Day to day I don't really think about how much my life differs from other people's. It just is what it is. As I am who I am. So every so often I crash. Hard.
On Wednesday evening it hit me. It has been a strange kind of week for me. An amazing kind of week. The feature in the Britblogs, then the mention on the radio 5 slot. So, I should've been expecting it. Maybe in the back of my mind I was. Just not like this.
After a day spent with Roland where he'd floored me with some of the things he said, in the evening I found Vi had given me the courageous blogger award. Things reached a bit of a head with Big and I realised I had to move on. Whatever decision I'd made earlier this year, now was the time I had to be strong with myself and put him, all hope behind me.
I ended up crying so hard I was bent double. I don't think of myself as brave, I just do what I have to do. At the end of the day, what choice have I got. Really? It simply isn't something that factors into my everyday life. Sure life is a little, well, different from most. All right a lot different, but I suppose I'm usually too busy getting on with things to think about them in that light. The light that perhaps other people see me in. That this week I'd been forced to focus upon myself. By being told I was courageous. By hearing my post described as passionate. EDS as a debilitating illness. By being forced to confront the realities of my life through other people's eyes I stopped for a while and thought about things. And they hit me like a ton of bricks.
I cried and cried. At first for Big. For the letting go of a relationship. It became something much bigger and stronger though and as I doubled over in pain I realised I was grieving. Not for myself, not for now, but for the losses. For the little girl I was aged 10, struggling to walk on a newly dislocated hip, confused, in pain and frightened. Told by teachers she couldn't be in the school play if she continued to use the crutches they didn't believe necessary. I wept for the 4 year old trying to learn to write on fingers bending backwards and dislocating, struggling to make shapes on a page. The 16 year old unable to understand why others could write page after page in exams, when her wrist gave out long before her mind finished the answer. The 13 year old held down at school whilst other girls mashed fruit and sawdust into her hair and all over her. For how many adults looked the other way that day. And every other. Because it was difficult. Confusing. Unusual.
It feels good to have started letting it out. Although I still don't see myself as anything other than me. Just getting on with things. Like everyone else.