So, I asked about this a couple years ago on livejournal, but now it's really going to happen, so I need words. And a lot of them.
Poetry has been a very important thing in my life, and I'd like to get a tattoo to symbolize its importance, but I don't want the typical flaming microphone that most poets get. I wanted something a little more subtle (even though a part of me reeeally wants the colors of flames on her skin). After wracking my brain, I decided on something that I think will be perfect for me. I'm going to get scattered magnetic poetry (the kind you see on refridgerators). The words will not make up a specific poem (who could choose?!) but will have a multitude of words that I love. For their meaning. For the way they sound in my mouth.
I have a few I've gathered:
wander
lust (put close enough together that they look like wanderlust)
thick
cacophony
phantasmagoric
This is where you, dear readers, dear poets, dear friends, come in. What words do you love? What words do you think I should include? Any other suggestions?
PS. I'm turning 30 this month. I'm getting this tattoo for my 30th birthday. Consider it your birthday gift to me to help me with this. Guilt, guilt. Layer, layer.
A website called Fail Blog has sucked all of the time from my day.
Here are some of the winners for your viewing pleasure:
It's strange. I think about posting here all the time. I plan out what I want to say. I suppose that's not so different from years ago when I started posting, except that I don't end up posting at the end of the day. I'm sure part of it has to do with becoming an ostrich these past couple of months. Part, maybe, because work is time-consuming with my 2 new preps. Part, definitely, because I feel like I'm not spending enough time with my kids or that they need me more. I am twisted. Life gets only more complex as the years pass. And, oh, how they pass.
Twisted. Complicated. But beautiful. I see art in the knots.
I am sick. Not sick like burning the candle at both ends. Sick like toasting a candle like a marshmallow over the Chicago fire. Something about bouncing between IWPS and work all last week. About not sleeping. About having to run a slam on the Monday immediately following IWPS.
Truly, though, I blame cigarettes. I am currently on day 68 of quitting smoking. And, honestly, I'm damn proud of myself. But during IWPS I allowed myself to do the whole "smoke when you drink" thing. And it worked famously. I didn't smoke much at all, and I have no desire for one now. It worked famously, you know, besides the giving me bronchitis thing. Run my body down enough AND add smoking to that? Yeah. Lameness ensues.
Speaking of lameness. I spent most of yesterday evening and much of today crying. Over Grey's Anatomy. If you judge me right now in my fragile emotional state, I will make you eat lizard testicles. And I'm not even sure if lizards have testicles, so it might be an even more disturbing part of its body.
<brief interlude of some of the lyrics of "Body" by Presidents of the United States of America>
Hey little lizard,
Where did you slink?
Left your cage door open
Under the basement sink
The drippin water made your mouldy body eyes open and
I cant get your body out of my mind
Cant get your body
I cant get your body out of my mind
Cant get your body
</interlude>
Point being, I'm not sure if it's the incredible sickitude that made me so emotional, or season 6 episodes 1 & 2. I was heaving crying. Mostly over the pain evident in the characters' faces & actions over the death of one of the characters. I don't know why I'm giving specifics, but I feel the need to excuse the frog eyes I have today.
Oh no. Here it comes again.
<brief interlude of some of the lyrics of "Body" by Presidents of the United States of America>
Little killer froggy,
Where did you hop?
Under the entertainment center
Realize you just couldnt stop
Worms found a hole in your booty they could enter and
I cant get your body out of my mind
Cant get your body
I cant get your body out of my mind
Cant get your body
</interlude>
What else am I doing during my invalidcy besides quoting disturbing 90's songs & crying over fictitious reactions to fictitious deaths, you ask? Well, working, obviously. I am on my 6th year teaching, and I have NEVER taken a day off for my own illness. Unless you count the day I rolled my car on my way to work, but that was as much a matter of not having a ride as the cut on my hand, glass in my eye, oddly flexible neck, and monkeys stealing my frogs. Otherwise, I come in to work with anything from eye-aids to the east african death flu. I'm just that dedicated. And greedy for sick days. And too lazy to make sub lesson plans.
So, I've been working and consuming 20 lbs of starbucks within one week, since I'm sick and don't wanna eat healthy. I've also been stressing over my kids. I have quite a lot to say on that subject, but that'll have to wait for later. I have a riveting episode of Parks and Recreations to watch.
Also on my favorites from hulu list:
Glee
Modern Family
Community
Do yourself a favor and stop doing whatever important and/or life-saving and selfless act you are attempting right now, and go meet some of my new friends from hulu. I warn you, though. You might get attached to them. You might find yourself crying into your white mocha pumpkin frappacino with caramel sauce until your eyes, too, resemble a dead amphibian's.
So, last time I posted thim poem, one main issue that everyone seemed to have was with the ending. I agree. The ending doesn't do what it should. And I've been trying to figure out what to do with the ending. Something about being crushed beneath the weight of the sorry. Ug. I don't know.
If you are in the mood to look at this poem and give help of any sort on the ending, I'd be hella grateful. Thanks!
( Divorce & Dead Babies )
1. I love the word hella. I use it all the time. Especially in class. We're learning about Spanish conquest in Chicano Lit. I often rephrase something that's stated in the text with words like, "So, Hernan Cortez came over and the Aztecs were like, 'Woah, that's a white man just like from our prophesies. Come kick it with us, White Man," And then Hernan Cortez was like, "Cool. And now I'm hella going to kill your face."
2. I am on day 26 of quitting smoking. Doing alright. Getting good grades. And etc. Random pangs of longing flare up in my scarred lungs, but I can handle that. I'm very proud of myself.
3. I'm engaged. Nothing's real till it's on livejournal. I'll tell the story later. But it's now 3 PM and I haven't really gotten out of bed yet, so maybe I should do something with my life first.
4. Yesterday, I got a call from my 11-year-old's vice principal. Mia got caught on campus making out with her boyfriend. Then she was late picking up her sister. So much drama. Being a parent is hard. As of now, she thinks I'm putting her in military or an all-girls school. Not because of the making out, but because of the irresponsibility. And that her priorities are skewed (though fairly normal for her age). I'm trying to scare her straight. We'll see what happens.
5. I'm the type of girl who eats all her movie candy during the previews. And Ponyo was lovely.
Begins with an escape. Swamplands. Similar to the Burn Notice I was watching the previous night. Also similar to the show, I (which at some point becomes “we”) was trying to leave false trails. One in which it seems s a farmer has gone down a trail, and one which seems obvious that something more sinister, like a pirate, has made his way through the swampy brush. The hope is that the pursuers will choose the less dangerous trail.
They don’t.
I can hear them behind me. I’m crouch-running around the side of what looks to be an island, or what at least has some sort of beach area.
This is when I becomes we.
But maybe that wasn’t the beginning at all. Because at some point before I, was definitely we. And Baz was there, and Kat Sanford was there, and maybe you were there too. And at one point I am working with Baz. At Taco Bell. But a really fancy schmancy Taco Bell. I am teaching him to make the perfect taco. In a stainless steel kitchen. And we are discussing the theory of tacos. Or maybe life. Or maybe we were just standing around in that beautiful kitchen talking like I was going to live in his skin for a while. And maybe he’d come live in mine after that. My heart already lived in his chest.
Later, we are in a dark living room. Still talking. But more people are there. Kat Sanford is also deeply engrossed in what has now become a three-way conversation. I wish I could remember everything we were talking about. It felt important at times. But the only part of the conversation I remember is the part where we were discussing Nationals and a call database that Kat and Baz created. They expect some kind of percentage of every phone call, but it’s so decimal points out that it won’t do much to change anyone’s tax bracket.
And I am looking at Kat. With something fonder than jealousy. Her hair grazes her chin. It’s painfully cute. Like her chin. Which has the perfect amount of skin to bone ratio.
I am so fond of the both of them, I want to fold them up and put them in my pocket. It’s actually a very pressing need. It’s a good thing the lights are low, so they can’t see the rapid rise and fall of my chest.
But now we’re all running down a beach. Or, rather, crouch-running. And we have an older black man with us. And a younger white man. I don’t now remember who they were, but it is obvious that we were very close at the time. They are both poets, as well.
We find a cave. Huge. Fitting a fast-running river and rather large raft. We get on. But this is not a leisurely yacht ride. We are floating for our lives. And the rapids are pretty seriously trying to bounces us off this (I’m afraid to admit that it looked like an oversized inner tube, painted brown, with a circular piece of wood as our deck.) raft. At one point, both I and Baz/Old Black Man get catapulted into the frothing water. Underwater, I grab Baz around the chest and kick for the surface. The others on the boat reach their hands out, and we get pulled back in. I have saved Old Black Man’s life, and we embrace. He asks me to marry him. I agree, and we are so happy. SO HAPPY.
We are walking down a suburban street discussing poetry and our upcoming nuptials. I tell him how much I admire him, and he tells me how much he’s seen me grow.
When we arrive at the right house Young White Guy knocks on the door. My sister opens it, and she is happily surprised. We tell her we have to hide, and she ushers us into the room, where some more boring things happen.
What did YOU do last night?
Those of you who have known me for a few years, may remember this poem. It came out in a huge 6-minute-just-get-it-all-out-not-really-a-p
( Shiny Happy Poem about Death and Stuff )
So, I'm on Day 6. And I'm still calling it Day 6, despite the cheating drags I had AGAIN last night. I went to the Better than Ezra concert, started a gang, and drank and danced till my flippie-floppies turned into pumpkins. But I never had my own cigarette. I took several drags off of my best friend's cigarettes. This is progress for me. And since I am counting the days of this quitting smoking journey and not the days since I've smoked (or maybe it can be the days since I've had a FULL cigarette or MY OWN cigarette?), I feel okay with announcing that I'm still on the wagon with no need to get back on the horse or try try try again.
And I'm feeling...pretty good. I still have my "last cigarette" in my purse. Haven't broken down and had it. My lungs still feel like someone's moving furniture in there, but I'm not sure exactly how/if that's related to smoking. It might be bronchitis. I've had this weird bronchitis where you don't get much in the way of a cold and you are just suddenly struck down by your lungs, which become dense in a matter of moments and make your body decay in minutes. It's always come at a time of heavy smoking. It's actually the perfect time for it to be happening (as lame as it is to be sick), because I think I want cigarettes less because I'm sick. Maybe I can get over the physical addiction while sick. That would be awesome.
Other than that, the desire is slightly less. I still have pangs in my lungs when I want to smoke suddenly and desperately. Like after eating or other routine/habitual times. It's pretty all-consuming when it comes, and I feel a little sad when I work through it.
My body has a mind of its own. All this addiction, sickness, pain, even pleasure. It feels like it does its own thing, and I'm just along for the ride. It kind of feels like a child. You get to tell it what to do, but it doesn't always listen. You have a responsibility to it to keep it healthy and happy and rested, or it won't do what you need it to later.
To make this child happy, I have called in sick to work. It was only Go Meet the New Teachers Since You're the Treasurer of the Union Day, or something. The President and VP will be there. New teachers won't miss me. I'm sure they'd rather I be there, but I've got company today. In my lungs. And they're moving furniture. And they need to be supervised. And I have to actually for realsies start work on Monday. And that already feels too soon. And I'd rather stay in bed instead. So I'm calling in sick on account of a sick child. She needs to be pampered.
~My lungs aren't happy with me yet. They are confused.
~I got back on the wagon with exercising. I didn't exercise all of Nationals (unless you count sobs or dancing), which I expected, but it's always the getting back on the horse and riding the bicycle that is the hardest. Now I just need to find a way to keep it up during the school year. This has always been my problem.
~I actually kind of like the way my body looks right now. I am seriously critical of all pics I'm in, and while I don't like many of them because I apparently stick my stomach out to look like I'm pregnant when I interpretive dance, I actually kind of dig all of the ones in my silver dress. I think it does good things to my body. It inspires me to keep it up.
~My emotions are a bit schizo right now. Part of me is happy or at least content; part of me is in an uproar. I feel rejected/expected/forgotten/loved/stupid/n
~I'm writing a bit. Not enough, but it's a start. The next one I post is inspired by you. But I doubt you'll realize it, since you're dealing with your own stuff. Did I mention I'm selfish? That too.
~I like free food. I didn't eat the cookies. The end.
Partly, it is that ya'll have a very good chance of seeing me in a bathing suit at Nationals anyway, so this is no different. But still. It's a little strange for me.
The other part is that I need your help. I went bathing suit shopping for the first time in years, recently. I didn't find anything I liked except one bathing suit that was a small (have you seen my ass?!), so it didn't fit. But I really liked the style. This is the problem with going shopping for a bathing suit so late in the season. So I went online to see what I could find. That bathing suit I liked was no longer in stock, but I found several others of similar style. But how was I to know if it would really look good on me? I decided to order several. Of the several I ordered, I have 3 that I kinda like.
This is where you come in. I'm about to post pictures of me in a bathing suit. Feel free not to look beneath the cut. But if you feel so inclined, please vote on which you like best. Thank you and good night.
( Hot Naked Ladies! Click Here! )
So that's it folks. Which do you like better? Also, feel free to let me know if you're vacilating between more than one option or to tell me why you like one over the other. Thank you!
Whatever it is, I find myself weighed to the bed with a heavy heart this morning. I have a stone in my throat. An anvil on my chest. My skin is marble. Cold. Hard. Heavy.
There's something about this feeling that is so very familiar. Almost makes me not want to let it go. To live in this sorrow like the broken down, abandoned hotel I used to live in as a teenager. It's not beautiful or safe, but it's home.
But I have our BoB tonight. I am part of a team. They are counting on me. This is important. This is what I am trying to tell myself. So I will go get another cup of coffee. Get back into bed. Maybe cry. Maybe not. Pretend the Internet is a living, breathing person who can comfort me. Pretend the people I come into contact with here care about me beyond entertainment value. Then I will get up. Take a shower. Live my life like it's meaningful.
It took me forever to write that last post in my 7-day-hangover haze. But I think I left out a one IMPORTANT part.
I've fallen in love. I'm not being poetic. I'm not being funny. This is real.
I've fallen in love. And I didn't expect it. I didn't come into this experience looking for love outside my current life.
I've fallen in love. And part of me wants to hide it from all of you. For fear of judgement. For fear of you not taking me seriously. Because, I mean, who falls in love so quickly? And who admits it if they do?
I've fallen in love. With Chicago. Its buildings left me open-mouthed so much I spent hours picking lightening bugs out of my teeth. I want to chew on its bricks. Nibble on every bit of architecture that made my chest swell to 10X its original size. Chicago makes my teeth ache.
While riding the red line (transfer to the brown line's connected to the thigh bone and etc), my face pressed against the glass like it's not covered with the breath and salt and dirt of a thousand human bodies, I felt too much peace to fall into wonder. It's all new to me. I've never seen such beauty. But my heart beat slow for joy and belonging.
But I am not shallow. It is not simply the aesthetics that have made me fall for Chicago. Let me take you back to the moments before the train ride. The two Chicago youth poets who we asked about how to get to where we were going, even though they were on their way to somewhere fast. The 20 minutes they spent discussing the best route, walking us through it, texting me the directions so I wouldn't forget, offering to walk us to the red line, so we'd be good. It is getting lost even with all that help and ending up below ground on the Metra. It is the random lady who came up to us to ask us if we needed help getting anywhere.
Let me take you to the moments after the brown line. The walk through north-side Chicago. The fade from 478 story buildings into residential houses. The fire flies that they call lightening bugs illuminating our path. The walk into a party of one person I know (in the moment). The complete comfort of getting to know all those I didn't already. The Emily, the Aricka, the Megan, the Andy, and all others I met and felt comfortable with so quickly. Along with all those I already knew but have now worked themselves like a sliver into the deepest part of me. The ride home offered so we wouldn't have to leave early for the train.
Yes, it is her buildings. But it is also her people. And her air.
Let me take you to the plane ride back to San Jose. To the feeling of being ripped away from one I love. To the slow wave out the window of the airplane. To that Casablanca scene.
I am seriously constantly contemplating coming back. Like trying to figure out how much it will cost to continue this long distance romance. I heart Chicago's face off.
I know I KNOW how this sounds, but my facebook is broken. I know I bitch about facebook taking over livejournal, but now I'm sad that facebook won't work for me. Mostly because I was in the process of making plans with friends for when I go to Chicago tomorrow. And now it won't let me load the login page or anything. Other sites are fine.
I think facebook is mad at me.
Good Idea: Trying on the bathing suit you ordered. Deciding it's a good time to go work out on your Urban Rebounder.
Bad Idea: Before working out, drink 3 cups of coffee (stimulant); while working out, get an I-can't-breath-ow-my-side-is-being-pierc
Okay, so I'm realizing that the vast majority of my liquid intake is coffee. Not much else. Probably not good. I'm probably dehydrated. But I finished despite all of the near-death episodes. That's a plus. But I don't WANT to feel like crap when I'm working out. So, I'm making it my mission to drink more water. But does anyone have ANY advice on what to do once you get that side cramp? I know that it's a result of carbon dioxide building up in your system, and I try to focus on the breath out as opposed to the breath in, but once I get one, I really can't get rid of it for the rest of the work out. Even if it subsides when I take a break, it comes back. Help?
They say if you want to write well, read good writing. I know this to be true but haven't found my poetry muse/author quite yet. Though maybe any book that makes me want to write at all can serve as that muse. At the moment, I am reading Sexing the Cherry by my favorite author, Jeanette Winterson. I used to say Toni Morrison is my favorite author, and I feel a bit disloyal by giving away her title, but Jeanette is new to me. She continues to impress me. And, more importantly, she continues to make me feel. Which is such a generic thing to say, but I feel all sorts of things when I read her writing.
We met one long and sunny day, driving back from Southwest Shootout in 2006. I think. Or we met on an airplane. Maybe it was the airplane, and it was Jason who read it on the drive back. It doesn't matter. Truth is mutable and mostly unnecessary. What does matter is that once Jason lent me Written on the Body, I was never the same.
Anywho.
When I am really impressed with a book, I have a tendency to want to post the cool parts. And so, here is your noon-o-clock submission:
"For the Greeks, the hidden life demanded invisible ink. They wrote an ordinary letter and in between the lines set out another letter, written in milk. The document looked innocent enough until one who knew better sprinkled coal-dust over it. What the letter had been no longer mattered; what mattered was the life flaring up undetected...
till now.
I discovered that my own life was written invisibly, was squashed between the facts, was flying without me like the Twelve Dancing Princesses who shot from their window every night and returned home every morning with torn dresses and worn-out slippers and remembered nothing."
This section seems to tie in so perfectly with the feminist theory of white ink. Of mother's milk. Of how women truly write (when they are not trying to imitate men). Winterson's writing seems to know this theory, and then this section seems to be, ultimately, a huge shout out to the French feminists. I would be surprised if this was not on purpose. But now I want to know.
I'm going to go back to reading now.
Here we are. Day 1 of I don't care if no one is around to read this, I'm going to document my life anyway.* Today's topic: my fourth of July weekend.
For the last few years, we have gone to a Santa Cruz beach. Technically, fireworks are illegal there. They make a big production of checking all bags & coolers and whatnot to make sure no one brings in fireworks, glass, or bombs of any sort. Last year, we threw our $80 collection of fireworks over the cliff-thingy to come back & get, but the beach police found it before we did.**
All this ruckus, and yet once the sun sets, all the smarter-than-me Santa Cruzians dig up their stashes & put on a spectacular fireworks show. It's not officially sanctioned, but no one tries to stop it either. And it's far better than any fireworks show I've seen, since the people on the beach aren't particularly worried about whether they're illegal.
But not this year. This year, I last minute convinced my sister to take us to her boyfriend's*** family cabin and on the boyfriend's family boat. I spent my fourth with my 11-year-old Mia, my boyfriend, my mamma, brother Joseph, sister & boyfriend Mike, and cousins Bekah & Mary. My youngest daughter, Luna, was noticably absent. I alternate holidays with her dad, and though I'm getting used to it, it still sucks not to be able to share experiences with 1/4 of my immediate family.
The day went something like this: Get up early(ish). Pick up a Mother's Day present for my mother, because I am a horrible daughter and hadn't gotten anything yet. Pick up a card & gift card's for my brother, whose birthday was over a month ago. Drive. Get to Modesto. Drive. Get to Groveland. Wait. Finally get on the boat. It's nearly 5 PM by this time. And then it goes something like this:
Drink. Get on the boat. Drink. Eat the wind as it inflates my lungs. Pretend the forest that surrounds the lake is the jungle. Drink. Watch my sister catch a 2 inch fish. Throw it back. Drink to the fish. Anchor & jump in. Discover it is very tiring to tread water for significant periods of time. Discover it is pleasurable to instead have a life jacket on and no longer worry about drowning. Drink. Chase geese with use of my handy-dandy life jacket. Use chips to lure geese in. Discover they are still faster than me. Drink. Pour drinks into the mouths of swimmers. Laugh when they complain about kamakazi in the eye. Drink. Drift. Watch as the sky reminds us why we're here. Watch as Mia forgets to try to act cool when watching magic explode in the air. Miss my Luna.
The next day, many of the family had to go home, but we went thrift store shopping and back to the lake. Sometimes you know you are in an emotional state. Sometimes it is the product of biology. But even that knowledge doesn't prevent sadness from creeping up when you just want to be held. When you just want to be paid attention to. The boyfriend never really seems to care when that's the case. And if that's my only problem with him currently, we're doing great. But it still made me sad in the moment. I wish that I could say to him, "Hey, I'm stupidly emotional right now. I need you to pay attention to me right now. I'm going to be needy for a day or two. Then I'll go back to normal. Swear. Can you be there for me until then?" Or, more accurately, I wish I could say that to him and him respond in a positive manner. Eh. I'll live.****
All in all (which is the MOST annoying way that my students conclude their essays), I had a wonderful time. Didn't feel much in the way of patriotism, but that's nothing new. And now back to my regularly scheduled life.
*I'm being dramatic. I know people still read and comment on my entries sometimes. And I appreciate those that are sticking with it immeasurably. I just have a flare for hyperbole.
**That may have been the last straw and why I didn't particularly want to go there this year. I want my money back!
***This guy's actually really awesome, but I have to hate him a little for HAVING AN EXTRA HOUSE. Granted it's his family's or whatever, but I don't even have ONE house. He's got multiple. Spoiled brat.
****But I'm still going to whine about it.
So I've been not-so-privately whimpering & crying over how facebook has made lj boring. Boring is really not the right word. More like lonely. Facebook has made it easier for all of my friends to quickly blurb about what they are up to, and so they have abandoned the ye olde tradition of writing in multiple full sentences.
Part of me understands this. I, too, have less time than I once did. But as I was searching my cliched soul to find out why I was so bothered by everyone leaving lj, I came up with this. Part of it is that I miss reading full posts. Sometimes witty. Sometimes whiny. Sometimes entertaining. These posts always helped me to feel closer to the poster, as I felt they had shared some insight into their lives.
But my upset also has more selfish and narcissistic roots. I also like to have an audience for what I say. I enjoy having people comment on whatever I just wrote. I enjoy keeping that audience in mind when writing whatever it is that I'm writing. One, because, again, I get lonely too easily, and it feels like a community. But also, because it makes me think twice before I write. It makes me deal with whatever issues I'm dealing with in a more intelligent and thoughtful manner. I can't just spout some drivel about how my boyfriend is a cad and an idiot (for example) without thinking first about my own involvement in the situation, as, above all, I have this requirement and expectation of honesty in this journal.
Finally, I also think that the way I write is influence by knowing that others will be reading. I pay a bit more attention to my actual style, which is good practice for, you know, writing poetry.
But. Facts are facts. Many fewer people are keeping up with livejournal. So, it has led me to question why I still persist. And I've come up with this: I do want to document my life. Like, I don't know, a journal. I do want to be able to look back on my 4th of July weekend 2009 and know what I did, know who was there, know how I felt. I want to remember the annoying and adorable things my children do.
So, I have decided to keep up this journal for posterity. Or, until all you face-book-crack-heads come back. Whatev. I'll do my best to keep my poor broken heart intact until then.
With each day that passes, I seem to be getting older. Crazy, right? With age, comes wisdom. So they say. I'm still waiting. With age, comes problems. At least medical problems. One of them being the carpel tunnel that seems to be getting worse. Okay, so maybe this isn't an age issue, but it IS just one on a long list of ailments that I've become used to just living with.
So, the doctor tells me I shouldn't get another cortizone shot, since I've already had one, and it is not recommended to have more than two or three in YOUR LIFETIME because it will eat away at the tendon and you won't be able to use your hands. I like my hands. I want to continue to be able to use them. Instead, I'm supposed to be wearing these braces 20 HOURS A DAY. Uh...lame. It's like being disabled before I'm actually disabled. They have metal rods in them to prevent me from bending my wrists, which makes it hard to do things like, I don't know, pick something up. I find myself subconsciously taking them off around the house. Losing them because I don't remember my body rejecting the incumberance. I'm like an old lady wandering around the house, "Now where did I put my glasses?"
And, for pure vanity's sake, I'm not sure I like having to be "the cripple" everywhere I go. I've noticed people helping me more often. Holding doors and offering to hold things for me. I just think they're being nice at first, until I realize, Duh! They think I'm disabled, and they are doing their good deed for the day.
I'm going to have to come to terms with this. I don't see myself as disabled, but the general populace is going to. That may be their first impression of me. And as much as I don't wan't to find this distasteful, there's a part of me that thinks when they think disabled, they're also thinking weak. So much of my self image has been wrapped around being strong. Something as simple as wrist braces may call for a disassembling of my current view of self and a reassembling of a new identity. Kind of a scary proposition.
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