Are we in control of our bodies, or are our bodies in control of us? Sometimes, I feel like mine is waging a war inside me. There was the day when my appendix exploded, spilling its poisonous contents like a busted sewer. Another time, my lumbar vertebra cracked in two, leaving me in a Louise Bourgeois-inspired back brace for months. I’ve also managed to grow a formidable tumor (sadly, not the kind with teeth and hair). And then there’s my brain; the most problematic body part of all. It goes haywire for no reason, causing chronic migraines, which have become part of my identity. That may be one of the reasons I’ve described decapitation scenes in horror movies as elegant and artful (insert winky eye emoji). I’m drawn to horror flicks like a fly to a bloated corpse, especially a subgenre known as body horror. 

Researcher Xavier Aldana Reyes defines this category as ​“the inscription of horror onto the human body by virtue of change.” In other words, body horror is when creepy or alarming things affect and transform the body. When I watch body horror, I feel surprisingly at ease. Yup, I know this sounds strange. But it’s a thing. Research suggests that weirdos like me have what’s called a safety frame. In a movie theater, we know we’re in a safe environment and therefore able to engage with shocking, often blood-soaked material. Also, I’m no bungee jumper, but I’m open to thrilling and exciting experiences. That might also inform my affinity for horror. 

However, I think it’s something else, something deeper in the flesh and more universal. Every human has a body, and many of us have fraught relationships with our bodies. We know how they can horrify. Bones break. Germs fester. Organs fail. Infections ooze. Flesh rots. When I feel alienated from mine because it’s doing something I can’t understand or control, I find comfort in seeing someone else’s body transform — even in a gruesome fashion — on the big screen. Occasionally, that metamorphosis even fills me with awe. Then I embrace the power that our bodies possess to adapt, despite being afflicted, altered or maimed. Body horror speaks to the human condition — our power, and our powerlessness. It forces me to consider my body’s combined beauty and grotesqueness. This body, for better or worse, is mine. And it’s a reminder that we’re all in this mess together.