It feels like a lifetime ago that I stood on the edge of the train tracks, waiting. I had researched the exact midpoint between train stations to make sure the train was going fast. I didn’t want any mistakes.

I hoped someone would find my note in the aftermath. I didn’t want my Mom to be upset. I didn’t want my boyfriend to feel guilty for not answering my text while he was working on a group project. It was make-or-break for him getting into that Master’s program and I needed to know he’d be okay when I was gone. I didn’t want my best friend to feel bad that she’d been wrapped up in her last year of college and didn’t see the signs.

As I stood there waiting, I heard a rustle in the bushes and felt my fight-or-flight instinct kick in. I jumped, then laughed, as I watched a rabbit hop along the edge of the grass. Why was I afraid of something hurting me while I was so eager for everything to end? It hit me then that clearly I wanted to be alive, even if it didn’t always feel that way.

A blue Jeep passed by for the third time as I walked back to my car. I had a feeling it wasn’t a coincidence. I turned the car key just as I noticed the flashing lights behind me. As I tried to explain myself, the officer asked, “Then do you care to explain the note on your passenger seat?”

People often say suicide is selfish. But often, in the hazy moments of our depression, it feels more like mercy. Ten years ago, I was convinced I was a wildfire and the only way to save the people I loved was to let myself burn out. I thought I would have been doing them a favor. But looking back at this last decade — the friendships I’ve gained, the hard lessons I’ve learned, the late-night heart-to-hearts — I realized I had it all wrong.

I spent years trying to dim a fire I was ashamed of, only to see that while I was trying to put it out, they were shielding the flame. It all started that night with a stranger in a blue Jeep who saw my light fading.

To that stranger and savior, thank you for making that call.

Savior in a Stranger was originally published in ChronicallyOverit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Wait. I’m a little worried that you read that sentence and the subtext you got was, “I didn’t get enough sleep last night,” or “it’s been a crazy couple of days.”

I’m the kind of tired where words are coming out of my mouth blurred together without a sip of alcohol in my system. The kind of tired where I looked at a box the other day to read the label, wondered why I couldn’t understand it, then realized I was looking at the side that’s written in Spanish. The kind of tired that most able-bodied people couldn’t imagine, that no number of good nights of sleep could cure.

They say if a human were to try to go to Jupiter, they would sink through the gaseous planet, only to be crushed by the immense gravity and pressure there. I sometimes wonder if I’ve teleported to Jupiter, but am still expected to live by Earth standards. “Stand up and walk,” they say, as the pressure of a million atmospheres crushes my bones. I look around at everyone enjoying a nice spring day as the 17,000-degree heat burns me to the very core. Do they have a space suit that I can’t see? Or is everyone just smiling as they fry like an egg on the sidewalk in the summer, simply better at hiding it as they sizzle?

At times, the advice they give feels just as alien. As I’m being crushed by the pressure, they look on with judgmental eyes. “Just walk around more, you’d get used to the gravity if you tried.” As I gasp for breath, the atmosphere of methane, ammonia, and helium literally suffocates me while they remind me to “take a deep breath, it’s going to be okay.” The helium in the air at least adds some comedic relief, my voice getting higher as I cry out for help.

It sounds insane for people to react this way when someone is trying to survive on Jupiter, but when it becomes about someone trying to survive, and maybe even thrive, in a world not built for them, the shock suddenly dissipates. The reality of what we are all expected to do ignores the gravity of how different our experiences actually are.

It turns out that some of us are simply carrying more weight.

A different kind of tired was originally published in ChronicallyOverit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The magic of snow always dies a little when you’re an adult. As you try to dig out your car, only to have a plow destroy your progress, and then try to spot black ice on your way to work because they claim the roads are safe, it’s hard to find the joy. I still love staring out the window as the snow comes down, creating a beautiful contrast against the dark trees across the road. But these days, there’s an added layer to my frustration around snow.

How much snow can I safely handle shoveling? The snow by my car is icy. Is it too heavy for me to pick up? I woke up with a dislocated shoulder. Is a brace enough to get me through 6 inches?

As I looked outside at the first storm of the season this year, I watched as plows piled over a foot of icy, heavy snow against my car in the street. I pulled at my shoulder, wondering if it was fully back in place from popping out this morning, and conceded that I needed help.

After finding someone I could pay to help dig me out, I texted a friend, feeling guilty and ashamed after a man likely fifteen years older than me came to clear out the area around my car.

“I’m glad you got some help!” she said.

It was so simple, but I felt my shoulders relax a bit, my jaw unclench. The shame lessened. Slightly.

It’s so hard to ask for help. And it’s so demoralizing to shell out 60 dollars to have access to your car.

The disability tax is real. Whether it’s getting pre-chopped vegetables to save energy during meal prep, buying mobility aids to help navigate a world built for able-bodied people, or paying the guy to dig out your car. Sometimes, we don’t have any other option, while we also face judgment from people who have never lived like this.

You paid him how much? You could have dug out your car in 15 minutes!

You paid to have your groceries delivered? That’s lazy.

You took a day off from work? I’ve never taken a day off in ten years at my job!

It’s expensive to be disabled. The deductibles, the hidden health care fees, the denials for life-saving medical care that insurance deems unnecessary, the medical equipment that’s perceived as a luxury, not a right… the disabled community is paying so much when we are already underserved and underfunded.

Disabled folx are paying a premium just to reach the starting line, while the rest of the world wonders why we’re constantly out of breath. I’d give anything to be that girl in the snow again, back when the only thing I had to pay for a winter’s day was a lost boot, but these days, it comes with a literal price tag.

The Disability Tax was originally published in ChronicallyOverit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

As I walk into my apartment at the end of the day and fumble for the light switch, I hear a faint call. Sit. Just for five minutes. Then you can take out the trash. The ache in my feet seems to agree with my couch’s sentiment, and the slight divot my butt has made in the cushion in my favorite spot cradles the soreness in my back just right. Just five minutes, then we’ll get to work.

I wake up abruptly, and the glaring light on my phone reads 11:30. I frantically reach for my phone. AM or PM?! I wonder as I pull back the curtain to see if the sun peeks through. Phew. PM.

We all have these days and moments, when rest takes paramount over the “necessities” that adult life has to offer. And yet, these days, I seem to succumb to what I call the Sit Pit more often than not. Convinced that just a few moments of rest will rejuvenate me enough to change my entire life, I fall into the comfort of those familiar cushions and rewatch a funny show as the responsibilities pile up around me.

It’s that kind of “rest” that doesn’t ever quite feel restful. Technically, you’ve checked off all the boxes: get comfortable, hang out with your pets, laugh at a show. Yet, when I wake up in the morning, I feel a sense of dread that I can’t place…until I walk through my apartment to see the sink full of dishes and the unfolded laundry in the hall.

The couch quietly calls me under the guise of self-care when I walk in the door again, its voice in my head as I begin to rot, sinking further into the Sit Pit. How long before the couch simply swallows me whole? The couch’s soothing voice is bickering with the nagging one in the back of my head that tells me I’d feel better if I even took five minutes to straighten up before resting.

The truth is, we often know what the right thing is to do: work, then play, but it’s easier said than done. I have to remind myself that self-care is more than a funny TV show and some crocheting, but also taking a shower or giving yourself the relief of a clean kitchen. But at the end of a long day, that couch is calling to me like a glass of cold lemonade on a hot summer’s day.

You just need a few more minutes it says when I’ve already binged a season of New Girl. Then you’ll be ready. 8:37 it says, then we can do the thing. But 8:37 comes and goes. It becomes 8:40, then 9:30, then suddenly, I’m awoken by my cats at four in the morning, confused where the time has gone.

Don’t fall into the Sit Pit.

Don’t Fall Into the Sit Pit was originally published in ChronicallyOverit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I laugh off my bad luck, my immune system fighting against me, and the fact that I can almost always be found with an ice pack or a heating pad. At some point, friends questioned how bad things were because I’m constantly joking about it.

Sometimes I don’t realize how much I try to mask with a quip or a one-liner. Non-disabled people give you blank stares or look at the ground as you mention the ways disability impacts your life. I begin to lighten the blow with a joke because I realize that it’s too heavy for them…and sometimes, for me.

Perhaps it’s a faulty coping mechanism, but it often feels like an “if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry” situation. Over the last six years, I’ve lost a lot to my disability. I spend most of my weekend recovering, saving the little energy I have for the basics, unable to do much else. I’m cancelling plans with loved ones just to make sure I can meet basic needs like showing up for work, showering, and remembering to eat. These days, my guitar goes untouched, writing projects unfinished. While my cats enjoy the lazy Sundays together, I’m finding myself wanting more.

Then, just when I’m feeling most defeated, my team of amazing humans reminds me why I keep fighting. On Thanksgiving, my cousin wanted to take everyone’s electronics to make sure we connected with each other instead of our phones. I panicked when my cousin asked for my Apple Watch, which I need to get alerts for when my heart rate is high, so I can actively rest. Before I had to explain anything, my Nana jumped in. “She needs it, it’s okay. She can keep it.” I felt so seen. My family talked about the Othering Podcast episode I was on with such pride in their voices. It finally felt okay to be vulnerable about my disability instead of masking it. Later in the week, I called my friends needing to vent. They said I could “call whenever I needed” when I’m having a rough time. I texted later saying, “Good luck dealing with the call whenever offer,” and they responded, “Not dealing, enjoying.” Disability can feel so isolating, but I’m grateful for the reminders that I have people in my corner.

To people who don’t meet our frustration with “but what if you…?” Thank you. We’ve tried it. We don’t need feedback; we need support. To the ones who joke back and make sure we’re okay, you have no idea how much it means to us. And to my friend who suggested I get a bright and sparkly walker with a horn and a beeping noise when it backs up, so no one questions my disability, you’re the real MVP.

What does the humor mask? was originally published in ChronicallyOverit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Imagine a bad injury you’ve had: a break, a fracture, a sprain, even a really bad bruise. Now imagine someone is constantly poking it. You’re trying to focus on an email, listen to a story from a family member, just live your life, but someone is constantly poking at that injury. It starts in one spot; this time, it was my ribs. I thought I was having a kidney issue. But then the pain spread. One big, bad, invisible bruise feeling across my entire torso, then my upper arms, then suddenly, it’s so bad that my clothes touching my skin sends “I hit my funny bone” type pain across my entire body.

As a hypochondriac with a disability, my life is a perpetual game of ‘Is this a fatal symptom or Tuesday?’ It’s genuinely hilarious trying to figure out if this specific, sharp pain is a reason to call the doctor or just another new symptom I need to power through. Imagine going through your workday with someone slamming into your funny bone every couple of minutes, and your only choice is to continue laughing at the coworker’s terrible jokes and pretending you didn’t just see stars.

It’s hard.

Yet many of us with disabilities learned to mask. Talking about the pain usually leads to one of two things. Either someone will recommend a supplement that contains a bunch of sciencey-sounding ingredients that they swear cured their aunt’s husband’s step-kid, or they will get wildly uncomfortable with the vulnerability of giving an honest answer to “how are you?” Eventually, we learn that giving a real response will only make our lives harder, so we smile through the pain. We begin calling what we used to think was an 8/10 on the pain scale a 4 because, well, I feel it every day, it can’t be the worst pain I’ve ever felt…right?

I am in the midst of the worst pain flare I have ever had. I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia back in 2017 when a doctor asked me how I would rate my pain, and I said, “You know, nothing more than the usual amount.” I learned then that the usual amount for someone in their twenties was, in fact, zero. Since then, my pain has ebbed and flowed in waves, sometimes tsunami tides. Currently, I’m drowning in the flood of a recent flare with no known cause. Today, as I go back and forth between a heating pad and ice pack, think about what clothes might be most tolerable so I can get through the day, and wonder whether this new pain is something to be worried about or just my new normal, I’m frustrated with my body.

It can feel unimaginable to someone without chronic pain that someone could feel pain from clothing. From lying down. From being touched. But for people with chronic pain, it’s our reality every day. I’d love to sit back and relax, but it literally hurts.

What a bad pain day really means was originally published in ChronicallyOverit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I spent a while browsing Amazon as wonderings popped into my head.

What makes it less weird? Do I find something subtle? Do I get one that looks really medical so people know it’s legit? Or do I lean in and get something bright?

I didn’t think I would be looking up canes on a Saturday night at the ripe old age of 32, but here we are. The reviews talked about the stability, raved about how well the collapsible one folded, but didn’t answer the questions I really had.

If I use it at work, are people going to judge me? Are they going to make the assumption that I’m giving up? How do I let people know they don’t have to pity me?

Then I saw an Instagram reel of a disabled creator talking about how she hears parents talking to their kids about her wheelchair. If you don’t follow Gem Turner on Instagram, you need to. Often, when she hears people explaining her condition to kids, there’s a tone of pity and that “inspirational that she gets out of bed” rhetoric.

She wishes parents would explain that’s how they’re able to do the things they want to, or that people have different needs. I find myself wishing grownups could be taught that lesson, too.

Often, we associate any kind of mobility aid or accessibility device with “you were hurt, and I hope you feel better.” But here’s the thing, I won’t feel better. Chronic conditions are just that: chronic. I might have good days, but it’s unlikely that I’ll wake up one day and decide it’s time to throw out the drawer full of braces, instant heat packs, and mobility aids because oh my gosh, I’m cured!

I can feel that oh, you poor thing face that you’re making on the other end of this screen, and I promise it’s not necessary. My life as a disabled person is filled with challenges that you couldn’t imagine, just like your life has challenges that I couldn’t imagine either. I don’t want to play the oppression Olympics anymore; it’s a competition I never wanted to enter, and it’s not exactly fun when I take the gold.

The reason it’s so jarring when someone is open about their disability is that it’s a taboo subject. You’re meant to mask it, deal with it as best as you can. Do anything but talk about it.

But what if we did? What if when someone said “how are you?” it was socially acceptable to say, “having a bad pain day, but hanging in!” What if we normalized how dynamic the human experience is? The toxic positivity wave has taught us that talking about pain exacerbates it, and yet, I have found the most hope and love in talking about the hard stuff.

Compliment me on my cane — it’s cute and shiny. I’ll probably strike a pose. My Mom just offered to bedazzle it as my Christmas present. If I want to share the hardship that got me there, you just created an opening for me to be vulnerable. Give me the chance to say:

Ugh, this pain is chronic, but my cane is iconic!

This pain is chronic, but my cane is iconic was originally published in ChronicallyOverit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

A year ago, I would have told you that I didn’t think my story was worth telling. My disability is “mild,” so I thought I was taking up space that others needed more.

In the last year, I’ve learned that two truths can exist at the same time. I can have a disability worth talking about, and others can face more barriers than I do. More importantly, I can share my story and use it to create space for others to share theirs as well.

In being open about my disability instead of hiding it, I’ve met so many amazing people and finally don’t feel alone when my body just won’t do what I need it to. Through humor, vulnerability, and a little bit of frustration, I feel like I finally found what I was missing: community.

The caption of the post about my episode of the Othering Podcast was “turning challenges into community,” and that was the whole goal of creating this platform. Connection, laughter, “oh gosh that’s not just me?!” It’s what keeps us afloat as a disabled community so that we don’t have to be chronically over it.

If you have a story about disability, no matter how “small” you think it is, reach out to me. Submit a story on Medium or email me at meg36writes@gmail.com. While I’m excited to share my stories and experiences, I’m even more eager to share yours. If you’re not sure, look up what a disability is, because many of us live with them but are told it’s “normal” or that we should be able to manage. I joked off so many of my symptoms only to find out they were the product of a genetic disorder at thirty-one. I spent all that time feeling isolated and alone when I didn’t have to be.

I’d love to hear from you. Millions of people live with a multitude of chronic conditions: diabetes, heart conditions, pain disorders, long COVID, and the ever-familiar “we aren’t really sure, so we’re just going to monitor it.” Your story deserves to be told.

Look, Ma! I’m podcast famous! was originally published in ChronicallyOverit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

It breaks my heart that I had to pause writing about things I’m passionate about. But if I’m honest about where I’ve been?

In bed.

Any moment I’m not at work, I’m resting. Aggressively resting. After an ankle dislocation, a knee dislocation, the worst pain flare I’ve ever experienced, and a particularly busy month at work, my body finally said “no.”

Part of it is on me. I’m writing a piece right now about how I resisted using a cane, a brace, or my shower chair, because sometimes that denial is just so real. As a 32-year-old, I “should” myself a lot. I should be able to do it without help. I should be able to handle what’s going on. Really, though, I should learn to give myself what I need so I can do what I want and need to. After some time truly engaging in pacing, letting myself rest when I need it, and accepting that I need some help in quite literally keeping my joints together, I’m back.

Next week, you can expect a couple of things. First, my episode of the Othering Podcast is coming out! I am so excited for you to hear my fun, enlightening, deep, and sometimes sad conversation with Mike and Dory because that’s the reality of disability: all of those things can be true at once. From me, you’ll be getting a piece called “Will they won’t they: me and my cane,” about my experience with finally getting a cute, shiny, purple cane and letting it sit under my desk at work for a month.

While I know that the people reading this understand disability, I was sad to be away. I did what I needed to do for my body, and now I’m a bendy baddie who is back!

Where has Chronically Over It been?! was originally published in ChronicallyOverit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.