No, I don’t feel like dancing. Or dislocating my hips. Thanks anyway.

Sometimes I attend events and there is dancing and people look at me strangely when I determinedly don’t dance. I could be coy and declare that I am a terrible dancer and oh no, I couldn’t possibly…

I would be lying, because as far as I’m concerned, I can dance and dance well. I just shouldn’t.

It might be easier to go down the coy route, because declaring that I don’t dance, well, it requires some explanation from me. How much of an explanation depends on how much of my blog you’ve read – or my twitter stream and how well I know you. I might just leave it at that and damned if you think I’m rude, or weird.

Or I could brush you off with an explanation like I have bad joints.

But unless you’re very close family, or a friend I love, I’m not going to go into it. Actually, even if you’re very close family, I’m not going to go into it.

Invisible disabilities don’t lend themselves to being explained easily. When you add in genetic and rare, then easy explanations disappear almost entirely.

I had a panic attack before I flew last weekend. Not because I was terrified of flying, but because I was terrified of being stuck in a tiny space, with my knee bent and having it dislocate. Of course, I’d been sensible enough to brace it before flying, but that terror of knowing that your bones don’t stay where they’re put, that doesn’t go away.

I made it to Sydney with nothing worse than aching hips and a few dislocated ribs, but I kept the brace on anyway.

By that night, I had an angry black bruise around the back of my knee, but it was a small price to pay for no major dislocations.

When the dancing started on Saturday night, I smiled politely, shook my head and sat down to watch. Of course, I would have loved to dance, because I do love dancing, but I don’t love dislocated hips and I’m eternally sensible. I was already wearing heels, surely that’s enough danger for one night?

By dessert, all my ribs down one side had dislocated and I had been sitting for so long and was so exhausted that I was close to vomiting. I’d been feeling sick all weekend, but forcing myself to eat a few green beans, some fish and half a cannelloni had taxed my already upset system and it was more than I could take. I called it a night and headed up to my room to relocate all my ribs and lay down, with my feet in the air, in an attempt to stabilise my blood pressure.

45 minutes later, I’d removed my stockings (extra supportive, for the holding together of my pelvis) and replaced my heels with sensible flats. I went back downstairs, to at least get to talk to some of my friends.

I think I made it another 20 minutes before my ribs all fell back out and the simple act of movement was feeling more like walking on a pitching ship, than walking down a hallway.

But no one saw that, because Ehlers Danlos is an invisible disability. No one saw me relocate my wrist half a dozen times in a 30 minute period, or put my thumb back into joint and continue writing my tweet, or wiggle my ankle back into the spot it was meant to be in. And that’s good, because being a freakshow is not something I aspire to. Watch the girl bend in places a person shouldn’t! See her skin stretch and hear the crunch of bones! Roll up, roll up!

I would have liked to dance, but more so, I like my hips staying in the sockets that were designed for them too.

After all, no one looks good on the dance floor when writhing around and screaming in pain.