"I seem to have climbed into my own head, like the contortionist might or some one attempting to eat themselves until all that remains are a few essential organs." - Kate.
Is it like a sense of oppression and expectation, like that feeling before a thunderstorm, and that the psychic butterfly wings of the mind are slowly furling from the back of the head towards the ears? Simultaneously, the inner eyesight seems to curl in more and more crossed-eyed until it's staring out through the back of the head, blindly? And then the slow crawling unfolding and tightening carries on: a bivalve-corkscrew, getting ever more tense?