“what did you do to yourself?”
they ask, as if i deliberately injured my body. [if it’s an illness, you curse the world; but if it’s an injury, you blame the injured?]
“i broke my arm when i was thirteen. i have nerve damage.”
i say, as if answering that question for the third time that day doesn’t make me want to groan.
“oh, i hope it gets better!”
oh, you idiot. good job, you said the right thing. the ‘get well soon’ response.
“it’s permanent.” i say, as if this personal, private, difficult struggle with chronic pain and disability is something that belongs in your petty small-talk.
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