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Welcome Aboard!

--"Izzy, how did you start dancing?"

--"What got you into martial arts?"

--"What kind of dancer/martial artist/writer are you?

--"How do you deal with brain damage, bodily injury and 

     C-PTSD, yet still dance, write, train, live the way you do?"

--"How do you still find joy and beauty amidst pain and loss?"

--"Wow, you should write your memoirs!" 

    This Is My Story

NSFW, 18+

  • Writer's pictureBella Dancer

Shhhh... (As the Rush Comes)


**Motorcycle - As the Rush Comes (Gabriel & Dresden Chillout Mix)**

Moonlight and streetlight vie to kiss my upturned face. My feet shift more deeply into the silk of the sand. It covers my toes, so fine and smooth, so cool after midnight. The hum of the cicadas has melted into the occasional cricket. I am alone.

In my back yard.

In my life.

In my heart.

Both of my Magnolia Sisters have moved away. My Lionesses and my Sahirrnees have all flown the nest. I left it first, lured like a moth. ZZZT. I can barely do justice to my Tejedoras. Choreographies won't stick and I can't fully sense my fingers anymore. My back is old elastic, losing more of its spring every time I try to make it dance. My spine shudders with a sickening sound. You know the sound. That subtle *khhhrrrrrrikkhhhh* of old, dried fibers fraying.

I have a new dance these days. I do it every night. He won't be home until after dawn so it doesn't matter what time I come outside. It doesn't matter how long I stay. Not like he'd notice if he was here anyway.

My eyes close. My breathing slows. I allow my entire body to melt upon its bones. Only my feet remain vigilant, shifting and gripping as it begins. The rhythm. Whichever one is inside me in this moment.

Tonight my body yearns for flat infinities. My hips push forward and around, forward and around, forward and around. So big now that my arms swing back and forth in counterbalance. Then my hair. My face is slack. The backs of my hands smack my kidneys. Thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack. Deeper. Faster. Harder. Over and over and over until it's through with me.

My body stills.

My eyes remain shut.

I know it's not over. Like one of those dousing crystals, everything stills to the slightest vibration. Just a little shift side to side. Then it starts again. Smoother now. Freer. More abandon. The rhythm crests, recedes, stills, and then shifts again. Forward this time. My form jerks as my toes barely catch me. Okay, forward then. My hips push out over my toes and the waves roll up my spine and back down and up again. My ribcage opens at the top, then collapses forward like the crash of the ocean. My head rocks in that whiplash motion, but gentler. Over and over until it ebbs.

I exhale the hiss of surf across sand.

By now my feet are buried in the dirt of my denuded back yard. Plucked clean of bindweed and every living thing except a few gasping survivors. Bare canvas. I have no interest in painting it anymore. I've never even gotten to open the box of pigments.

When the impetus returns to my hips, they have reversed direction. My hair sways again and I have no idea how long it goes on. I have no idea what I'm doing except surrendering. I can breathe out here and not a single one of these movements hurts. It is bliss and relief and wings and YES. Something is guiding me--and not just my body.

I'm leaving.

I don't have a clue where I'll go, but I'm Ieaving.


I'm gone. very quiet. Be very still and you can hear it, too. Deeper than the music. Deeper than the sound of your breathing, even. If you let it, it will show you exactly where to move and it will never steer you wrong.


--UP NEXT: EMBODYING THE CREED- Honor, Respect & Jerry-Rigging Learning Disabilities



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