I’m not talking about the wheelchair, I’m talking about ME. I used to be the kind of person who happened to life; now, life happens to me. & I don’t like it. Not one bit. People treat me differently, and, again: I’m not talking about the wheelchair, I’m talking about ME. This more than just the old “I’m brain injured, not brain damaged” kind of thing; it’s much more insidious than that. My prized sense of autonomy and my sense of taking for granted I’d be able to roll with whatever punches life gave me is gone; kaput, finito. And I want it back. Hell, I NEED it back. URGENTLY; yesterday.
a blog that is also meant to serve as a recovery journal, for this gay, Quaker, writer dealing with t.b.i., from surviving a hate crime in Sligo, Ireland, on 1.31.99.