![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chicatingpossibly not for abled consumption)
At that point in her life, wishing for that would be as useful as wishing for a Barbie Dream House. After everything that happened, once she remembered it she imagined a flutter in her belly or abdomen, but maybe she revised the moment in retelling; one thing she learned about growing up disabled is that people liked her better when she had a tale to tell. Sometimes it felt like that was what they liked; the funny crippled lady. Sometimes she couldn’t muster up a story, which made her feel bad in a “You had one job,” kind of way. It made her feel unemployed in a way the checks usually wouldn’t.
Even if there weren’t training or pay raises for explaining disability to others since she was six or seven and probably nobody knew it better than she did, anyway. However, explaining as an adult woman was far too serious. She missed the freedom of telling the neighbor kids whatever struck her fancy when they asked, looking back, but at first, that serious seven- year- old with the big eyes that made everyone say how “too bad,” her life was, liked the feeling of such adult syllables on her tongue or maybe that even at her size, she had an answer few people could give. In honest fact, that serious little girl probably only fucked with people a few times. For somebody whose big dream was to make things up, she was a bad liar. Or maybe it was just too easy to be believed as the girl who stared death in the face and it wasn’t challenging?(On the days she most wanted to be perfect, she thought it was Baby’s First Journalistic Ethics, but there weren’t a lot of days like that. Sometimes it made her feel better, though, to think that.)
At that point in her life, wishing for that would be as useful as wishing for a Barbie Dream House. After everything that happened, once she remembered it she imagined a flutter in her belly or abdomen, but maybe she revised the moment in retelling; one thing she learned about growing up disabled is that people liked her better when she had a tale to tell. Sometimes it felt like that was what they liked; the funny crippled lady. Sometimes she couldn’t muster up a story, which made her feel bad in a “You had one job,” kind of way. It made her feel unemployed in a way the checks usually wouldn’t.
Even if there weren’t training or pay raises for explaining disability to others since she was six or seven and probably nobody knew it better than she did, anyway. However, explaining as an adult woman was far too serious. She missed the freedom of telling the neighbor kids whatever struck her fancy when they asked, looking back, but at first, that serious seven- year- old with the big eyes that made everyone say how “too bad,” her life was, liked the feeling of such adult syllables on her tongue or maybe that even at her size, she had an answer few people could give. In honest fact, that serious little girl probably only fucked with people a few times. For somebody whose big dream was to make things up, she was a bad liar. Or maybe it was just too easy to be believed as the girl who stared death in the face and it wasn’t challenging?(On the days she most wanted to be perfect, she thought it was Baby’s First Journalistic Ethics, but there weren’t a lot of days like that. Sometimes it made her feel better, though, to think that.)
