I just said “I’m disabled” for the first time.
I almost said it a few days ago when the grocery delivery guy handed me a pretty light box and I nearly collapsed under the weight. He looked at me like I was crazy, as many people do when they see me struggle physically, and I said, “I’m di—don’t worry about it”, and quickly shut the door on him.
I will have been in treatment for one year on the 20th. They say severe B12 damage usually heals in 6-12 months. (Though I did find one guy online who said his took 18!) Objectively, it’s not looking good.
I’m currently learning about simultaneously practicing acceptance and optimism.
During this year I have learned a lot about the downside to my rosy-eyed optimism: It can lead to disappointment and confusion in others about my actual situation. (See: Spiritual Bypassing.) Disappointment is impossible if you don’t get attached to the outcome, an important spiritual lesson–but it’s hard to not get attached to the outcome when you’re constantly like, “I bet I’ll be better by this time next month!” (Annnnd then I’m crying on the floor a month later.)
I don’t know if I’ll fully recover. I just don’t. I believe I will. But, mainly for logistical reasons, I need to accept my current situation: I am currently disabled. And my doctor doesn’t expect me to recover.
And in an awful 2004 flashback-style Donald fucking Trump has become President-elect.
Fuck you, 2016. I really hoped Bernie would be there and I’d be doing back handsprings by now. Rawrrr.
It’s all good though. This is all going somewhere, somewhere really really wonderful––even if I get there with the aid of a walker. I’m sure of it. (Though learning to be wise enough not to define it too much or hold it too tight.)
I’m right where I should be. It’s all good.