Good Example Of Essay On Living With A Disability

After the accident, I began going to intensive therapy to deal with the drastic life changes I was going through as a result of my car accident. Initially, I was obsessed with replaying the past—imagining “what if” I had been in another car lane; what if the other driver had slowed down; what if I hadn’t even been driving. A naturally restless person, before the accident, I couldn’t even sit still for more than a couple hours at a time: meditation was impossible, and I rarely slept through the night without waking up to get a glass of water. After the accident, however, I was wheelchair-bound, not just for a few weeks or months, but life. In therapy, I immediately wanted to address those two issues: fantasizing about an alternative ending, and not wanting to believe that my paralysis was permanent. How could I be expected to live for 30 years as an able-bodied person, then for the rest of my life, in chains? Thirdly I was a teacher, and while my work offered to accommodate my disability and allow me to remain in the classroom, how could I possibly take command of the classroom again, pace the room, look over student’s shoulders, and write vigorously on the chalkboard as I drove home a point about literature?
My therapist, after we covered my more primal emotions of loss, denial, and grief, encouraged me to think through other aspects of my life that would be undergoing change. The first was intimacy. My husband and I had a good marriage, and strong physical connection. My paralysis meant that we would never experience sexual intimacy in the same way again. I felt terrible for him, and even sorrier for myself. We didn’t have children, but hadn’t ruled it out, and now it was obviously not an option. My therapist encouraged me to think outside the box, and develop a more expanded sense of intimacy (kissing, touching, massage), but to me that felt like going back in time, to my teenage years. I was furious, and my feelings of helplessness pervaded me for months. Someone else would have to help me with transportation, dressing and bathing, and that was just the beginning.
I began dividing my life into “before” and “after.” Before the accident, I was ambitious, motivated, and successful. After the accident, I was non-ambulatory except for my wheelchair, and it completely affected my sense of efficacy and usefulness. Sure, I had my mind, but what good was that, if not accompanied by my body? I felt the pity and curiosity of strangers, as they watched me struggle to navigate down the street, and I hated it. If I were destined to become some kind of very intelligent recluse, whose works were known to the world but not her physical person, it would be as a very embittered genius, indeed.
Lastly, my sense of security was deeply affected. I doubted my ability to continue teaching for long—it had become exhausting, even on half a schedule—and my disability pension wouldn’t begin to cover my bills, not that I wanted to retire. I also felt very physically scared all the time. Anyone could attack me, rob or mug me, and there wasn’t a thing I could do. I couldn’t run; I couldn’t fight an attacker off. I was shocked by how terrified I was just of leaving the house.
I felt cheated, depressed, angry, and very scared for my future, and the future of my parents, who were still alive, as well as my husband and friends, who love me.
I am a very physically active person, and I don’t think I would cope well an accident that left me partially paralyzed. If I still had my mind, but only half my body, I think I would spend many years feeling agonizingly frustrated over my limited abilities and compromised life. I am not very good at asking people for help, or knowing who to trust, so the aspect of needing professional and personal help just to get out of bed in the morning would be, for me, very humbling and tiring. In time, I would accept my life, but for a series of months or even years, I think I would be devastated, and unable to posit a happy ending to my life while relegated to the confines of a wheelchair.