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2020-02-12 / 10:16 p.m.

I went back to college in September. Not particularly because I wanted to, but more because I wanted to do something, anything at all, and this just seemed like the best option. It's been over two years and two months since I last worked. So much of my identity had been tied up in where I spent my forty to sixty hour work week. In complaining that I needed more time to myself, and then feeling like I'd crawl out of my skin with anxiety the second I stopped for rest. And then for years, all there was was rest. In slowing down the clock, being stuck on my back on my bed because I wasn't permitted or able to bend, lift or twist for over three months, I became nothing but my own thoughts in a vessel that had decided it didn't want to be a vessel anymore.
I can't work full time because I can't sit in a chair anymore, or stand for any length of time anymore, or be away from a situation where I can lie down regularly anymore. And I can't work part time because I am nothing if not an unreliable mess. I can't commit to any given time or day, and at best I could work a half day at a time. But of course, nobody wants to hire the disabled girl, especially not if they have to make allowances.
So college seemed like a good compromise. I rationalised that I could go and do my thing, and have something to keep my mind somewhat busy, without having anybody rely on me but myself. And if it became too much, I could just walk (or hobble) away. But what's happened in the meantime is it's become an awful lot of work for something that's only supposed to be a few days a week, and I've gotten this far by having done an awful lot of work already, so walking away would make all of that stress and hard work have been for nothing. And also there's the void of nothingness, of being alone with my thoughts too often and for too long again.
I identify as somebody with a disability, but I don't announce it to the world, or even to most of the people that I meet on a daily basis. I prefer to get by on everything that I still have to offer, and to clap for my damn self. Which leaves me in the precarious position of being asked often to commit to more and more and more, and the ghost of myself from those years that came before tries its living best to not let anybody down. And quite often, it's easier to just say yes than to explain the mess that is either EDS or arachnoiditis individually. Let alone explain the complications of being privileged enough to live in a body that has none one but two rare chronic illnesses.
I am medically retired, and I haven't the heart to tell anyone.

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