Spinning . . .

When I was a kid, I could (and did) put my arms out, look up at the sky and spin like a top. I wouldn't get dizzy or even wobbly. Things no-one else could do in terms of balance and moving came naturally and easily to me. I could have been one heck of an aerobatic pilot if I'd wanted. I used to be able to easily twirl that baton, toss it in the air, spin around, and catch it easily. Drove my sister crazy because she couldn't. Then again there were many things I made look easy that she couldn't do no matter how hard she tried. We were still very close despite that.

I tend to be preternaturally graceful I'm told. And while I don't have a dancers body (anymore) I can dance like I'd studied ballet for years. My Sensei used to joke that I shouldn't be studying martial arts, but dance, that I was too graceful. Regrettably I wasn't allowed to do that. But my Katas were beautiful.

But spinning always brought joy to my heart and soul, it was like being a bird.

And then Earl took my life. That life. And the spinning has been taken from me by the long term physical impacts of abuse. Between the physical violence, and the panic attacks and vertigo I lived through, spinning is, at least temporarily, something I have trouble with now. While physically I'm still more than capable of going up on the toes of one foot and spinning like I always did, now it leaves me wobbly and sick to my stomach. Because my heart and mind have been changed, and memory of vertigo so bad I wanted to die is fresh. Bright flashing lights and colors, fast movement, heights, and so forth, things that never phased me in the past, are now triggers. I hate it. It hate what it reminds me of, how something so good that really had nothing to do with Earl, has been taken from me.

Wow, it dawns on me this is better suited to a mile in her shoes than over here. So I'll move it over there.

Anyway, it leaves me sad a reminder of what I've lost.