Like a Power Play

by Elle Sprinkle

There is a cruel expectation set by the world for people with disabilities, particularly in that their worth lies in overcoming them.

For those whose bodies forced them to let go of what they loved. It's still yours. You just might have to learn how to hold it in a different way.

Strong. I fucking hate that word. I hate that people think a diagnosis comes with armor. That strength is some automatic response to pain. I’m not strong. I’m just tired.

My ankles feel like someone took their anger out on them with a Razor scooter.

I get the divine privilege of waking to a harmony. A blaring alarm that pairs perfectly with the scream of my joints—the familiar gnawing ache that greets me every morning.

“Stop trying to be like or unlike anyone,” I say. “Just be.”

Something most people don’t realize about living with a chronic illness is how much of it feels like failure. Not the pain. That part, I can handle. The full body aches, the stiff throbbing joints, the fatigue. That all becomes background noise after a while. A constant presence you learn to ignore best you can. But the failure? That’s harder to silence. Failure for needing to cancel plans. For taking breaks. For saying no. For needing help. It doesn’t matter how valid the reasons are, some part of me always believes I’m letting everyone down. That part is worse than the pain.