My Fairytale Might Look Different, But I Still Want A Love Story

 I have many fears—falling. Losing my loved ones. Being forgotten. Another fear I have is being alone. I’m sure many people have that fear, but for people with disabilities it may be stronger.
I wonder a lot: Who could ever love me?
I have the fantasy of walking beautifully, of the scars on my legs fading, never falling down. I think that one day I will wake up and my hip pain will be gone, that one day someone will touch my shoulder or hip and I won’t flinch away from their touch.
That fantasy will never be a reality. I try my hardest not to be difficult, but my reality is this—it’s hard for me when people touch me. I have hypersensitivity. I keep thinking that one day someone putting their hand on my hip will feel nice, or someone putting his arm around my shoulder. But what I wish for and what CP demands are often two different things. 
I see older couples walking around and holding hands, and I always gush over it. But who will want to hold my hand if it means I might fall down. Who will be okay with steadying me for the rest of his life? I wouldn’t want any significant other I have to resent me. Will my husband be ashamed of having a wife with cerebral palsy? I don’t want anyone to settle for being with me. I want someone to marry me because he wants to, not because he feels obligated.
Who won’t think I’m ugly? The scars I have aren’t pretty. A lot of people admire legs. Not mine. My legs are scarred and deformed. I hate thinking of myself like that, but who wouldn’t see me that way? 
Not to mention the emotional scarring. Often I let people see me at my weakest because I don’t have a choice. I may seem intelligent, but deep down I don’t have a lot figured out. I am extremely insecure deep down. Is there anyone who can tolerate my insecurities and baggage? I don’t know. I’m still learning to live in a body that works against me. Who will believe that I can’t sense where my feet are in space? Many people who share my condition find that their mobility decreases when they reach their thirties because spasticity and tightness is hard on joints. Who will want to vow to spend the rest of his life with a woman who might not always be able to be independent?
My days change. Sometimes I’m okay and my legs are manageable, and sometimes the pain and spasticity makes me want to break down and cry. Who would ever put up with that? My physicality varies. Sometimes my balance is great and sometimes it’s awful. My CP is unpredictable. When people date, they take time to get to know their partner. Who will take the time to know my CP, too?
My surgery has changed a lot for me, but I will never be cured. My nerves and muscles will never work together the right way. I might be able to hide my CP sometimes, but it always manifests itself eventually. I will never be able to move my legs like everyone else. Whether my surgery lengthened my muscles or not, whether my femur is straight or not, cerebral palsy will always be a safety concern for me. 
I don’t want my significant other to automatically see cerebral palsy when he looks at me. I’ve never wanted to be defined by the one element of my life that makes me feel the most fragile. But if my partner ignores my CP, he is ignoring a part of me that will forever be in my life. Whether I always wish that my cerebral palsy was there or not, it doesn’t matter. I have to keep CP in the back of my mind to know my limits. I hope my loved one will understand that while I don’t want him to see me as my cerebral palsy, I hope he accepts my cerebral palsy, too.
I hope that I will be able to find a partner who loves me for all that I am. I hope that I will get married to the love of my life who won’t be bothered by all the challenges that living a life with me threatens to have. I just want to be loved, regardless of what I can or can’t do. I’ve gone through a lot and have baggage that no husband would expect. I’ve dreamed of a fairytale-type love story. I know that I’m not the typical girl in those stories, but maybe it can be different and still be beautiful anyway.

Why Stage Combat Is A Real Battle For Me

 In my theatre class, the pool noodle shook in my grip as I pointed it forward at my scene partner.

Take a step. Just with your right foot. Move the noodle, but not your hand. Bring it up, in an arc. Move backwards, but not too slow. Wait for her signal. Don’t overreact. 

All these thoughts and more cycled through my head as I tried to apply the instructions for stage combat. Remembering the instructions was the easy part—applying them was an entirely different story. 

When my theatre teacher had announced that we were going to start our stage combat unit, I almost immediately began to feel anxious about it. I had glanced around at my classmates, noticing that they all were excited and were planning their “attacks”—albeit fake. I tried to put the thought of stage combat out of my mind until the time actually came, knowing that worrying wouldn’t really do any good.

And today, that time came. I went into class feeling anxious—actually, scared is probably the more accurate word. I know that sounds stupid, seeing as how we were fake-fighting with pool noodles, but I also was aware of the fact that having cerebral palsy can complicate even some seemingly harmless activities.

After we finished watching the safety videos—which my eyes locked onto like my life depended on it, as I tried to absorb everything about stage combat that I could—my teacher made a beeline for me. She very considerately asked how I was feeling.

Ordinarily, I would have lied and said that I was feeling fine, but I figured there was no point. She had probably seen the look on my face. If there was any way she could help me, I had to be honest.

“Nervous,” I admitted, letting out my breath.

She nodded, seeming unsurprised by that, and said that as long as I was safe and that I learned something, nothing else really mattered.

I faced my scene partner, clutching the pool noodle so hard that my knuckles turned white. She smiled reassuringly, like stage combat was the easiest thing in the world.

I was tempted to tell her that she had no idea what she was in for.

“Do you want to be the victim or the aggressor?” she asked me calmly.

Feeling extremely incompetent, I stammered, “Um—um—the victim, I guess.” My teacher had told me that the victim has all of the control, and that sounded reassuring to me. I had no idea what I was doing, and I knew that no matter how much I wanted to cooperate, my scene partner’s patience was going to be tested.

When I agreed to be the victim, I didn’t realize that the victim had to perform a series of complicated movements. All the supposed “control” meant nothing because I couldn’t move the pool noodle the way I was supposed to. To my scene partner’s credit, she tried to coach me. I was supposed to move the noodle in an arc over my head, but my hand would twist the wrong way in the process. I had no control over my grip, and while I understood what I was supposed to do, I couldn’t make my hand do it. (In simple terms, my brain has trouble communicating with my legs and hands sometimes because of my CP. Most of the time, I find ways to work around those issues, but it’s not always something I can avoid.)

After we both realized that the role of the victim just was not going to work for me, I switched to the role of the aggressor. Having cerebral palsy means that sometimes you have to adapt. A lot of activities just aren’t designed for people with CP, so I have to learn to make things work for me.

All the aggressor has to do in stage combat is thrust the pool noodle forward. However, for the first several times, I accidentally pointed the noodle down instead of straight, and I couldn’t tell. Then it was time to add footwork, and I realized that I didn’t know how to move my feet and the pool noodle at the same time.

I know it sounds simple. My nerves and muscles don’t really work together very well, though, and that makes it hard for me to do two physical actions at the same time. Muscle memory helps, but I don’t have much coordination—even if the actions themselves are simple, put them together, and I get lost.

I kept reacting preemptively before my partner would even point the noodle in my direction. I knew that I wouldn’t get hurt even if she hit me with it. But sensory-wise, I have a startle reflex, which is kind of like a heightened instinct. My partner laughed gently and assured me that I would be fine as long as we maintained eye contact. I believed her, but the stage combat became very frustrating.

The teacher told the class that we could go faster. By themselves, I understood the movements for stage combat, but how to move was muddled in my head. Eventually, my partner and I just took things at our own pace.

Doing stage combat was scary. But what I learned is applicable to more than the stage. I can go beyond my limits and do something even if it scares me. Doing things my own way with cerebral palsy is difficult at times, but I learn to do things that challenge me, and how to adapt and persevere.

I may not have learned how to do stage combat very well, but what I did learn is much more valuable—I may have to go more slowly. I may have to adjust the way I learn. But my greatest strength is that I try, no matter what.