I admire people who speak openly about disability, but I’m afraid of being thrown in with the inspiration porn if I discuss mine. You would think that someone who publishes novels and has traveled around the globe for the past five years could at least tell a therapist about a condition that impacts every part of my life. He is required by law to keep my secrets.
I have to face it. I’m a coward.
I spent eight months talking dark family secrets and analyzing the symbolism in my writing before I mentioned to the man that I had a condition that affected my equilibrium. Ever since it developed in my twenties, I have insulated myself from talking about it by allowing people come up with their own explanations for what is wrong with me.
And I repeat the same tired lies about how I first started writing, because it’s much sexier than saying I didn’t want to go out in public with my cane and let people watch me drool.