Fickle Feet

As my tendons snap and crack, my face grimaces in agony
I reach for the third-floor button in the lift, feet shuffle in behind me
An elderly lecturer sees my narrow finger plunge the button
He smirks at me, shakes his head and waits
As he reaches over to push the fourth-floor button,
I press myself against the lift walls,
As I’m pulled up through the building, my ligaments pull in my calves
I spread out my fingers and brace myself
First floor
He looks back at me again, I force a polite smile
I reflect on the ten minute journey here
The steady climb up a low hill
My feet tripping, slipping and sloppily pointing inwards
I look down at my feet in anger, how dare they?
Pointing inwards is not allowed, it is not normal, I have to appear normal
Second floor
A girl with crutches hops into the lift

She jabs the fourth-floor button
She looks down at my legs, then back at her own
I resist the urge to share, this is a lift
I bend my knees slightly – mistake – a sharp nerve pain shoots up
I try to maintain a calm face
But I failed – “Too long in the gym?” The girl smirks
“No, just me, just my…my…legs”
“Yes we all have those” The lecturer pipes in
I bite my lip
Third floor
Freedom!
I step out slowly
But after that judgment, can’t face the lecture room just yet
I retreat to the bathroom, wash my face
And then it comes, the feelings cluster
The anger breaks through
No crutches, no chair no obvious sign
My pain cannot be cured by a cast or charity chime
It’s internal, no surgery quick-fix
I try not to rant or panic
I try to look normal, but my insides are twisted
Sometimes I can’t walk or write despite insistence
Determination helps, but doesn’t overcome
China dolls with a metal outside
Normal out but with severe pain inside
Don’t laugh at me,
Don’t judge me,
Just let me be
But neither will I be defined by hypermobility