Upside Down Mermaid Dream

I have dreams where they cut me open and move bits of me around for hours and hours and hours and I feel nothing, and then the sedative wears off and I am standing by my bathroom mirror, and my neck is gone, and my arms are hanging awkwardly off my torso that has become a giant ribcage with flesh stretched precariously like silly putty that's been pulled in opposing directions for miles and miles, and I have become a hideous bony fish with legs, they made me a fish with legs, I think., reflecting on mermaid myths, and remembering how I used to think they applied to me so well, and now it is inverted, they flipped me upside down with scalpels and pills and I am an upside down silly putty mermaid, a bony fish with legs and my own head, my own familiar face in all its pimpled Anglo-Saxon adolescent glory, floating over the giant ribcage that is traced with a scar pattern I know from libraries worth of books, scars I long for in replacement of the vicious brand of a mother goddess with a sick sense of humor, those surreal familiar scars are traced across my fish skeleton torso, how sick, I think, I am an upside down mermaid covered in scars, and stretched like dough and elastic across bony protrusions. They never told me what the recovery time was.