Musings on Physical Disability and Youth
On a walk, I could feel my hip slipping out of place. My mind’s realization of what’s happening instantly preps my body to brace as pain begins to flood my senses. I then limp until I reach my destination because, at this point, I’m closer there than home. I pray I come across a bench so I can wait for the pain to subside and drop the facade that I’m okay- an act I keep up to not scare off the suburban families that keep telling me good morning with raised eyebrows. ‘Good morning’ is said in a way that gives me the impression that if I don’t answer and continue my bench hunt venture or if I simply mumble the greeting back, I’d be asked to verify my address. So, I metaphorically tap dance and say, “Good morning!” in a voice that doesn’t belong to me and say something about the weather with a grin that also doesn’t belong to me- in actuality, I want to collapse and double over in agony.
My knees started giving out when I was about 13, and the joints in my foot when I was much younger.
Sometimes I wake up and it’s hard to breathe.
Sometimes shooting pains strike my ribs.
Sometimes it feels like there’s liquid in my lungs.
I was once in an aisle of a grocery store and had to call the store and say, “Hi, I’m so sorry to bother you, and this may sound odd, but I’m stuck in aisle 7, are there any wheelchairs available?”
It’s strange navigating the world as a young disabled person because many people, including myself, aren’t aware of the complexities of disability.
Because, when I call the cashier at the grocery store I’m stuck in, who I’ve walked by with no mobility aid many times, I don’t tell her that my bones randomly freeze or slip out of place or that I can’t stand for too long or I feel like fainting, I let her believe I injured myself and make attempted jokes about my clumsiness because that’s much easier to explain.