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The problem with legs that won't go is they won't go. There was a time I could dance a night away with an exactness of step. I could kick a high-fandango, pirouette and split-jump across a room. But not any more. Life can knock you about. It's a bossy school teacher forcing you to do math when you'd rather write a sonnet, which, by the way, has counting in it.
People, and by people I mean doctors, can't find a cure or a reason. Their quitting came slowly, after rounds of drug therapy and creams and hours in stuffy consulting rooms. I understand their frustration, I really do.
I've been seeing a psychiatrist called Gerald. We're on first name terms. He's almost completely rotund, like a barrel, the sort you see in a pub pretending to be a table.
Because I'm a difficult customer, I see him twice a week. The weeks have turned into years – three to be exact. He thinks the ocean of pain in my legs has nothing to do with my childhood – although there are Oedipal issues we address on a regular basis. This morning Gerald asked me, 'If your legs could carry you away, where would they take you?'
I thought of Tenerife. But if you could choose one place in the world to visit, it shouldn't be Tenerife. I almost said Butlins. Gerald would have had a field day with Butlins, all those childhood memories. Instead, I shined the buttons on my coat.
By the time my husband came to fetch me, I was sobbing. He doesn't usually come to fetch me. Someone, maybe the receptionist, must have phoned him. He placed a damp hand on my shoulder, gave me a squeeze – a threat.
Belinda has worked as a psychiatric nurse, lecturer and creative arts practitioner. Her poems are published in magazines, on-line journals and anthologies. In 2017, she won the Poetry in Motion Competition to turn her poem into a film, since shown Internationally. In April, she supported Gill McEvoy at Cheltenham Poetry Festival, and has just learnt of her second place in the Ambit Poetry Competition.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.