Sometimes I wonder if I’ve really accepted it. This life of mine. I’m I content? I’m I happy or I’m I just putting up a show?
When mum calls to ask how my day was, I tell her that it was OK. That I’m OK. I’m sure I mean it. Sometimes. Other times I’m not so sure. It seems unfair to tell her that I’m miserable. That everyday I get a small panic attack if I have to walk out my door alone. Plagued my endless fears of losing my balance and falling flat on my face in front of complete strangers or getting hit by a car because I wasn’t fast enough while crossing the road or getting stared at by a group of children by the roadside.
No. She doesn’t need to know that. That’s my shit to deal with and nobody else’s. Crying and moaning about it won’t make my spine any less bent or my legs any stronger. It won’t stop people from staring at me as if I have a monkey on my back. It won’t take away the thoughts of worthlessness that frequently haunt my mind.
I asked a friend this morning why he looked so downcast. He goes on to tell me that he has a mild pain in his ear. I nearly burst out laughing. I know it sounds cruel, evil even but that’s what a life of physical pain has taught me. To be cynical. Apathetic to the pain of others. To find people who complain about a simple headache weak. To feel smug that I could handle that with a smile on any given day. I tell the friend that I’m sorry for his pain but deep down I really don’t mean it. ‘Suck it up!’ I here myself quietly say.
So I guess I’m living a life of pretend huh. Lying to those closest to me. Smiling to hold in the screams as the muscle spasms course through my body. Saying that I’m OK when it couldn’t be further from the truth. But to be honest, part of me believes in the con. That I’m a confident, self-assured girl who hasn’t let her disability impede on her life. That I’m content. Happy. I have to believe it. If I don’t, I might just walk a little slower when I see that oncoming car as I cross the road.