I doubt anyone is reading this, so that leaves me free to let loose.
I. Am. Disabled. Three little words that are heavier than a Texas-sized elephant to me, but mean near nothing to most people. Being disabled isn't an excuse to slack off for me. It is not a way to sit on my ass and eat fucking bon-bons all day, either. It isn't an easy out to sponge off of my family and husband. What it means is that I wake each day in searing pain, and prepare myself mentally to spend the rest of the day that way. It means I can't go to the fucking grocery store alone, because I can't drive there anymore, and even if I could I'm not able to lift my wheelchair out of my trunk. It means I can't go to the doctor unless my husband takes a day off of work, and that's a near impossibility because we need every penny he makes in order to survive. What it also means is that I get dirty looks from strangers, because I am in my early thirties yet look like I'm in my mid-twenties and well, I mean, no one THAT young could REALLY be disabled! She must be lazy! She must want to be waited on hand and foot! She must just be another waste of space! Well you know what? SHE is NONE of those things. She comes from a long line of strong Italian women who served their men, who cooked every meal, who cleaned every corner. My great-grandmother was a goddamn pioneer in women's rights! Back when she was a teenager, in the 19-teens, her parents arranged a marriage - because that was what was DONE back then. And this woman, who I idolized and admired and strive each day to emulate, this woman said NO! That if she liked the guy, sure, she'd marry him, but if not then she was taking the free trip to America and would make her own way in life! THAT is who I come from, and THAT is who I fight to be - an independent, strong woman who can take care of herself.
But I can't, not anymore. I need help to take a shower. My husband, who is a red-meat-eating, cheese-inhaling kind of guy, is learning how to cook vegan food because I can't cook anymore and I can't eat meat or dairy. I am unable to carry a simple bag anymore, and I am ashamed each and every goddamn day. EVERY DAY. I had plans, I had desires. I had a passion to open a book store once, and now? Well, now that dream is dead. All but one of my dreams are dead and rotted, because my body decided to take a sharp left turn without consulting me about it. The only dream I have left is to paint, so that is what I do. I try to make it sound glamorous and well, it is pretty wonderful, but is it going to bring in the money needed to buy food? To pay for an MRI I need? To get the medications I need? No. I hardly sell any artwork, and there are many, many more days where I'm simply unable to paint because of the pain. I keep my chin up, my face to the sunshine and my brave face on because there is no other choice. I HAVE to be strong, because no one is going to be strong for me, no one is going to live this life for me - it is MY life, and I have to make it work. The alternative is not an alternative, it is giving up, and my great-grandmother didn't give up, so why should I?
