I used to fantasize about elaborate escape plans while I was trapped under a nursing baby at 3 AM. Not running away, exactly, but trading places with someone in a movie, just for a day. The details changed—movie star, world traveler, hell, even just the lady who got to sleep in on weekends—but the core fantasy was always the same: a life where my body was my own again. I remember resenting my own skin; how dare it need so much. It wasn't even about the sleep, though god knows I craved it. It was the feeling of being a person with options, a self with edges that weren't constantly being softened and smoothed for someone else's comfort. I used to picture myself on a train, just watching the landscape blur by, no one needing a damn thing from me.