Acceptance and Encounters with the Abled World

My everyday routine is a constant reminder of how much of the world is off-limits to me now. How combatting, and tense, and problematic it can be for me.

I’ve been living on my own for some time now. Being independent, I spend the majority of days on my own, doing everything I need to in order to survive and thrive. This means most days it’s me and my wheelchair versus the rest of the world, which honestly, is quite unfair. It seems absurd to say that the world is against you, as most who do are just whining or complaining about something inconsequential, but it’s more of my reality than not. The days that I decide to venture out of my comfort zone and try something or go someplace new, those prove to be a constant battle and a tremendous test of patience. I encounter certain circumstances in my usual routine that I don’t believe would happen if I were not differently abled. That is my life. That is my normal. I don’t plan on wasting precious time of my life bellyaching about it, but I do think these aspects of my life need to be understood by those outside of it.

Life as a wheelchair user and life with paralysis is challenging enough on its own. I adapt, problem solve, and make do with the physical aspect of my life daily. Coping with the mental aspects of paralysis is something else entirely. When you factor in incidents with people outside your circle of friends and family, those that in some capacity understand what it is that you go through, it becomes even more of a struggle. There are days when I don’t leave my apartment solely because of my common experience with the outside world. People stare. Everywhere I go, it happens. It happens so often that I’ve become desensitized to these small moments that make me uncomfortable. I completely understand that I may not be what you see on your average trip to the grocery store, mall, or favorite restaurant, but the look I receive is beyond a basic stare. It’s the same combination of shock, confusion, intrigue, and pity in every glance. I have people jumping and drastically moving far out of my wheelchair’s direction, as if they think I might run them over or that they can’t get too close. I have mothers pulling their children in towards them while I push by. I have people nearly running into me because they won’t look out of the peripheral view of their cellphone and see me. I have people chuckling at me, either rudely or nervously, while I push my cart at the grocery store. I have people doing things for me because they automatically assume I can’t do them by myself. It’s as if the world hasn’t a clue how to interact with wheelchair users. I really can’t make sense of it all. Everyone is different, so I don’t understand why I am repeatedly treated radically different from everyone else. A wheelchair may not be something you see every day, but it’s not groundbreaking. It’s not uncommon, but somehow I have to be this object of fragility, danger, and interest every time I leave my home.

When you factor in the obstacles that present themselves almost daily, life becomes even more frustrating. I frequently say that I live for the little things in life. For me, these “little things” usually involve going somewhere new or doing something a little differently than I typically would. One of my most beloved hobbies is trying out restaurants or cafes I haven’t visited before. Prior to my injury, I would simply read about a new spot, find the address, and go. Now, there’s more time and research involved. When I set off for somewhere I haven’t been before, I look into every possible obstacle I could encounter that day. Where can I park? Is the building wheelchair accessible? Is there enough room for my wheels inside? What does the street/sidewalk look like around the area? How crowded will it be? These are questions I have to answer before I go. If I don’t, anxiety levels become high, and so does the disappointment when I learn that where I was wanting to go is not acceptable for wheelchair users. Every day that I leave my home, with each building I pass by, is a constant reminder that I’m in a battle with my current domain.

All my life, I’ve always thrived off of challenges and stressful situations. It’s my goal not to let this battle consume me, not to become consistently at war with my life. I want to be patient and at peace with people, places, and things. I want to experience life just as anyone else, and I won’t let my wheelchair define those experiences. I’ve learned to accept people's reactions of me, in most instances, and urge others to really think about their behaviors and judgements towards others. I’ve grown accustomed to coming into contact with places I cannot go, however unlawful and non-ADA compliant that may be. I am living with paralysis. Yes, I’m living. I’m still human. Being differently abled, or disabled, doesn’t make a person anything less than that.

I try my hardest never to tell myself I’m incapable of something. My external world does that enough for me. Places tell me I can’t go here or there, putting impossible obstacles like steps or stairs in my way. People tell me that I can’t do this or that, with their descriptive gazes regularly coming my way. I tell myself that, at the very least, I can try. If by some chance I wind up being incapable, I know that it’s not because I didn’t take a risk at living. The world may limit me, but I will never limit myself.