I remember how my mother sounded every time she warned me, told me, not to do something; I hated it.
I remember the look in my fathers eyes when I would try to help out; it made my skin crawl.
I remember the tone of voice whenever my sister talked to me about school or of the future, in a praising manner; it always would make me upset.
I remember how much my friends had to look out for me during the past several years; it haunted me.
I remember how worried my family was for me; I felt like such a burden.
I remember the looks I got from every single person who visited me in the hospital; I felt like I was in a fishbowl somewhere in an aquarium.
I remember how the nurses would take care of me; I didn’t want to be there.
I remember…what it felt like to be treated as if I was disabled. It disgusts me.
I couldn’t walk by myself. I couldn’t lift anything over a few ounces (not even ONE POUND). I couldn’t raise my hands over my head. I couldn’t lay down by myself. I couldn’t use the restroom alone. I couldn’t get up, sit down, etc. without needing to call for someone’s help. I couldn’t take a shower. I couldn’t help with the move. I couldn’t do…anything.
I hated that feeling, but I understood. After all, I was healing from surgery. I was fragile. I was weak. I was fatigue. I was in a lot of pain. I struggled. So I was grateful, in a sense. I needed the help. I needed it.
But…the way people treat me…hasn’t changed much.
There are still times, more often than you would think, where I am treated and made feel as if I’m healing after surgery once again. I hate, hate, HATE feeling disabled. I hate feeling and getting treated as if people don’t think I can carry my own weight.
The look on their face when I tell them about my medical history: shock.
The way their behavior changes around me when I tell them about what I’m physically dealing with right now: 180 degrees change.
Their attitude towards me and the level of them feeling as if they need to “walk around the bush” when it comes to my feelings: wow.
Yes, I have my struggles. Yes, I have my medical history. Yes, I have been through a lot more and am dealing with a lot more than someone would expect a 19 year old to know about first-hand. Yes, life sucks sometimes. Yes, I get physically drained, and therefore mentally drained, because of what I have to put up with medically. Yes, that’s my life.
I appreciate it when people are wary of me when I’m at a weak spot either physically or mentally because of my conditions. I appreciate it when people take into consideration my conditions. But, honestly, I sometimes appreciate it EVEN MORE when they don’t stress out about me.
I know that feeling of helplessness is a horrid emotion to stomach, so accept it; accept that you cannot do anything to better my state. I know it’s scary sometimes to see someone so young to deal with the things I do, so get used to it; get used to my symptoms because they are a normal part of my life now. I know that desire to make things better for me eats at your heart, so I’m sorry; I’m sorry because I know you cannot do anything. I’m sorry.
You can try, but I can’t promise you will better the condition.
Just, please, don’t stress about me. Don’t treat me so different you go over-the-top. Don’t make me feel as if I am a burden to you. Don’t make me feel as if I am disabled, when I’m not. Don’t do that, please.