The First Time I Realized I Was Different

I am laying on the ground with the world spinning around me. I grip the earth with my hands, the grass blades poking me between my fingers, but the sky continues its kaleidoscope whirl over my head. My stomach knots into a hard ball and I vomit onto the earth under my cheek. Failure.

I’ve failed again. Not tough enough. Not strong enough. Never going to be good enough. I can’t even handle riding on a merry-go-round much less do anything more important in my young life. I must have been seven or eight at the time, although this was an experience repeated many times so it is hard to separate one memory of nausea from the thousands of others. Spinning rides predominate amusement parks and playgrounds across the United States and probably across the world. Tilt-a-Whirl. Teacups. These amusements have almost never been amusing to me.

I laughed along with the other children, when we would go to these places. I pretended not to be sickened by the spinning that took forever to stop in my head. You play along, as a child. You don’t want to be the spoilsport. The stick in the mud. You pretend not to be ill, until you can’t pretend anymore. That is pretty much the story of my life. My life with Meniere’s.

Set to 1970 because Blogger won’t go back farther. Part of the Meniere’s Story That I’m generating as a page.