There I am in the mirror. How do I look? Not so good. I can look in the mirror and I look great. Five minutes later I look again and I look awful. I see something wrong—a “blemish.” I don’t even need a mirror, I can feel this pimple. Why do I have to be disabled and have pimples?
When I was little I had this dream that I woke up and I wasn’t disabled anymore. When I did wake up, of course I still was. I don’t think about it that much anymore. Once in a while I’ll be walking down the street and I’ll see my reflection in a store window and my heart sinks. I am different. And I wish I weren’t. Just sometimes. Do you know what I mean? Will I ever feel OK about my body: about being me?