Robert Rudney
LOVERS LAME
from CHAPTER 1 (Booklocker.com, 2013)
Imagine feeling like you're half a person. Muscles constricted in your left arm and left leg, no real function in your left hand.
You constantly lead with your right, rely on your right to pour a glass of water, kick a ball, hit a computer key. Always compensating,
always trying to anticipate one step ahead.
And falling one step behind, always feeling awkward. Self-conscious and self-aware. Trying to hide what's absolutely
obvious. Even worse with the opposite sex. Talk about involuntary motion. Ka-zam, left hand in her face! Or almost. More likely,
I never utter a word, stuff my left hand in my pocket. Just stand and watch. Stand and watch.
I always saw myself as an 'observer.' Others participated, I observed. It was a great way to rationalize things for
everybody, except myself. After a while, it got tiring – and boring – and depressing.
Yes, depression, the flip side to disability. There, I've said the word: crip, crippled, gimp, handicapped, spazzed
out, REE-tard, LA-A-ame! I am it, The One, the Unique Hemi-Plegic Rock God! Rock On! What a Life!
And What a Deal! At no extra charge, a lifetime membership in the PWD Club. That's 'People With Disabilities.' Please
appreciate the politically correct 'people first' style. It's not 'disabled people,' or even worse 'handicapped people.' The PWD
Club is the one club that just about everyone eventually joins.
Please rest assured – this is not going to be another sermonizing activist screed. Nor will it be another "inspiring
tale" of a crip "overcoming tremendous obstacles" to achieve "heart-warming success in life." I am
not a poster child, and I am definitely not a role model. In fact, some of the biggest SOBs I ever met were people with disabilities.
What the hell am I getting at? I don't wager that my story is worth much, but It's a helluva way to get some things off my
chest. Chest is OK, last time I looked, one of the few parts of me that works according to warranty.
Anyway, have you ever tried to chat up a woman with half your bod doing its own thing? I don't recommend it. There's
something unsettling, unrefined, a surefire turn-off for the fair sex. And to think people get obsessed about the length of their noses.
Oh yeah, I've got one of those too. Heritage of the Chosen People. So I began life with two huge strikes against me. My God, Hitler
would have gassed me at least twice over just to make sure I wasn't around to pollute one of his buxom Madchen.
Now, I'm not the type of person who unbundles his feelings at the batting of a feminine eye. I've had to learn to let go of my
emotions. It's like that for many people with disabilities, especially men. Most guys tend to bottle up their feelings, and guys with
disabilities are even more emotionally constipated. We gravitate without thinking to a knee-jerk stoicism, ostensibly demonstrating
self-control, but really protecting ourselves against an unforgiving world. A lot of it is simply making pretend that we are 'normal,'
whatever 'normal' means. The tension, the strain between acting 'normally'and living 'abnormally' inevitably builds up inside of me.
I sublimate, I compensate. I want so desperately to fit in. But I can never quite act the part. People see the disability before they see
the person.
Then the impossible happened.
There was a woman.
Disability brought us together, and disability tore us apart. I'm still not sure what she felt, but she was the great love
of my life. Here's another reason why I'm writing. I'm still coming to terms with what happened. It all traveled so fast. She
broke down all the psychological barriers I had painstakingly raised to protect myself from disappointment and humiliation.
No longer was I the 'observer.' I was in the middle, actually dancing, no longer content to observe what was happening. It was
glorious. It was awful. I was no longer limping. My feet were not touching the ground.
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