Invisible

Invisible

I'm invisible.

You can see me, but you can't hear me.

You could if you wanted to

But you choose not to.

I know you don't hear me

If you did

Then my life would be different.

You say you hear me

Sometimes you even do things for me.

When I say you do things for me,

I really mean you do it for my type

You don't do things specifically for me.

I am part of a group.

I have an illness.

Disabled you call us.

I hate my illness.

It's easier to feel something for me when I am part of a group.

It's easier to do something for me when I am part of a group.

It is easier to define us all as part of a group.

Labels.

But "our group" is made up of individuals.

Some of us cannot hear.

Some of us cannot see.

Some of us cannot walk.

We are not all the same.

To you we are all the same.

Disabled.

I hate my illness.

We are usually invisible.

Not always.

Sometimes we become visible, but only for a short time.

Someone famous will become like us.

Someone cute will become like us.

But usually....

Invisible.

I hate my illness.

What is it about me that makes my life invisible?

My needs invisible?

My dreams invisible?

I have hopes, dreams and an imagination like everyone else.

My body doesn't work the way it should, but my mind does.

It's only my legs that don't work.

Well, at the moment it's only my legs.

It will get worse.

My brain is intact.

My imagination is intact.

My soul is intact.

Not that you care.

I'm invisible

I hate my illness.

I think my type makes it uncomfortable for you.

You worry about mortgages, cars, furniture, private schools, holidays, going to restaurants.

I worry about being able to get to the toilet.

I worry about getting out of bed.

I worry about being able to get out the front door.

I worry about not being able to spend time with my family.

A friend speaks to me.

"Hey, we're going shopping. What are you up to today?"

What am I supposed to say?

Oh, maybe I'll try to walk ten steps without collapsing with fatigue.

Might try to get a hundred metres down the street in my scooter without pissing in my pants.

You know, the usual stuff.

Thanks for the call.

Have fun.

Seeya.

I hate my illness.

It's not sexy.

It's not popular.

My illness won't end up neatly.

It will go on interminably.

People don't like loose ends.

You can't tick me off your 'to do' list.

I'll still be there.

Ill.

I hate my illness.

Charity and empathy are not accorded equally.

At least if you give money to people who suffer from a flood, or a bushfire or an earthquake

Then there is an end.

"There you go, here's a hundred bucks and I hope it all gets better now.

Phew, now I can get on with my life.

Hey, have you tried that new restaurant...."

No, my problem can't be solved with a 'cheque and forget' solution.

Our type is there all the time.

We linger.

You can't just give us money and make it better.

For you, money heals everything, preferably quickly.

If it doesn't, then maybe it's too hard.

Great.

It's a competition.

The starving children.

Tsunami victims.

Who is more deserving?

Are we less deserving?

Did we ask for it?

Are we too expensive?

No.

The real problem is I will still be sick tomorrow.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

Until I die.

You will have to keep spending money on me.

Until I die.

I hate my illness.

If I died I would be more visible.

There would be a flurry of activity.

Of sympathy.

Maybe for a week.

If I was dying, I would get some attention for a while.

A few months of dying.

They could martyr themselves, but know that there was an end in sight.

They wouldn't always have to be pushing a wheelchair.

Or taking me to the toilet.

Or moving things out of my way.

Because in the end I would die.

How sad everyone would be.

That's a shame. I wish we could have done something.

Well, you bloody well could have.

You could have helped me while I was alive!

After I'm gone, my husband and son might have some meals delivered to them.

They might get some invites to functions.

People might even feel sorry for them and ask them how they are coping.

There might even be offers to help them with the housework.

Good luck to them.

No one ever asked me.

I'm invisible

I hate myself for what I have become.

The disease has changed me.

I don't feel sorry for people.

I don't feel anything for anyone.

I feel like it's not fair.

If you catch me at a really bad moment,

I will admit that I wish someone else had this illness,

Rather than me.

I have no empathy.

That's what my counselor says.

That's what my husband says.

But who has empathy for me?

I know it's not anyone else's fault.

But I hate them.

I hate them for not realizing that they are all just one accident or illness away from being like me.

From not being able to walk.

From not being able to get out of bed without a struggle.

From being afraid to be further than twenty metres from a toilet.

I have graduated from university.

I used to have a good job.

I used to be important in my job.

Now I rely on my family.

I rely on the government.

Lucky it's my family and the government.

I couldn't rely on anyone else.

I know that now.

It's so different now that I'm ill.

I don't move in the same circles.

Well, I guess I don't move at all (boom boom – who says I can't take a joke?)

Everyone finds me too hard now.

They don't tell me that.

It's just that they've stopped calling since I became ill.

The phone calls stopped.

Even the visits stopped.

I'm not one of them anymore.

I'm disabled.

I guess I don't know what I want them to do.

I guess I just wish I could walk.

I lash out at those who can (walk, that is).

My husband.

My son.

My friends.

It seems the closer they are to me,

The more I want to cause them pain.

It gives me some sort of power.

I can have an impact.

Be noticed.

Because I am not happy with myself.

I am not happy that I cannot move.

I am not happy that I feel worthless.

I am not happy that I'm dependant.

I am not happy.

I don't know why I do that.

Say terrible things.

He usually goes quiet then and looks around at anything but me.

Then he walks off slowly.

She doesn't mean it, he probably thinks to himself,

She's under stress and ill.

Fuck yes I mean it.

I would rather anyone else be sick rather than me.

Anyone.

I didn't do anything to deserve it.

I know what I'm doing, but I can't stop it.

I hate my illness.

I punish my son for the smallest things.

He gets everything given to him on a silver platter.

He gets everything he wants.

He can walk.

He has it too easy.

Spoilt brat.

I'm disabled.

He should know that.

Everyone should know that.

Why doesn't anyone else understand?

Understand what I need?

Understand what I want?

They worry about irrelevant issues.

Not walking.

Now that's a relevant issue.

Talking about your holiday while I'm sitting there busting to go to the toilet?

While my leg is twitching?

While I'm totally exhausted from the effort of getting from the car to the front door?

LISTEN UP!!

That's...not... relevant.

That's crap.

He says I'm not useless.

He says my son and he need me.

He says they love me.

They must like pushing wheelchairs around then.

Loading scooters into the back of the car.

Fetching.

Carrying.

Doing everything....

I don't believe it.

I think they do it because they feel it's their duty.

Or worse, because they feel sorry for me.

I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me.

I want my legs back.

That's what I want.

Nothing will make me happy unless I get my legs back.

I'll never get my legs back.

I hate my illness.

What's the point of living?

I get interaction when I fight with my husband and my son.

When I criticize them.

No one else listens to me – they have to.

It makes me feel good.

I don't have to think about myself.

Pointing out faults in them evens up the balance for me.

They are not so perfect and happy and I'm not so....

.... so useless.

I hate my illness.

I often think about dying.

All the time actually.

I think about it especially when I drink.

I drink a lot now.

To forget.

My husband says that the talk of dying is wrong.

He won't even discuss it.

He says they need me.

He says they love me.

He says that a lot.

I'm sure he's just saying that to make me feel better.

Or because he feels he has to.

How could someone need a woman that can't walk?

That can't stand?

That can't do anything?

My family would be better off without me.

As for the others, they wouldn't even notice.

I'm invisible.