Acceptance

It's amazing how quickly a person can get aid when brain abnormalities are discovered. A week and a half after applying for state disability, my request was granted. I opened and read the letter with as much excitement as when I received my acceptance letter to graduate school. Actually, with more. While graduate school acceptance letters are written in the positive, state disability letters are written in the negative: "We have determined that you are unable to work..." This negative statement at first led me to believe that I had been denied. "Unable" is usually not something you want to hear in a letter. But my disillusionment was soon corrected, and unlike receiving my graduate acceptance letter where I opened it and then went back to bed in sickness, with this letter I actually ran down the driveway with a grin from ear to ear. Finally I would be able to receive monetary compensation for my inability to work. Finally my disorder would be taken seriously.

With this officialism of my disability, I walk a tight rope between acceptance and perseverance. I have come to terms with the fact that I may never get better, and this has proven necessary in order to get my life in a place where I can function in my limited space. This doesn't mean I've given up on my goals. I'm still getting my degree, still working on my writing, and starting the process of moving to Seattle through subsidized housing which will take about a year. But what it does mean is that I'm allowing myself to be taken care of by the government. (I've never been happier with America.) I'm allowing myself to be okay with buying clothes from Target. I'm also allowing myself to be okay at 150 pounds with a distended stomach.

My physical appearance has caused me a lot of grief. I used to be 100 pounds, so adding 50 more to that frame has come as quite a shock. A few days ago my grandma, who is starting on Prednisone, pointed at me in fear saying, "I'm going to get fat like you." I don't know whether it was a difference in what I was wearing or just a different attitude, but yesterday she actually said I looked good the way I am. So did a former lover who I ran into a couple weeks ago and hadn't seen in years. This lover herself has always been overweight (yes, I had a fling with a girl in my college days) and I have always considered her to be absolutely gorgeous. What made her gorgeous was no doubt the way she carried herself. She acted like a hot commodity, and so she was. Not only with scrawny me but countless men with whom she came into contact.

I still wonder how to feel sexy when my clothes are off, and I still wonder what I'll tell men when they ask me what I do for a living. I see the latter scenario going a bit like this: Man: What do you do? Me: I'm a writer. Man: What do you write? Me: Book reviews, mostly. Man: Oh, can you make a living off that? Me: (blushing), well, I try. Man: What was your latest review? Me: Umm, I can't remember... It was a year ago. I've been in school. Man: Oh, so do you have your degree: Me: Not quite yet. Man: So are you in school now? Me: No, not really. I also write screenplays. Man: Oh, have you sold any? Me: Well, not yet. Now, I know I don't need to answer to anyone about how I spend my time, but the fact is, up until I got sick I worked all my life, and it's hard to define myself outside of a paycheck.

Acceptance and perseverance is not just a struggle for us disabled folk. It's also a struggle for just about everyone. Today, as I sit at my desk by the window and gaze out at the bright blue sky, I'm accepting my distended stomach because my legs do not feel well enough to walk around the block, nor have they for the past week. I'll accept my inability to read today and instead zone out on the couch in front of the television, waiting for my creative juices to get flowing at about 2 a.m. for an essay I'm submitting to Glamour. When the actual brain fog lifts, I'll read, I'll shower, I'll walk... but when my symptoms are heavy upon me there's nothing to do but embrace them. And now I have the government behind me when I do.