Blind anxiety

I don't recall ever being asked about my attributes, my interests, my aspirations. The program for a blind life was dictated to me. Through all this I kept silent, not knowing how I was going to cope. I was 13.

That's when it really began; the anxiety.

Adults were very encouraging, telling me I was brave. It was a sharp turn from being considered an impish little smart arse.

I learnt to sprout a diatribe that would get me through when I was cornered. Pressed for answers: 'How did you go blind?' How do I answer that? There are times when I just don't want to drag myself through all those painful emotions. The coma, the shock. Just too painful.

Blindness and anxiety isn't a great cocktail. Once I got the two confused. Nowadays it's easier; I know how to separate them. Blindness I can manage but I admit that anxiety can screw me up. It's then that I need time on my own. Time to rebuild self esteem. I can be comfortably blind by myself and do all the usual blind-isms: systematic searching with my hands, stopping when I'm disorientated, thinking my way out of it.

At school, anxiety gave way to abandonment. No one's fault.

People rallied. Everyone was compassionate but they had their able-bodied adolescence to be busy with. As teenagers they were evolving capacities of physical mobility, whereas I had to learn about idleness and how to be still. Slowly adjusting to the lower revs of blindness. My body was programmed for running and jumping and didn't want stillness. When movement failed me I took to repetitive, obsessive behaviour — counting the keys on my brailler, even chewing the inside of my mouth. Anything but stillness.

Guys ran past in the playground, yelling out to each other. Then gone. I called out to a fella. He stopped and said, 'What?'

I had nothing to say.

Calling out was instinctive, but he was off to play a game I was no longer part of. I just felt I could no longer count on friendship.

Inside I ached for it.

Me; the lame creature; the person who had the misfortune to be blinded.

It's not a complaint; I do enjoy my life.

I don't want to complain, but I do want to be honest with myself.

Then I'll gag emotionally in social situations. Anxious again.