My constant companion

This incessant, unabated fear is devastating me. With progress in my physical therapy and with the addition of more suitable pain medication, I am on my way to regaining my independence. Now I must free myself from the terror of being shoved, bumped, or worse... mugged or otherwise finding myself in a physical altercation while alone in public.

The world is interpreted by my body as such that every swinging handbag is a sledgehammer and every door handle is lined with razor blades. This city beyond my door is inhabited in my mind only by the selfish and inconsiderate. This conclusion I have made is based on my own experiences; during a fire in my apartment building, when my pain was at it's worst, no one helped me. Forty people stood around, or worse, looked on as I fell on the ground, pulled myself along the sidewalk and leaned against the tortuously stuccoed exterior of the apartment building. These are the people I held the elevator door for when I was well, or greeted as I did laundry or got the mail. Now, the only attention I received was a man who licked his lips and whispered to his friend without taking his eyes from me, as though he was preparing to 'get my number'. A few months later, there was an incident where a man at an Ironman press release fell onto me as I wheeled past the group he was shoving his way through. He blamed us for being in his way, of course. Just this week, a woman shoved me out of her way as she hastily exited the subway car with her $6 dollar coffee in hand.

My therapist said that I have to accept that this condition may be present for the rest of my life, and I have begun accepting it. The physical limitations I can live with. I never liked running, relaxing in hot-tubs, but most of all I hated high heeled shoes. I'll miss working on cars, but since the best car I'll ever own is already gone, it isn't hard to forego that hobby. One day I'll be better able to tolerate things like the heat from a toaster or the oven, and the cold sting of silverware and faucet handles. I'll never play in the snow again, nor will I go off-roading in the mid summer desert with my brothers. I can't imagine being able to care for a child, or even a dog or a cat (though I want a pet terribly). These things weigh on me, but they don't keep me locked in this apartment.

My pain is a serial killer roaming the environs of my central nervous system, hunting and waiting for an opportunity to invade my existence and shatter my contentment. Three days ago, I got an easily removable splinter from our kitchen cabinet, and couldn't use that that finger for days afterward. I nearly fainted as I gripped my hand, as though I were trying to stop blood loss from a non-existent wound. As I walk from place to place, listening to Jacob's description of web elements or events at work, I become distracted imagining a passerby stumbling into me, the elevator door I approach closing on me, or a dog on a leash nearby biting me. My fear is so strong, I tremble in a way completely unfamiliar to me. As a child in a schoolyard brawl, I was usually the first one in and the last one dragged out by the teachers. I loved contact sports, displaying my huge gashes and enormous bruises proudly to my mortified mother.

How can I sustain the desire to go outside when the once refreshing ocean breeze or warm summer sun tortures me? Who could socialize normally when a thoughtless mistake can so easily send you into excruciating despair? In a city with such a high murder and assault rate, without a personal mode of transportation, how could I go out comfortably on my own? This illness, aided by this city, is changing me into someone I never wanted to be.