Thursday, March 14, 2013

Disability - He's Not My Type



Disability arrives uninvited. I recoil from his ugly face.  I try to get rid of him…loose him at physio...in the gym…. walking in the village…. drown him in the sea… talk him to death in counselling…

He is tenacious. He ties a weight to my leg… … and my head. Trips me up and makes me fall. Laughs in my face when my seizures restart…

He is nasty…secures iron ball and chain to my leg when I stand. Only when reignited, do nerve cells let me heave it from the ground. High heeled shoes are history…running in the past….

He is clever. He waited a while before he bit with his sharpest teeth. I look well and if seated no one would guess. But fatigue is his hidden weapon. He uses it at will… surprise is his strength. He sends nausea and dizziness as its companion. I snap without thought…with a sly smile he offers the sofa...not where I want to be…

He was a temporary lodger, now he has squatters’ rights.  Disability did not arrive with a user manual. But …

He can't hide survival tools... bus pass…blue badge… new handbags…disabled rail card...cheaper travel…nice clothes...a lovely French walking stick bought in Nice… assistance when travelling...benches to sit on…help from family and friends…giggles and laughter...

Disability chose me…but he is not my type...