Bleargh. I feel like a troll. Too sick and fat and ugly to be safe interacting with regular people, so I sit here in my basement lair and amass piles of garbage and rot around me to hide the treasure, plotting the downfall of my enemies. I'm hoping a goat or two wanders by this week, or maybe a party of adventurers. I'm getting a bit peckish.
Okay, so maybe it isn't quite that bad, but I know I am letting my physical condition isolate me more than is healthy. It's just so much work to get out of the house. And most of my interactions with the general public involve them trying to "help", and causing me more pain. It's really hard to take someone yelling at you about how ungrateful you are that they ignored what you were telling them and that resulted in about the same amount of pain as a solid punch to the gut. But it happens repeatedly every time I try going out. So I don't go out.
I obviously need to reassess. I had been thinking that using the walker to skip the pain meds was the healthier course. But if it's having this profound an effect on my entire life I don't think the tradeoff is worth it any more.
Instead of going out every day, like I used to, it's once or twice a week at most. Which means instead of eating fresh veg from the grocery store every day, I'm eating delivery.
I'm angry all the time. I just wish people would leave me alone when I'm out, or at least ask if I need help, instead of grabbing me or my walker, so I cultivate an unapproachable, foreboding air around me. But that just makes me feel the emotions I'm trying to project. I used to be so happy.
I feel so alone. My friends don't invite me out to things that are up or down a flight of stairs any more, which is almost everything in this city. I haven't been going out to events that I know will be in smallish spaces, because I won't have room to maneuver. And even when I did get invitations that cleared those hurdles, about half the time I just didn't have the emotional resources to tell the story of "What's wrong with you?" fifteen more times. So I'd just say no. And now I don't get invited out any more. And I don't bother inviting my friends out either, I don't want to impose my restrictions on them.
This has to stop.
Yes, the pills have side effects. Yes, the pain will have limits of it's own. None could possibly be as bad as what I just described. The walker seems to have taken away most of what makes life worth living, the chance to connect with people, to meet and laugh and talk, to say "this thought is in my head, is it in your head, too?" I am starving for interaction with other humans, and all I've been eating is TV and books, empty calories that leave me bloated and malnourished.
So out I go. Wish me luck.
P.S. If you see someone with a disability you think might need your help, please remember the phrase "ASK FIRST, OR YOU AREN'T HELPING" before you do something to them. And if you aren't willing to take a "no, thank you" as an answer, consider the fact that you may have been acting a little more selfishly than altruistically. This advice could have fixed literally every single one of the situations that make me not want to leave the house with my walker.
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