Last Monday evening I sat on my kitchen chair, biting my lip, unable to stop the tears falling from my eyes. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was exhausted, and in so much pain. I was also frightened by how out of control I felt. How had I got here, at the tender age of thirty-six? The pain was shooting into the back of my knee and every time I stood up, my right leg crumbled beneath me.

You see, I fell in September. Outside, while crushing a plastic bottle so that it’d fit into an overflowing recycling bin. Falls are nothing new to me; I fall so often that I’ve actually learned how to fall in order to protect my head. I normally have pain for ten minutes, tops, and am then able to mosey about my normal business. But since this particular fall, my right leg and I have been at odds. I’ve been exercising, resting it, applying hot water bottles, taking painkillers, going without painkillers. Nothing seems to work.

The truth is, I have had a somewhat troubled relationship with my body. It began with the prescribed physiotherapy as a child which continued into my teens and continued through the stubbornness of my right leg which turned inwards (and still does), tripping me over. I tried in vain to straighten out my leg. I did the physio, I had botox. I resisted using a wheelchair until my early twenties. But I succumbed, and my internalised oppression tells me that this is why I’m suffering now, that this is somehow my own fault.

I’ve been really busy this year, which has left no time for writing. Trying to navigate the emotional ups and downs that come with a global pandemic, with a terrified child, has been exhausting. Then I became involved in various projects with Independent Living Movement Ireland, and suddenly I hadn’t the time to write that I used to. Lately, however, my body has forced me to slow down and reflect, and once again I find myself questioning the same things. Given this pain that I’m currently experiencing, to what extent is disability really located outside of myself? I live by the principles of the social model and one of its architects, the late Michael Oliver, once proclaimed that “disability has nothing to do with the body.” So if I believe that disability is caused by barriers, am I supposed to ignore whatever it is my body’s trying to tell me? To fight for my rightful place in society, do I need to leave my Cerebral Palsy at the door and focus exclusively on political action?

After spending too much time feeling sorry for myself, I began to consider my next move. It doesn’t look as though this pain is shifting anytime soon and I want – need – to start writing again. Maybe even start working again, more than the odd bits I’ve been doing.  I transcribed a number of podcasts and compiled a collection of stories about the Independent Living Movement, and now that’s nearing completion, I’m thinking about what to do next. Finish my novel? Do another course? Compile another poetry collection? Whatever I choose to do,  I know I’m going to need supports in place in order to do it. I went and got a special chopping board the other day which in theory means that I can now prep food in half the time. I put a grabrail with suction cups on my front door so that I can pull it closed behind me when I’m in the wheelchair. I have a shower chair, and a grabrail on my bed. I also have a Personal Assistant Service (reduced because of Covid) who help me do chores – they can do certain tasks that would take me hours in a matter of minutes! This allows me the energy I’ve needed to compile those stories, which is my biggest achievement this year.

And, eventually, Covid will piss off. But I will still be disabled (in the social model meaning of the word). The aftershocks of the extra money that the government is currently spending, coupled with the deep recession that we are heading into, means that the funding of a true PA service that allows disabled people to have full control over our lives, may once again be threatened, as although the legislation allowing for the provision of Personal Assistance has passed through the Seanad, it hasn’t yet been signed into law. Decisions about what kind of supports are available to us are still being made by medical experts; we are not fully trusted to decide what we feel is best for ourselves.

And while I have to silently contemplate what it means to be a wobbly yummy mummy now approaching my late thirties, I must try harder to remember that my quality of life should not, and will not, be dictated by my impairment. However, it certainly would be enhanced by having access to the correct products and services, chosen and controlled by me. I have so much more to achieve, to do and see, and to give. 

I cannot be fixed. But our society sure as hell can. So let’s roll up our sleeves and keep building a better, more inclusive future.