Good reminder. I need to remember this everyday. #MentalHealth #Depression #Anxiety #EssentialTremor #Recovery
Good reminder. I need to remember this everyday. #MentalHealth #Depression #Anxiety #EssentialTremor #Recovery
I think this is one of the first times I've ever posted on here. I am currently struggling with my anxiety and depression. My anxiety has made it hard for me to be out and about for long before I'm ready to be in the comfort of my home. I'm a recovering alcoholic and addict. Struggling with vaping though I am listening to a good audiobook that seems like it's going to help me with that aspect.
I currently live with my parents until I get back up on my feet. It seems that it's taken longer for that to happen although that's the part of the alcoholic/addict brain, wanting that instant gratification. I am seeing a therapist and trying to get my medications balanced out which seems like they are at the present moment. I'm so thankful for the mighty! I feel like I can relate to a lot of you on here and I'm grateful for that. If anyone ever feels like chatting, just send me a message as I would love to have a larger support group as well as making friends.
I've reached a point in my life where I'm just tired of being around toxic people. All I want is to love myself and develop healthier relationships. I want less drama in my life although sometimes I know that all drama can't be avoided. Okay that's enough for my rambling. Just grateful that I found this place.
#MentalHealth #Depression #Anxiety #EssentialTremor #AddictionRecovery #Recovery
I'm tired of being everyone's counselor.
I'm tired of being everyone's lover.
I'm tired of being everyone's confidant.
Who is my counselor? Lover? Confidant?
Who is the person who drops everything when I need them to listen?
to love me?
to know all my secrets?
Where is my pure happiness?
Where is my future security?
Maybe... it is only me.
To my high school:
I haven’t been in a wheelchair very long. I need it because I had a major surgery called a femoral derotational osteotomy. (Yes, I am the girl who probably left scuff marks in the classroom doorways and probably ran over your legs or feet once or twice. Sorry.) A wheelchair is useful for my safety, but I would not choose to use one otherwise. It might look easy to not walk around school and sit in a wheelchair instead, but it’s not easy. I am in pain every day, even when I do sit in the wheelchair. I am much shorter sitting in it and I feel like less of a person. That being said, there are a few things that would help me greatly. Here are a few do’s and don’t’s for interacting with me (and other people) in a wheelchair.
DON’T’S:
1. Please do not stand directly in front of me (for example, at an assembly). In the wheelchair, I am much shorter than I am while standing. I can’t see if someone stands directly in front of me. It makes me feel like I don’t matter.
2. Do not shut the door on me when you see me coming. Honestly, I feel like it should be common courtesy to hold the door if you see anyone approaching the door, but I can’t reach the door to hold it for myself in the wheelchair. Many people have shut the door on me, and I have just had to wait for someone else to come along, which is really embarrassing. It only takes a few seconds to hold the door for someone, and I promise that those extra seconds make a big difference to me.
3. Don’t cut right in front of me when I’m trying to go somewhere. I understand that I move slowly, but no matter if I do or not, it’s still really rude to cut in front of me. I will move to the side of the hallway if I see that you’re in a hurry; I do feel bad for holding people up. But if you cut in front of me, you run the risk of getting run over. I don’t mean to, but it’s harder to stop the wheelchair while it’s rolling than you’d think. (See my note about getting run over by the wheelchair below.)
4. Please do not block the doorway or hallway. I get it. I love talking to my friends between classes when I can, too. But I don’t have the luxury of time. Whether I’m walking behind the wheelchair and pushing it or propelling it with my arms, it takes a long time for me to get to class. It takes even longer when I have to wait for people to notice me and move out of the way. Please be mindful if you are blocking the doorway or hallway. We all have places we need to be. If you have the time to just stand there talking to your friends, I can’t accommodate you. I don’t want to be rude by yelling “excuse me” if you don’t hear me the first time or trying to roll past you, but I’d really rather not be late to class because other people are in the way.
5. Don’t make a big deal if you trip on the wheelchair or if I accidentally run over you. I promise, I do not mean to run over people. But when people move directly in my way or cut in front of me, sometimes it happens. I’m always looking where I’m going, and I need the same consideration in return. If you do trip over my wheelchair, I know it hurts. But please don’t give me a dirty look because it’s not my fault you tripped. My wheelchair is not there to inconvenience anyone; however, sometimes it does. I have to get by in a world that is sometimes not equipped for me, and if you trip over my wheelchair because you’re not paying attention to where you’re going, there’s really nothing I can do about it.
6. Please, please DO NOT push me without asking. I can propel myself, and it is really degrading when people come up behind me and start pushing. Just because I’m in a wheelchair does not mean that I can’t make my own decisions or do things for myself. When people push me without asking, it takes away the ability I do have. I can still do things on my own even though I’m in a wheelchair. If you push me without asking, I’m sure people usually mean well, but it means I don’t have a choice. I don’t have any control over the situation if people push me without asking, and I already don’t have enough control.
DO’S:
1. If you see me struggling (or if you think I’m having trouble), please do offer to help. There have been several times that I have struggled to open a door and people have stood behind me and just watched. There is a big difference between offering to help and swooping in and doing something for me. I would really appreciate an offer to help if I do look like I need it.
2. Please do watch where you’re going. It can pose a danger to us both if you don’t. I know it hurts when you collide with the wheelchair, and it also hurts me. When people ram into my wheelchair, it jolts my legs (including the one I just had surgery on, which really hurts). I will watch where I am going; all I ask is that you please watch where you’re going, too.
I know that I am not entitled to these things above, but it would be very helpful and make my day more tolerable. It is really hard for me to accept being in a wheelchair because I need a lot more help. Many people are very inconsiderate when they interact with me, but the only thing about me that has changed since last year is my mobility. I would so appreciate a little more consideration. The world isn’t always built for people who have differences, which is frustrating, but the way I see it, we can all learn from each other. We just have to have empathy. The fact is, both people with and without disabilities exist in this world, and it is my goal to make the world safe for both.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him and He shall make straight your paths.”—Proverbs 3:5-6
Over the years, I will admit that I have been frustrated with God. All the times when I have struggled with people being mean based on my disability, feeling imperfect, and these last six years of chronic pain, I have prayed.
My family and I tried almost every method to treat my chronic pain. I went to doctor after doctor, who all offered possible solutions. Some solutions worked partially, but I was still in a severe amount of pain. I began to ask God what I had done wrong.
When my grandfather died in the midst of my pain, I wondered why God decided to take away the one person who I felt understood my pain. Gradually through my femoral osteotomy recovery, I realized that I hadn’t necessarily done anything wrong; God’s timing and mine were probably different.
It turned out that having surgery was probably the best solution anyway. The femoral osteotomy surgery would rotate my femur so that my left foot would either be straight or turned outward slightly. None of the medication or other possibilities for relief would have corrected the way I walked. Now because I had surgery, I have a chance to be in less pain and to fall down less.
There were so many times when I cried to God, wondering why I had to handle so much pain. I didn’t feel like I was old enough to deal with it. I worried that I disappointed God somehow or was unfaithful to Him. I didn’t know what else to do.
I was unsure if I was following the path that God intended for me. Was I being a bad advocate for other people with disabilities? Did I deserve this pain?
I still don’t understand the reason for my chronic pain, but that’s okay. I am only human. I am not God. God knows what is best for each of us, and humans are not supposed to understand His plan.
Throughout those rather tough years of chronic pain, I hoped that eventually something would help my legs. I didn’t understand why I had to wait so long. I didn’t understand why nothing worked fully to stop my pain.
Now I have so much more appreciation for God’s plan. Those six years of pain made me stronger. And surgery was not just a solution for my pain; the surgery did not cure my CP, but I didn’t want it to. The surgery will allow me to have a better quality of life.
God had a plan that would fully help me. I just didn’t know it yet.
The surgery turned my left foot so that my hip won’t slowly slip out of socket. My legs don’t touch anymore when I walk, so hopefully I won’t fall. God used the surgery to help me. Sure enough, God had a plan.
If I hadn’t gone through the pain, I never would have relearned how to walk in a way that is better for my body. I have faith in God in a much deeper way now than I did before. Now I know that God has a plan for me, no matter what.
The Lord truly does work in mysterious ways. I don’t have to understand those ways; I just have to have faith.
I don’t remember when I got my first scar. I was a day old and my stomach had to be stitched because my bowel was perforated. There were some complications when I was born. The bowel perforation most likely led to my having cerebral palsy. I grew up with that first scar and never really questioned it. The area was numb sometimes, but I didn’t really know any different.
I wasn’t really vain, but I was careful not to wear anything that showed my stomach even though the scar wasn’t noticeable. My second scar came on the inside of my arm. I had an implant put in that regulated my hormones, as the CP may have tampered with that area of my brain. However, the implant was exchanged six times, so I grew very familiar with that scar.
Over time, I’ve had eight or nine surgeries, and this most recent surgery was the most major, with the exception of my first one. The femoral osteotomy gave me eight scars—one for each year I’ve had chronic pain with two to spare. Not all of the bandages have come off yet, but when I saw the first scar from the surgery I was taken aback. It was rather large, and knowing that I had been cut open and stitched back together unnerved me. As I looked at the scar, I had the thought that I needed the scars because my legs were so flawed.
I looked at the rest of my scars in frustration and wondered how my body had gone so wrong. But as I have healed, I realized that my scars aren’t about my flaws—my scars are the way that I have gotten better.
These scars on my legs make me sad because I hate that surgery was the only option to “fix” me. But my scars have made me stronger.
The scars hurt. I think that they are ugly. But after all this time, and all this pain, the scars will take that pain away. The scars are a symbol of hope. My scars do not show my suffering; my scars show the overcoming of that suffering.
This surgery is a new beginning for me. The scars on my legs show that I was brave enough to take a chance—even though I don’t know where that chance will lead. I will have a better quality of life because of this surgery, and if that means I will have scars, so be it.
The scars are hard for me to look at and touch. But what they mean is worth so much more than how they look. The scars mean I am not stuck in pain with no other choice. Though my legs are frustrating, I think they are beautiful—just not on the outside. My legs have held me up for my entire life even though my bone was rotated. And through the pain throughout those years, I have walked. I have lived my life with legs that needed a little help. And through these scars, my legs got the help they needed—and so did I.
My scars are ugly. I’m not going to say that my scars are beautiful. Rather, what my scars represent is beautiful. I had to be cut open and stitched back together. Those stitches left scars. But those scars mean hope. And with hope and faith, I will walk—no matter how my legs look. My legs are better now, inside and out, not despite the scars but even because of them.
My scars mean that life gave me an obstacle meant to bring me down—and I didn’t let it.
I had to make a choice this summer. My choice was this: be in pain indefinitely or have orthopedic surgery. You can probably guess which one I chose.
I didn’t consider surgery a particularly fair choice, but one thing I have learned in my life is that life can be both beautiful and unpredictable—and unfair. Life isn’t fair. Spending the summer recovering isn’t fair.
I can acknowledge all of that, but then I have to move on. The surgery was logically my only option. It was the opportunity God gave me, and I felt I had to take it.
I was put to sleep for three hours and when I woke up, my legs were different.
I was unnerved. I had a rod and screws in my leg and my femur—the biggest, longest bone in the body—was broken, albeit intentionally. For more than fourteen years, my femur caused my leg to turn the wrong way. Now it was like I had a new start.
As I lay in the hospital bed, my mom pointed out that my feet were turned outward for the first time. I think she almost cried. I might have cried, too, but I was too loopy. The outward rotation of my left foot, specifically, meant that my hips had less pressure, which was one of the goals of the surgery.
Since the surgery, I have had many ups and downs. I had been home from the hospital for two days when I started having chills and constant spasms. My parents helped me to my bed and I eventually fell asleep. Generally, sleeping after the surgery has been hard. I never found it easy to fall asleep to begin with, but after surgery, the pain and spasms kept me awake. I slept during the day because the medicine was very strong and made me drowsy. The pain would move from my hip, settle in my femur, and travel to my shin. Despite the pain, I had some amazing accomplishments after surgery, too.
The day after my femoral osteotomy, I started using a walker. I noticed that as I walked, my left foot would either straighten or turn outward, not inward like it used to. The lengthening of my abductors helped to drastically widen my stance as I walked. I had walked the same way for years—knees bent, left foot inward, narrow stance. Now I wouldn’t trip myself up because of my rotated femur and lengthened abductors. I thought that was amazing!
However, for the first few weeks of my recovery, my left knee refused to bend. I couldn’t tell that my knee wasn’t bending but found out when I began intensive physical therapy. I also couldn’t determine the direction of my feet—whether they were turned in or out, or straight. The natural way my left foot was for so long was turned inward. Gradually, I guess my body was trained that my left foot’s crookedness was actually straight. My inability to determine the direction of my limbs is neurological. My physical therapists hope this will get better as I continue to relearn how to walk.
The loss of independence that the surgery caused has been really difficult for me, even though it’s temporary. I can’t walk for long periods of time. The surgery and sharp femur pain wiped out my stamina and endurance. School starts in three weeks, and I’m not sure if I will be able to go to school without an aide or pull my roller bag by myself.
I don’t trust myself anymore. When I walk, I feel like I’m losing control—going too fast, locking my knees, hyperextending. I’m constantly paranoid that the rod slipped out of place and that my left foot is turning in. It’s exhausting, and I often wonder if I will ever trust my legs. I wish that the muscles in my legs would learn to work together soon.
I never really had control of my left leg before. It often felt like my left leg would cave in on me. And even back then, my right leg had to support most of my weight. My struggles with my left leg are not my body’s fault. But my left leg has never really felt like it’s mine. Now, especially, my leg feels like it belongs to someone else.
When all the bandages came off of my incisions, I remember sitting in the bathtub one night, tracing a few of the scars. I was thinking that I’d had chronic pain in my hip, especially the left, for so long, and now I had a visual representation. I looked at all the scars and felt, honestly, that my legs were so flawed. That had to be why I’d needed so much surgery. I looked at my left leg and thought that it was so ugly, inside and out. In reality, my left leg was doing the best it could, using the muscles that had the least amount of spasticity. My left leg has the help it needed now.
The pain has been severe and intense since I’ve had surgery. My physical therapist has pushed me to achieve what I can, and I’m so grateful for his help. However, there were some times I had some emotions to let out during PT appointments. During one appointment, he laid me on my stomach and pushed on my quadricep. I nearly cried. I struggle with telling my physical therapist that I’m in pain because I feel like I’m complaining. Throughout my recovery experience, I have had to learn to ask for help.
I have had to use a wheelchair to go to appointments with my doctors and to physical therapy. It is emotionally draining, even though my use of a wheelchair is temporary. I feel like everyone stares at me. I am too short to see much of anything when I sit in the wheelchair. My legs stiffen and it is very painful to sit in the wheelchair for an extended amount of time. Overall, much of my recovery process has been emotional, in good ways and bad.
I have thought so many times during this surgery that one type of pain was swapped for another. My chronic pain was replaced by a new bone-deep, intense pain. I wasn’t sleeping well. I was struggling to walk. At night, I was exhausted. I knew the surgery had benefits. So that’s what I’ve tried to focus on.
A few weeks after my surgery, I was able to stand up from a chair without using my hands—something I couldn’t do even before the surgery. I was shocked and so, so happy. It was emotional for me. My eyes welled up and I smiled at myself in the mirror. I had never done something like this before. As I did it again, I think that’s when I fully realized that the surgery was worth it. The action was so unnatural and new that I kind of wondered if my legs belonged to a stranger.
On the stairs, my feet don’t turn in anymore. My feet would dramatically turn inward, which was a major fall risk. My physical therapist told me in the past that my feet would never be straight while climbing stairs. He thought it was impossible. My femoral osteotomy helped me achieve something that was impossible for me.
I use more muscles than I did before. There is a muscle near my shin that has been activated lately. A few days ago I told my mom that my shin was hurting, but that it wasn’t a shin splint. Turns out, I had started to use a muscle that I had never used before called the anterior tibia. I was stunned. It took me my entire life to start to use one of the muscles in my body. Because I always dragged my left foot, the muscle that lifts the foot from the ground during a gait pattern had never been used. I felt like I had just discovered that more was wrong with me than I ever realized, but then I reflected that the surgery has given me a chance to do things I never could before.
So yes, the pain of a femoral osteotomy is miserable at times. Yes, I can’t really trust my legs yet and have to relearn how to walk. But having surgery has shown me so many small miracles. My legs finally have the help they need. I can do so many things that aren’t impossible anymore.
Today, I looked in the mirror and thought,
I feel worthless.
But I said," I am worthwhile in the things I do, say and create."
I thought, I feel like I failed.
But said, "I am tired, but I got up, and a try isn't a fail."
I thought ,I feel afraid that my situation will never change.
But said, "I am changing; it's tough, but so am I."
I thought, I feel everyone looks at me like I'm damaged.
But I said," I am taking responsibility for myself and my health so they can think whatever they want."
I thought ,I feel like I don't fit in.
But I said, "I will fit in with the right people at the right time, but first, I must fit in with me."
Remember, every thought you say to yourself matters, and the positive thoughts help you grow.
©️ words and art by April Mansilla
#art #artheals #MentalHealth #Bipolar #Depression #Recovery #wellness #ArtTherapy #Positivity #Kindness