THE MEANING OF (MY) LIFE: OR, THAT CHICK’S GOT CRIP CRED OUT THE YIN-YANG

Earthbound Tomboy

By Heidi Johnson-Wright

I’m ecstatic, ebullient. Over the moon.   My mind is blown and my heart is a-flutter.

You see, I’ve had an epiphany of Biblical proportions. I have discovered the meaning of life, or rather the meaning of my life.  And I didn’t have to go to an ashram in India to do it. It simply came to me out of the blue.

I now understand why I was put on this Earth, and it’s not about my own personal journey of self-discovery or growth. In fact, it’s not about me at all.

I exist solely to make non-crips feel good about themselves.

That’s right: the purpose of my existence is to reassure those who don’t (yet) use canes, crutches or wheelchairs to get around.

Why, you might ask, do those folks – the ones who don’t move through the world in gimpy fashion – need reassurance?

I’ll tell you: when you can get out of bed in the morning without pain and go about your day without restrictions in movement, it’s pretty dang scary.

I mean, who wouldn’t be rattled by having no worries about whether your caregiver will show up on time because you don’t need a caregiver at all? Putting on your own clothes and making your own breakfast is stressful. Not having to rely on para-transit to get you to work on time is nerve-wracking.

OK, I’m just going to say it: non-gimps have a pretty crappy life.

But, see, that’s where I come in. I am absolutely, positively, undeniably disabled. For one thing, I use a power wheelchair for mobility. And on the rare occasions that I stand up and take a few steps on my own two feet, ain’t nobody gonna mistake me for an Olympic athlete.

In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to someday overhear someone whisper: “Say what you want to about Heidi, but that chick’s got crip cred out the yin-yang.”

Clearly, my life’s purpose is not to be a valued, autonomous human being with my own meaningful existence. No sir. I was conceived, raised and put out into the world to serve as an example of what NOT to be. Of what to be thankful that you’re not. A sort of goofus gimpy human being to serve as a foil for the non-gimpy gallant ones.

I’m a living embodiment of the tried-and-true bromide: “I was sad that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.” (In this case, I’m the one who has no feet. Except in reality, I do have feet, though they’re mangled and pretty messed up.)

Imagine, a half-century I’ve spent contemplating the purpose of my existence. All the wisdom I’ve sought from the teachings of philosophers and sages. Countless hours of ruminating.

All along the answer was to be found in the pity-filled gazes of non-gimps not-so-secretly grateful that they’re not me.

Thank you ever so much, all you graceful-gaited, altruistic non-gimps.

Without you, I would be nothing.

THE PERILS OF OVERTHINKING

EARTH BOUND TOM BOY

by heidi johnson-wright

Often, life is about simply putting one foot in front of the other -- without tripping yourself -- as you move from Point A to Point B. I don’t care for tattoos, but I’m tempted to have that statement memorialized on my arm.

I’m what’s called, in psychotherapy parlance, a ruminator. I tend to over-think and rehash things in my mind. My natural urge is not to move along the shortest line between two points but rather to take a tortuous route with lots of tangential side trips and backtracking.

I spend too much time inside my own head and not enough time living in the moment. I do this partly because it’s in my nature. But I also attribute it to my disability.

I have orthopedic issues; my mobility is quite limited. And this limits my options for physical activity. Other than walking a few steps now and then, my only viable exercise is adapted aquatics. While I love getting in the pool and moving through the water, I yearn for unadulterated, naked speed.

In the first eight years of my life – before arthritis came into the picture – I loved riding my bike. I would seek out large, empty parking lots in which I could pedal for all I was worth. I was enthralled by the feeling of zooming through space with nothing between me and the air.

When I meditate and tune out the world, I can recall what it felt like to run. The synapses fire and little smatterings of memories return. I’m once again a little girl in sneakers aware of nothing but my body’s forward motion and the emotional thrill it brings.

Sometimes I’ll even remember the long-lost joy of climbing trees. Once again, I’m straining with all my might to reach an overhead branch. My shoulders feel like they will pull from their sockets. Then I’m 20 feet above the ground in a maple tree that feels like the top of Everest. It’s a rush of joy, fear, and sheer power. It feels as if anything is possible.

To be clear, I don’t miss physical activity because I see myself as somehow broken or because it would make my life more meaningful. I simply want, from time to time, to get off the hamster wheel of mental rumination. I want to move without thinking.

I want to simply feel.

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