Every single morning, I whisper sleepy sweet nothings to my man. After that, I rise with fire in my veins. I spend the entire day fighting against the disability that constantly tries to drag me down.
I push this stubborn, trembling body to its absolute breaking point. I lean hard against the bathroom counter while brushing my teeth. My legs shake as I take selfies for him in the mirror. I refuse to let weakness win. In the kitchen, I grip the edge of the counter. I make my espresso with gritted teeth. My knees threaten to snap back beneath me. I refuse to constantly sit in a wheelchair. I refuse to strap on those ugly, soul-crushing leg braces that would mark me as conquered.(Only HE is allowed to do that!).
A physical therapist once looked me dead in the eye. She suggested I stop relying on my mother to drive me to appointments. She calmly recommended I call a WHEELCHAIR VAN! It would pick me up and drop me off. She acted like I was some fragile invalid. The words barely left her mouth before I shut that shit down. I was not feeling it. The idea of being loaded and unloaded like cargo made my blood boil. The thought of sitting in a wheelchair instead of the seat of a car was infuriating. I told her no, thank you, and never went back. Now I get down onto the floor everyday and do my own exercises, No van needed. I refuse to give in. I refuse to let anyone reduce me to a scheduled pickup in a van built for surrender.
Life keeps trying to force me onto my ass. There is even a goddamn chair sitting right there in my shower like a permanent joke . Most days I have no choice but to sit under the hot water like a broken doll while it cascades over me. But the only time I truly get to stand—proud, naked, water streaming down my body—is when my man steps in behind me, his strong hands gripping my hips as he holds me upright so I can clean myself. I love the way he steadies me, the way his hard body presses against mine, keeping me vertical through pure possessive strength while steam fills the air. In those heated moments I feel rebelliously alive, even as my legs scream and tremble beneath me.
I face that humiliating chair and the endless war with gravity everyday. Yet, I reject every medical enhancement. I refuse every synthetic crutch and modern healthcare. I do not believe in any of it. If it is meant to be, it is meant to be. If sickness is coming for you, it will find you. It does not matter how many pills, injections, gene therapies, or experimental treatments they invent. All the advances in medicine are nothing more than dressed up as progress.
I will not be synthetically made better.
I refuse to be rebuilt, patched, upgraded, or artificially propped up like some defective machine.
Only the natural way.
Only the forever way.
And my hands? That is another story. For over fifteen years now, I have had the use of only my right hand. My left hand is dead weight, a silent traitor that sways useless at my side while I fight like hell. I have mastered one-handed shoe tying, buttoning, and zipping. I have learned to handle my personal hygiene with stubborn grace. However, some cooking (chopping, etc) and deep cleaning are still slow and frustrating for me. They are nowhere near as efficient as I demand of myself. I practice longer to get better physically. I refuse to accept the limitation. My ultimate goal is to do it all for my man. I want to cook his meals with these one-and-a-half hands. I want to deep clean our home until it shines, all for him. I want to serve HIM. I want to care for him. My broken body can still rise up and give him everything he deserves.
This is my daily mantra. It is my middle finger to disability and to weakness. It defies a world obsessed with comfort and “fixing” every imperfection. I choose to feel every tremor, every ache, every exhausting victory on my own raw terms. I lean on counters instead of rolling in chairs. I am held up by my lover’s grip instead of cold metal and plastic. I struggle one-handed. I am eager for the day when I can entirely care for the man I love.
In a society that worships ease and vulnerability, I stand as a living, breathing, unapologetic rebellion. My legs may shake and threaten to give out. My left hand may be useless dead weight. However, my spirit is lava. I will keep going every single day. I will keep whispering filthy sweet nothings into my man’s ear at night. I will keep fighting with everything I have left.
This is how I love.
This is how I fight.
This is how I remain fiercely, provocatively, alive.
Kat’s Musings 
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