This Chair Will Be The Death Of Me; Or The Anxiety

I am an idiot.

I have been in a considerable amount of pain for months now, maybe even just over a year, and I have done nothing about it. I didn’t think I had to. I sit in a chair for at least 12 hours a day, how could I not be in some type of pain? Apparently, the pain I’m experiencing is not normal, not even for a wheelchair user. My upper thighs, tailbone, and IT’s have been screaming and all I had to say about it was "get used to it". Thankfully, I guess, my skin is still intact. I can’t say the same for my muscles underneath the skin. Apparently you can also get pressure sores that begin on the inside. How the hell could I, after almost 9 years, not know this? I’ve also noticed how much weight I’ve lost in recent months, especially around my hips. How delightful I thought, until I realized that it is not fat that I’m losing, but actual muscle, leaving me to sit mostly on bone all day. Don’t use your muscles, they disappear. Again, how the fuck could I be oblivious to this? 

Actually, I know exactly how. Like everything else related to my disability, I ignore it. I dislike dealing with things that relate to my disability because…well, it’s a disability and it’s not fun. Actually, to be a little more honest, I am deathly afraid of it.

I am afraid of dealing with the physical aspect of it because it puts my morality front and center. It has been quite clear from the moment I had my accident just how fragile and how very mortal we, as humans, are. All I did was hit a tree and land on my head, and I could feel the life slipping from my body every single moment until someone found me. The fear I felt in those moments has stuck with me and has had such sobering effect on my life. Now, every time something unfortunate comes up, whether it’s an infection that needs an antibiotic I’m resistant too, deteriorating muscles, or whatever else, that fear sneaks up and stabs me in the heart, leaving me breathless.

The visions that run through my head terrify me to no end. I’m 26 and I can relate to a lot of 60, 70, even 80 year olds regarding their health problems. So what is in store for me when I turn, not 60 or 70, but 40 or 50? I don’t know for sure, but it likely won’t be all lollipops and gumdrops. Not to mention the fact that I have never met a quad who was hurt in their teens who has lived past their 50’s, not even Christopher fucking Reeve. He wasn’t hurt young, but had money to get the best possible care, still didn’t matter. The fact that my life will probably end before it should, in some long-term care facility scares me so much it’s unreal. And I’d rather not face that. Weak? Absolutely. Justified? I think so.

As for the emotional side of it, it’s just the same. I’m afraid to deal with it, and I’m unwillingly to admit that I have a right to be upset or angry over such a life-altering, traumatic incident. Dealing with it would involve letting myself off the hook, and also admitting that this disability has seriously fucked with my head. Does this sound stupid and juvenile? Of course it does, but the problem is my pride and my stubbornness; which is just as dumb. I know why I don’t like admitting that it bothers me, but I don’t understand why I feel that way. I’m sure a therapist would say it’s because of the way I was raised and the way society does not make it easy for men to admit weakness. But I don’t know if that answers it completely.

I don’t want to talk about how this disability has given me such a bad case of social anxiety that I can no longer have any meaningful relationships with friends. I don’t want to admit that I am ashamed of being so dependent on others because I don’t think it solves anything. My whole life, whenever I’ve being bothered by something, I’ve swallowed and ignored it, but this is becoming too much for me to (2 "to’s". Both right. Eat it, you.) handle. I feel like I am 5 seconds away from a complete mental break down, and yet I persist.

My refusal to admit just how much I’m bothered by this disability and everything that goes with it speaks to my insane stubbornness. It’s clear that when something like this happens, one can either go negative or positive. I don’t think that I’ve ever been consumed by the negativity that this can breed, but I’ve seen it and it’s ugly. Very ugly. I’ve tried desperately to avoid that. I do not want to become like those people who blame the world, do nothing with their lives, and are just genuine assholes. I think I’ve succeeded for the most part, but admitting my feelings, I somehow feel like I am doing what those people do. I feel as those I’d be taking on the roll of a victim, someone who cannot deal with life. Someone who is weak.

Every day is a constant battle. It’s as if my disability is a separate entity trying to consume me, my life, my thoughts, and my future. Every day I push back, again and again until I go dizzy. Next month it’ll be nine years since I began this constant battle, day in, day out…and, I’m exhausted. I’m so close to giving up, I can feel the urge coursing through my veins. The only thing I have left is my refusal to admit that it gets to me.

If I let that go, what do I have left?

The Loved Ones / Jane