Chronically Humored

Being disabled taught me who actually listens.

Not who says the right things.
Not who means well.

But who notices when you stop explaining yourself
and adjusts anyway.

I didn’t expect that lesson to be so quiet.

My health aide just casually served a whole holiday nail dissertation on my hands today.
At this point I’m convinced she needs to enroll in nail school so I can say I knew her before she was famous.

Because look at these little gift-wrapped masterpieces.

🎀💅✨

I swear half of us are just trying to find someone who can hug us without ruining our personal space bubble. 😭💛

Hold me… but also don’t.
You know the vibe.

Adulthood is wild. You’re tired, you’re trying your best, you want a snack, and somehow the day still expects things from you.

It’s wild how we all say “I’m fine” in the same tone that means “I have accepted chaos as my roommate.”

Chronic illness isn’t an attitude problem. It’s a biology problem. And no, drinking water doesn’t fix DNA.

I knew before I even checked my weather app. We are expecting 5-8 inches of snow today here in Northern Maine.

Who else can feel the weather?

If you read at a college level by 9, argued with teachers for fun, wrote your first existential poem in middle school, journaled like your life depended on it, dissociated through entire classes, learned to detect tension in a room faster than anyone, memorized everyone’s trauma, cracked jokes to hide the anxiety, hyper-fixated on weird niche topics, and still can’t rest without guilt…you’re mine.
Weird hobbies. Deep thoughts. Emotional subthreads. Welcome home. 🛋️🏡🫶

Some people journal. I simply tell the internet like a town crier with WiFi.