More Than My Disability

I have Spastic Diplegia Cerebral Palsy. I have scoliosis which has been surgically corrected. I have had my hamstrings and tendons lengthened. My ankles have been repositioned. I am able to walk with a walker. I use a power wheel. 

That’s what I say when someone asks, “what happened?” A variation of that monologue will be given. I feel like a broken record. Sometimes I shutter at the question. Don’t get me wrong, I do not mind curiosity. But hearing it over and over has definitely made it something I dread. Oftentimes, I wish I had the guts to be a comedian and say, “no idea. I haven’t seen the news today. Is there something I should know?” But, you see, I know exactly what that two-word question refers to.

To be perfectly honest, when I was younger, the thought of strolling around a college campus in a power wheelchair made me turn up my nose. Me? No. “I’ll just walk in my walker,” I’d say. I’d be less of an attraction that way, less of a burden. Gosh! Thinking that way was so harmful. I was perpetuating a narrative around disabilities that had been projected upon me: “Be as minimally disabled as you can be. Do not get in the way.” 

It is not my fault for thinking that way. I was doing the best I could. I was trying to protect myself…trying to survive.

I wish I could make this pretty or palatable. But if I did, I would be doing a disservice to not only my younger selves but millions of disabled children who are just like me.

But why do I feel so behind in life?

I’m accomplishing my goals. I’m making friends. I have a great community around me. But I’m behind. This feeling is hard to shake. I’m only 21. I know that I have plenty of time. That’s a fickle word, isn’t it? Time. It can’t be stopped, and some days I feel like I’m on a train that’s going too fast; other days, it comes to a crawl. Time…there’s never enough of it. I tell myself that over and over, and yet I cry when I waste it. So I tell myself again and again, “I am not behind. I am not behind.”

There are days when I dance around (in my own way) and smile before I’ve even had a single sip of coffee. I think of those watching me from heaven, and I hold my head high. I wish every day could be like that. 

If you’re like me, and you cry or you hold it all in, please know that is okay to feel. It is okay. God didn’t say, “Go be a robot.” Let it out. Let it be. He understands. He sees you.

I have a purpose. When I lose focus, I remember what God has brought me through. He saw me through immense pain and struggles that don’t manifest as surgery scars. He knows my heart, and He will always carry me. 

I am a disabled woman. I have Cerebral Palsy. I am seen. I am loved.