breathe in a Respiratory Crisiscommunity and comfort shape our understanding of the female body, sex and sexuality. Creative WritingPauline Eller Freddie Venturi This section is part of our piece here i am, created for the third year module Practical Essay.The news has been horrific. Intensive care units full todays. I know they will have missed the structure of the Our performance centered around the female body in conversation. the brim with patients struggling to breathe, sedated andschool routine and the social interaction. I have read about ventilated, separated from loved ones as they take their lastdomestic abuse and unfriendly families, and I cant begin Script extract: gasping breath. I cant begin to imagine the profound painto imagine the effects these traumatic circumstances must and suffering; it is etched on their faces, glimpsed throughbe having on the mental health of many. It hurts, it aches. oxygen masks, and reflected in the anguished, ashen eyes people say it feels like ripping off wallpaper - someone is angry, tearing down the fruitless structures,of grieving relatives and in the despairing demeanour ofBut I have been fortunate. I am not like them.grieving that again nothing came of it. exhausted medics.I have lain on the sofa, my limbs languorous rather than Im not grieving, really Im relieved to know: no babies for me this month. burning and aching and striving to reach the distant end of but it hurts, as if my body is grieving without my mind. But I am young. I have no fear of illness, no real sense ofthe pool first in the constant competitions my swim club mortality. The trembling dread I experienced for my olderused to enter. I remember the sad walk of shame back to I need to rest and recover, yet Im restless. relatives at the beginning of the pandemic has faded. Theythe coach if we hadnt swum our best. Success only lasting the stomach, the back, my head, it hurts. remain well, touch wood. Life goes on.until the next failure. The competitive tension uneasily But I function, I work, I do all the things I need to do as if I cant feel my body working awaymasked as team camaraderie.creating a new home for the next month, for a baby I will refuse to have. Now I feel guilty because I have an admission to make. This year, in this pandemic, I have been able to breatheI have baked dubious confections with my beastly brother Im aching, Im weak but I cannot get irritable. I cant afford to get irritable. far better than ever before. Vast volumes of oxygen haveand we even ate them, liberated from the worry of nausea-Im on my period and it is my secret, my pain - and I (will) function. entered my relaxed lungs. For me, lockdown has meantinducing training or tests, laughing blithely together with freedom.uninterrupted exuberance, time on our side for once. Freedom from the classroom, from relentless homework.I have talked to my family, learned about their lives and Freedom from extra-curricular sports, from endless musicloves and longings. practice.I have heard sweet bird song in my garden, shrill foxes at Freedom from competition, with my peers or with myself.night. Freedom from the pressure to achieve, from sleeping justI have walked without destination or purpose, felt sunshine six hours a night and working every weekend.and icy wind and sea spray on my skin. Freedom from washing my hair and wearing shoes, fromI have slumbered for hours and hours, my body healing looking in the mirror and worrying about spots.from years of sleeplessness. But soon it will all be over. Boris has spoken. On MarchMy mind is healthy at last. But not for long. Its almost the eighth, were going Back to School. The heavy dread IMarch the eighth now. I am fifteen. I have finally felt feel evokes the bitter autumnal scent of waning summersfreedom, imprisoned here in my home, and I dont want past, awakens grim memories of dragging my musty PEto be locked down again, institutionalised. I am curious bag from its hiding place in the cupboard under the stairsto learn, but I no longer want lessons. Has my future been and reminds me of sickeningly cheerful shop windowruined, as politicians are predicting? displays, touting new pens and pencils in early July by kleverly spelling school with a k. My chest is tightening toOr was I, like the planet, rescued for a while?restrict my breathing once again. March the eighth. The end of lockdown. The end of my freedom.Its not that I dont realise that many children are trapped in tiny flats, lacking fresh air, friendships, a focus to their 64 65'