With enough hard work and persistence, we’re told, one can render any barrier nonexistent. Unless, of course, that barrier is your own body. No amount of perseverance will rid your brain of a tumor or cure your body of HIV. If you’re paralyzed, nothing you do will reconnect your nerves or allow you to walk again. You are forever someone else’s obstacle, doomed to be a burden.

I am only semi-paralyzed. I am not even a paraplegic, because I can move my legs and lower body. I cannot, however, regrow muscles in my legs or reconnect nerve endings. I am not asking for sympathy, and I hardly need a pity party. My situation is entirely my fault.

I attempted suicide as a freshman in high school. I doped up on a wide variety of painkillers and God knows what else, then leapt off a roof. I should have died on impact – or a few minutes later. Somehow I survived long enough to be rushed to the hospital. I shouldn’t have made it out of surgery, either, but I did.

I lived, but my doctors said I’d never be able to move my legs again, let alone walk. That was three years ago, and I’m able to walk with crutches. So I don’t think I have a right to complain.

The year following my injury was filled with depression, occasional prescription drug use, and a complete lack of effort in school. I barely made it to tenth grade. However, by the end of sophomore year I had actually found something that interested me: theater. I performed in various shows the following year. This was extremely exhausting and challenging, but I did it, with many adaptations made to accommodate me. The work that other people were forced to do on my behalf made me feel like a liability, and I considered quitting theater many times.

Having decided to stick with it, I tried out for “Of Mice and Men” and got the part of Candy. Rehearsals began, and I faced challenges, but nothing that I hadn’t managed in the past. When it was time to use the set, though, I was faced with a horrible dilemma. I couldn’t even get on it. The entire stage was a contraption, one that the other actors found difficult but that I found impossible.

When I brought it up with the set designer, he looked at me incredulously and asked why I wouldn’t be able to step up onto the stage. I don’t blame him for being shocked. The steps were no larger than average stairs, but I couldn’t manage them. I wasn’t so much upset I couldn’t get onto the set as I was that, yet again, adaptations would have to be made so that the cripple could participate.

Sure enough, the set crew was forced to build two ramps and a railing on one of the stairways for me. I felt horrible. I was a burden.

The week of dress rehearsals, I fell several times on stage. Each fall was another gash in my self-confidence. By opening night, I still hadn’t made it through the show without falling. I was absolutely terrified. Not only would I embarrass myself, but I would let everyone else down.

As the minutes ticked down, my stomach turned into a cluster of knots. I felt my legs weakening under me. There was no way I could go on stage. A mere ten minutes stood between me and total disaster. 

Before I knew it, I was walking up the ramp onto the stage. I managed to get through the first scene without incident. By the next scene, my confidence was growing. The show was going great, and I hadn’t fallen yet. When I went on stage again, I made it past the point that I had fallen every other time during rehearsals. From that point on, I wasn’t even thinking about falling. My only concerns were the concerns of my character. What had seemed like a nightmare was going as well as anyone could have dreamed, and I was playing a major role in making the show a success.

As I exited the stage after the show, I was stopped by an older woman I had never met. She asked me if she could give me a hug, and of course I consented. When she released me, she continued to hold onto my arm.

This woman was in tears. She kept thanking me. She told me what an inspiration I was to her and everybody else. She said that seeing me up there meant so much to her. By this point I was tearing up too, and then we were hugging and crying together.

And then she was gone. I have no idea who she was. All I know is that she made all the anxiety, all the pain, and all the guilt for the trouble I had put others through worth it. I had made an impact on someone; if I’d stopped trying and given up when my body became an obstacle, I would have missed out on an opportunity to make a difference.

While nothing can prevent me from needing others’ help, from that moment on I knew that I had my own special set of abilities that made me an asset, not a burden.