disabled

 To ask the kid to go and play outside is like asking for a miracle. I'm trying to remember if I was so difficult and annoying and if yes, then I forgive my parents for losing their sh*t.  I'd lose it, too. But he's not my kid. So I openly don't care. That's at least what I keep telling him and myself whenever he uses BS word.

There are however moments where I can't keep my stoic voice and a poker face anymore, and this moment happened once again, when he was moaning and groaning about the idea of walking 20 min to the playground. "Come on, you can walk, you're not disabled" I said. His response froze my heart, I felt like a heavy hand grabbed my throat and the screaming silence filled the gap between me and the boy. I just stood there and dead-seriously asked him to repeat. He looked at me apologetically, he understood he crossed the line.

"I wish I was disabled!", he shouted, just like many times he said he'd like to die and his life's miserable. He's nine. I see in him so much of my own pain with this difference that I didn't have all he's got. And now, when I don't have two good feet anymore, his words stabbed me like million tiny needles that leave no mark but the pain goes directly to your nerves, quick and sharp, the pain you can't forget. What hurts the most is the fact that when I was younger, I said things like that, too. And the day before my accident I said I wanted to die. I got my lesson. But the boy.. what lesson can I have for him to teach him how to... live?

I went up to the toilet and shed a tear. Once again I wanted to give it up. Give it ALL up.