Are they an opportunity to rise to a challenge?

Are they set so that there is an inevitable failure?

Why do some find them empowering and some find themselves buried under a world of frustration?

Why is there such a difference between the expectations you have for yourself and that somebody has OF you…even though they come to the thing?

Can the expectations become their own limitations.

How many time do you not-quite meet expectations before you give up?

Is being realistic about expectations the same thing as buckling under the constant pressure.

Is there crippling weakness in admitting devastation or incredible strengh in finding the compulsion to start again.

Or both.

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I really do try to walk a fine between finding happiness in who I am now and that constant drive to not be THIS.

THIS is in a wheelchair.

THIS has to have someone to drive to even the simplest task.

THIS sees the constant deterioration of some thing with the improvement of others.

THIS has to remember that though this wasn’t what I wanted from life it’s better than what a lot of people have with two legs.

THIS has to keep being thankful when there are days the thanks seems harder to come by.

There is a place I fight to keep myself.  The place where I find enough in the person I’ve become.  The place where it is never enough and it keeps me working for more.

I fight for that place every day.

It’s hard.  It’s sucks.

But the day I find myself good enough, I’ll quit fighting.

And I lose.

The husband.

The kids.

The blogs.

The speaking.

The book.

The things that keep me up at night.

The stuff that wakes me from my sleep.

I think of the person that stared out of hospital windows.

That person who wondered if there’d ever be more.

There is.

There’s more.

I could be overwhelmed.

Instead I’m thankful.

I opened the door and welcomed a stranger into my house.

With my wheelchair. And my taped-up glasses. The arm that flops when it should flip.

The different me that isn’t the me that used to have guests.

The one that wants to hide behind the safety of the wood.

That person had a guest.

That person that IS me.

I had a guest.

I may be different, but inside I’m still in there.

Little by little, I’m coming out.

Slowly.

Carefully.

But, it’s happening.

I may always look different than I did, but it’s only on the outside.