Original- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CLEhnzG6hxQ

My doctor, a harried woman with a distracted smile, called them "pressure contusions." "Like someone rested a heavy, narrow object on you for an extended period," she’d said, tapping her pen against my chart. "In your sleep, perhaps?" I didn’t have any heavy, narrow objects. I had a bed, a duvet, and the suffocating proximity of the walls. The bruises were the shape of pressure points, the precise spots a hand or feet might rest to anchor a body while it leaned over another, sleeping body in the dark. The realization was so repulsive it felt like a physical blow. I was being handled in my sleep.

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