The cruel, naked truth about an invisible disability

Have you ever known someone suffering from an invisible disability? 

You know her. 

She’s walking along, amongst you, trying to fit in with your banter, with your fast paced rhythm. 

But inside, she has to work a bit harder to keep her grounding. If that’s even possible for her. 

She’s working on her disability first, so she might seem a bit slow. Or a bit on-the-back-foot. Or just plain not herself anymore.

She has to pay close attention to the rules. Those rules that she helped create!  

We all know someone like this. Whether we know it or not. 

Someone who is masking her true identity because it doesn't feel comfortable, doesn't fit in with all of the expectations and speed that come with her life. 

You know her. I’m that girl.

Recently, I had my leg taped by my physio therapist to burn new neural pathways. The idea was that if the tape could make my toes go in the right direction, it would become natural for them to stay put. 

What happened then? Why of course everyone kept asking “Did you do something to your foot?”

I had to stop myself from the shouty response “Of course I did, I had a stroke” (because that’s not considered polite) and start a bit more gentle with my explanation. (And indeed, sometimes I got that wrong, too.)

To the people who knew about my stroke, it left me feeling a bit dispirited. I don’t expect that everyone is eating, breathing my stroke (all the time, like I am forced to do) but surely they have a bit of sensitivity? 

Or don’t people know what suffering a stroke entails? 

I feel sorry for those unsuspecting people who fall down the rabbit hole with me, people who don’t know about my stroke and, perhaps, want to keep it that way. When those folks ask “Did you do something to your foot?” I am at a loss.

Because, of course, there is an easy, simple, uncomplicated way to answer. But I don’t. 

The naked truth of it is that I don’t feel the need to make excuses for my deficiencies. 

I am not ashamed of my stroke. In fact, at times we get along like a house on fire. But there are limits...

I will continue to wear the mask of the old Stacie, because it makes me feel better. For instance, putting in my contacts and applying mascara are all a part of my effort to grab the old Stacie and whisper ‘You’ve got this’. 

No, it’s not easy. Sometimes, it takes me a solid 20 minutes to put in those damn contacts. But, you know what? Each day, my brain is learning to re-jig itself, connecting those pathways. I have to give myself time.

But spelling off the top of my head? Forget it. Arithmetic on the fly. Don’t even ask. 

These can easily shatter the illusion that makes me, and you, feel comfortable.

I’m reminded of that particular someone who asked me how long I lived in Switzerland and he, in fact, was kind of sorry about it. Because, instead of answering his very straightforward question (I couldn’t) what he got was me twisting around myself in apologies. 

My ability to do the simplest of maths has all but vanished. 

‘I can do this’ was all I kept thinking. I knew that we had arrived there in 2005 and we left in 2017. Simple, right?

I was gobsmacked at my inability to do, what should have been, an effortless calculation. 

I finally had to admit to that unsuspecting man (who was just making conversation) that I had a stroke.

In polite societies, we’ve been conditioned to avoid certain subjects. My stroke, although it causes me not an ounce of embarrassment, falls into this category. 

So that easy, simple, uncomplicated way to answer…. 

What’s left besides honesty? I am not following the rules. I’m revealing much too much. And I don’t care.

I can’t have it both ways!

It puts you, as a friend or reader or someone I meet on the street, in an impossible position!  Even I fall prey to my own criticisms. Why does he walk so slowly? What’s wrong with him? 

I want you to see my best side. But I want you to note my vulnerabilities. 

Isn’t that just human? 

The bigger picture is clear. I suffered a stoke and on my way to becoming Stacie 2.0, there’s some work to do. I accept that. 

The veneer that you and everybody else sees, is just a facade, the put-together Stacie. What’s happening behind the scenes is me clawing like mad to cover my strokey behaviours. 

When in real life, why? I hope that you accept me just the way I am? 

This situation has forced me to come out of the privileged, almost jaded position I was in in life. It’s forced its will on me. 

I get up each and every day, hoping that I see progress. Sometimes I win the game. 

So, if you meet a polished, confident woman acting strangely, saying weird things or switching off, you’re seeing a momentary crack in my mask. 

Click here to read my motivational mantras and the three steps I practice every single day to overcome my invisible disability challengers.