My Pole Room. |
Then he dies. I mean, suddenly. Taken out in an instant one night by a drunk woman.
All hope of repairing anything, seeing him again, maybe making love one more time, feeling his arms, telling one another we are forgiven - GONE.
I felt like a huge stone was wedged in my ribs. I couldn't hardly move my muscles right for weeks. My digestive system was screwed up. I only occasionally wanted a piece of cake or greasy pizza...or another shot of Tequila.
After about two months of this, I decided I needed an outlet. I wanted to get back on my pole. It was almost CALLING me to climb on it.
I created myself a pole space in the extra bedroom of my house. It came out beautifully. Smooth laminate floors, a booming stereo, red lights, pink curtains, huge mirrors...hot.
And I danced. I would turn on some wild, hard, throbbing music and dance like a crazy mad woman to the rhythm, the beat and in an instant it would overtake me, the emotion, the pain, the grief, the sadness, the loss like a huge hurricane that hit with no weather warning, like a storm that suddenly changed course and crashed, no SLAMMED right into me and sent me into a sobbing heap in the middle of the floor. The music drowned out the guttural cries from my soul.
But I continued. I didn't stop. I danced my in my grief, swam in its messy, dark waters and wallowed, thrashed, and got stronger. Waaaay stronger. The more I climbed, inverted, put a foot here, tried holding it there, hey- this arm is able to hold me up better now...oh, wow, now I can balance better...
The things that can happen when you don't stop.
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