Wednesday 13 May 2015

Independence, wherefore art thou?

Today someone is coming to the house.

To take me out.

A stranger.

A stranger is coming to take me out.

For an outing.

An outing.

I don't know what I think about it.

Well I do.

I also wonder how many expletives it takes to be kicked off Google? I think I could do it.

It feels like someone is reaching deep down into all that is me, and ripping it to shreds. Big chunks of my being, pulled out to rest in bloody hands.  A tad melodramatic I know. But it does.

I'm not comfortable with any part of it. I feel my stomach churning as I type. I can hear the "But Michelles...." already. And honestly, the "But Michelle...." folk can stick it. Two days ago I turned 42 and today someone is coming to take me on an outing.

Because I can't go out alone.

Because I am reliant on others to leave my house.

Because it's just another marker for the level of shit my body is immersed in.

Because I'm angry and shitty and tired.


I can go anywhere I like. The local shopping center keeps being brought up. Because heading to Target with a stranger is up there with internal exams, on the fun scale.

And small talk. Small talk with a stranger. Might as well break out the speculum.

I want to go to the gallery. I don't want to talk. I don't want to interact. I want to look at art at my own pace.

I want to not go arse up with a stranger and have to deal with the crap that goes with it.

I want to go and not have to explain why I'm in the chair.

I want to pretend that I'm there alone. I want to pretend I am still independent.

But a stranger is coming to take me out on an outing, because I can't do it alone.

And I am reminded

                                just how fucked my body is.



  1. Oh Michelle, I wish you a fairy indepence g-dmother that showers you with it so you wake up each day able to go anywhere you like on your own.... mel-

  2. I know it's a bit different but I felt rage when hospitals and gov departments offered me respite care. What? Are you saying I'm not capable of looking after my kids because I am disabled? Eff off!

    I'm hearing you with the wanting to be totally alone, to take things at your own pace, not to feel the pressure of having to make conversation. I can't begin to imagine....and I'm at a loss for suggestions....But I'm roaring for you too...

  3. oh. Well shit. This is just shit. Just fucking shit. I totally understand how you feel and to have Bob take that away from you is just... shit.


  4. I have tickets to the symphony. They were my attempt to not live at the mere existence stage. Only one of the two venues requires about 5 blocks of walking. I try to get rides, but mostly fail. I've been advised, in this smaller city, to try to use a taxi and bus service is laughable. I had someone agree to go with me if I bought a second set of season tickets, but she backed out at the beginning of the year, so I have two years of tickets, 2/3rd of the performances at the venue where I struggle to go. The last performance this year was there. I got dressed. And then undressed. It was the first time I admitted that trying to walk that far with my cane before and after the performance, which is two hours of sitting, is not something I can do anymore. It was the most difficult moment for me, thus far, a huge leap backward in independence. Without family or friends or neighbors, I'm mostly SOL for help. The beauty of the music was such a respite for me. But I had to tell myself to stay home. Be reasonable. You are not capable of that kind of walking anymore. SIGH.

    Thanks for your blog, Michelle. It has been IMMENSELY helpful and makes me feel less alone.


All who are lovely enough to comment should be showered with cup cakes, glitter and macarons. I promise to use my spoon bending mind powers to try and get that happening for all who are lovely enough to share their words. Those who go the extra step to share posts should really get a free unicorn. Or at least the gift of finding the shortest and quickest line at the supermarket on a regular basis. xx

Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.