Pretty Wings

Finding agency and inner peace through trying something new

I have a truth to share —

Sometimes I fantasize about relishing in “able-bodied alone time” — not as much as I used to, but it creeps up when something in me needs tending to…

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In my fantasy, I take a hot bath (and engage in some sweet self-pleasure) while candles burn beside me. Then I wrap my naked, freshly-oiled skin in a beautiful silk robe, and sit on the floor, painting my toenails while sipping a delicious mocktail…And listening to some sexy R&B (preferably 70’s, 90’s)…obviously.

Simple pleasures, eh?

I guess sometimes simple pleasures aren’t so simple after all.

This past week I’ve been feeling…overwhelmed, irritable, frustrated, and mentally exhausted. Unable to say the things I need to say, and then feeling the consequences of it later, particularly in my care world with my caregivers. There’s always so much to communicate, and sometimes it’s just too much.

This Sunday was Free Ferry Day here on Madeline Island, and I thought I would take advantage of it by going on a little trip to the mainland alone, and then meet up with some friends to go see Wicked at the Bay Theatre in Ashland.

That morning, my caregiver and I were on a mission. We were cruising, I was going to make the 11:30 ferry boat. But then, the exhaustion of directing got the best of me.

I felt that little voice inside (you know the one) tell me, “make sure you tell her to push the brake in while she starts the car.” Otherwise, the engine doesn’t turn over and you’re just burning the battery.

But as I laid in bed recovering from bathroom “fun time” — nursing in my stage 4 hemorrhoids with an ice pack, grateful that I had just been graced with what I call a “perfect poop,” yet still exhausted — I didn’t relay the voice. And so the message stayed in my own head and drifted away, unheard and forgotten, like a message in a bottle.

We got dressed, I threw my makeup in my purse for last-minute ferry-ride activities, and we made it outside with time to spare. And then I realized…my car was dead.

When we finally got the ramp out and I rolled into the driver’s spot, my caregiver was hurriedly hooking my car up to hers to jump it. And she did it, much to her credit, in record time — even while dealing with my frantic ass.

I zoomed off, doing the same stressful passage so many Islanders have done — the race to make the boat.

I rolled through a quiet downtown La Pointe, and pulled up to a lonely ferry dock with no one in sight. I still drove all the way to the end, hoping I’d maybe see another boat headed my way, a miracle extra boat. No dice.

And so I opted to sit there and say “fuck” over and over again and bang on the steering wheel a couple times to really get it out of my system — a healthy expression of my anger, mostly at myself for not communicating the shit that I knew I should’ve said. And for my annoyance at how hard the whole thing is sometimes.

I had hit my boiling point.

The last week or two, it was like I couldn’t communicate enough. I was constantly feeling misunderstood. Utterly burnt out by all the directing that I have to do in my life. All the explaining. All the WORDS.

And so instead of communicating some things, I would keep them in, stuff them down — even though I knew they needed out. And of course, they’d inevitably resurface, mocking me with “I told you so’s.” I’d be left more frustrated, wondering, why I didn’t just say that out loud and avoid this whole situation?

Because I’m tired.

My exhaustion and frustration with disability life, and my particular needs for care, is sometimes louder than what I know I need. Sometimes I just don’t want to have to say all the things. I just want to do everything myself…

As I sat at the ferry landing, I realized that the disability burnout I was feeling, was now demanding more care from me.

This might not have been the day that I planned, but as I found myself softening into surrender, I looked at my dusty, somewhat cluttered altar, and I just started cleaning. It’s not something I normally do myself, (cleaning can be challenging as a quad with neck/shoulder issues) but it felt so good to remove everything, wipe it clean, and start fresh.

I wiped off the boxes of incense and the picture frames, put away the old tape and oracle cards from previous readings, and created a new arrangement of the things that bring ritual to my life.

I pulled new cards, and arranged them amidst the candles, offerings and mementos. I read my cards and journaled as to what they meant to me, then moved their meaning into my body.

And I did it all alone. In the quietude of my own inner knowing. It wasn’t the fantasy alone time that I sometimes dream of, it was better.

Because it was just me, as I am, honoring me by doing what I could do in that moment. It was what reached for me, in its usual unexpected ways, and it was exactly what I needed.

To embracing the unexpected…

Big love,

KP

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Hey Subscribers! — join us for my new and improved class:

Movement as Medicine *for disabled bodies, for EVERY BODY. — next MON 12/16/24 @ 6:00 pm CST on ZOOM.

Join me as we gather, journal, move, and chat about our experience together.

Think of this as your monthly dose of somatic and communal healing for living and blooming — FOR EVERY BODY

“There is no wrong way to have a body.”

-Glenn Marla

P.S. It’s recorded, so you don’t have to worry about missing a class. Yay!

Subscribe for class zoom link and password! This is a monthly class, so you’ll be paying only $11/month for a movement class, essays, and more.

So glad you’re here.

Big love,

KP