My chair, my liberation and my damnation

From a young age, we are taught (in one way or another) that every action has a corresponding result. Flick a switch, and you’ll turn on the lights. Touch something sharp, and you’ll cut yourself. 

It’s a simple concept, but I wish people would take into consideration the results of their actions, instead of their intentions. Not every switch turns on a light, after all. 

My disability has always been complicated and hard to understand. It changed constantly as I grew and my legs weakened. Even doctors were working off theories and ideas instead of definitive facts. They planted a seed of hope in the idea that if I worked hard enough for it, my legs could be stronger, and I could regain some of my lost ability to walk. 

So that’s what I did. I worked my body, weaker than the people I surrounded myself with, to its limits, drenching myself in sweat as my body ached. With slow progress, I saw results I could be proud of. I was stronger and could walk a little bit longer than before. It wasn’t much, but it was something.  

This wasn’t enough for everyone who was meant to be looking after me. It wasn’t enough for my year 7 teacher.  

I know what his intent was that day. I know he wanted to push me. To make me better. He heard that physical exercise would help me with my limitations, but I think he forgot that I had those limitations.  

Why else would he think it was a good idea to have a kid who uses a wheelchair join their abled-bodied peers in the yearly run-for-charity event? 

I remember so much about that day. Remember feeling every muscle in my body scream for relief, for proper rest. The heat of the sun blaring down on me like a weight pushing me to the ground. The looks of concern and pity from my peers as I struggled, questioning why I was doing this. The words of encouragement from the man who said this was a good idea, all while driving in my wheelchair like it was some toy. 

That wheelchair, powered by electricity, was meant to be the equaliser of my life. To make up for the weaknesses of my legs, so that I may (metaphorically) stand with those around me. To be part of the collective. My liberation from my limitations. And for a long time, it was. I could suddenly keep up with my friends, not fear running out of breath while everyone else kept running like it was nothing. 

But this day, that fear caught up to me. I remember finding myself alone in the shadows underneath the school, exhausted and sore, and the tears that followed as I collapsed. I remember thinking how anyone could allow this to happen to me. I remember scraping my knee on the hard concrete as I dragged myself back to class, giving myself the time to calm down before someone saw me. 

The veil of liberation my chair gave me had lifted. I had not been granted liberation from limitations, just new limits to replace the old. When the chair broke occasionally, I broke with it, for the chair was not made for the life of play and freedom I craved. It was like a new, fragile limb I had to care for, lest I be left behind. 

I could live with that limit. I knew better than most kids that life is filled with limits. Aspects of my life might always be more caged than other people, but at least this cage can move. 

I am still human, not the wheelchair I sit in. That teacher didn’t see that.  

I remember thinking that this teacher's intent was for me to grow stronger from this. 

I remember falling apart. I still haven’t quite put myself back together.