© 2018 Glow Rivera-Casanova

Tis Me, Glow.

So here’s the thing. Growing up I didn’t have someone to bitch to about my disability. I mean I did, it was just pointless because turns out, my mom, my assistant, and my therapist did not have Spinal Muscular Atrophy Type Two, so the whole gist of the complaint would be lost as they tried to interpret my words. I was taught that the quiet person in the back was always the most mysterious, and so I tend to keep to myself. That ends now. I have a lot of shit to say and no, you will not agree with me 75% of the time. If that turns out to be the case, you can just close your computer; unless you physically can’t in which case you can ask your assistant to close the computer for you. Regardless, this blog is not for you. It’s for the sixteen-year-old girl who is going through some teenage shit, and some disability shit. Thus, leaving her ambivalent to the idea that maybe one day both shits might be able to actually mix into one harmonious, shit. The answer to that… I’m still trying to figure out, but I’m leaning towards yes. 

 

There is nothing more frustrating than feeling like I constantly have to shift modes. Personally, that means I hover back and forth from “I’m a normal woman with a shoe fetish” mode, and “Oh crap, I’m disabled and the elevator at my apartment complex is broken” mode. I think this would be a good time to point out to those who are reading and speculating over the legitimacy of my personas by comparing them to their basic asses that they should go to someplace called El Carajo (feel free to look it up. I hear it’s lovely in the spring). What I’m trying to say is don’t compare yourself to me because I am here to tell my story through my eyes, and maybe, just maybe, paint a clearer picture of what a disabled woman sounds like, because God knows you haven’t taken the time to actually talk to one. 

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