Walking on my hands
I remember many years ago coming home from an evening out with a boyfriend. For some reason, as I put my key in the lock and turned it, I grazed my knuckle, which bled profusely. Said fellow – oh, the cad! – refused to believe me when I said I had cut it thus; and when he did, he could scarcely credit my carelessness. I had no sympathy from that quarter. At the time I was puzzled and confused, until I realised he thought I had been lying, trying to fetch out extra sympathy, perhaps.
Recently, another piece of the puzzle slotted into place quite obviously. Last year, I was diagnosed by my new optician with – not serious – inferior peripheral blindness. I appear to have been born with this. Which means that, when I walk into a dark room, that is why I fall over things. I don’t see them. Ha! Something else makes more sense now.
I also notice that when I walk, I do fly about a bit, and appear to rely on my hands constantly, to field the space around me, to move about safely and find my way. Perhaps as some kind of answer to reduced vision – of which, I must say, I am entirely unaware. I must have always known about my hands-on navigating technique, but was unaware until recently – as a result of several injuries and cuts that have put everything ever so slightly off kilter – of the extent to which my fingers graze the roughcast walls of the stairwell, for example, or my hands grip the bannister and catch and snag as they do so when I go up and down the stairs.
I shall just have to be more careful, slow down and watch more closely. Or wear gloves. Which would have several other benefits. I’m not sure if I can type with gloves on, but perhaps it is worth a try.
Thanks for reading!