Lacey Richcreek

I used to lie in bed at night and hope and pray for change. I never wanted a different body. The realization that my body would never be “normal” happened long ago. I grew to fall in love with it. I want someone else to fall in love with my body too.

I was not the only person with cerebral palsy. There were other people with cerebral palsy around, but I was the most mobile, most vocal, and most outgoing. I was very fortunate and had no surgeries or long hospital stays. However, I could not fit in with the people without cerebral palsy either. I used crutches, and with them I had a lot more possibilities. I was the only person around with a visible disability, and most people did not understand that I was cognitively on track or what accommodations I needed to be successful.

I was mobile enough to go to a Catholic elementary school. There they taught me I was cute. I remember walking, more like being carried, into my school, wondering if there was anyone “like me.” Disappointment changed to hopefulness when someone pointed out that the school only had sixty students total, and there will be other people like me somewhere else. Confusion wrapped my mind as I wondered why no one else looked like I did. Thankfully, I had a few older kids who helped me out, who taught me it was ok to be different, that just because I walked a bit differently does not make me any less valuable. I approached elementary school the way my parents taught me to – I was to work hard, and treat others with respect and kindness all the days of my life.

I noticed what kids at school were saying about me in school my sophomore year, about my body, their biases on my mental, physical, sexual, and emotional health. I started shutting off my school brain, so my grades were not great. They ignored me most of high school. Kids did not know any better than to ask why I was different. I was wondering the same thing. Of all the people I went to school with, why was I the only one who was different?

During this time, sometimes I sat alone in front of the mirror, wondering why people my age did not like me. What was so undesirable? What was so different? It is not the smile of my partially paralyzed face that sometimes folds in weird places. It’s not my bluish green eyes that can look like the sea. I wanted to know what they were seeing.

They are looking at the legs, the way the one twisted inward. The knees that are slightly misshapen. The ankles that constantly roll in on themselves. The butt that is slightly back. The skin that has cuts and bruises from falls. The spine that is slightly curved. The hair that is not neat. The ribs that are outlined. The stomach that is slightly bloated. The shoulders and elbows that are misplaced and sharpened. The voice that goes along with it that is crackled and jagged.

What I see in the mirror is something different, because those things do not matter, because it doesn’t make a person any less. I see a living and breathing person who had no business being alive. I remember what a gift it is to be alive. The problem is “being alive” does not cut it as teenagers, there must be some advantage to liking another person, either money, or looks, or some sort of magical thing that I could never figure out about teenagers liking other people. Perhaps my biggest fear was that I did not see a future where I could have a friend.

I never disliked my body. I am very annoyed with it, but it was never worth the energy to dislike it. Our bodies are the only thing on this earth that we carry around forever. Everything else in life can mold and change, but in order to survive, we all work with our bodies for the rest of our lives. I will have challenges with my body for the rest of my life, and those challenges will one day win. There will be a day where I can no longer stand up, or open my hands as I can now, but right now I have to learn to celebrate what I can. I, despite everything my body put me through, am healthy. My organs and skeletal systems learned how to adjust and roll with the punches my nervous symptom throws at me time and time again. I have to celebrate every step, breath, and movement I make because I will never get it back. There is never a contract for tomorrow.

Every single person on this earth must deal with their own physical limitations. The issues arise when people try to compare each other, saying stuff like “I hurt more than you.” or “I wish I was skinny like you.” My body was always considered “broken” but I am proud of myself for how hard I worked when I was younger to walk, talk, and move.

The world would be much more peaceful if each person would accept their own body for what it is, and stop criticizing other bodies, and instead learn to love them for who they are – human beings.

I wanted the pain to stop, though. It is all I ever knew – being uncomfortable. With cerebral palsy, I do not have a choice. I was in pain from when I was born, and will be until I die, and that is ok. It has to be. I accommodated. I did not like how hard I had to work just to stay in school. I never complained, ok sometimes I did, but I used my two feet every day since I learned to walk. The same two feet that ache and burn every single step I take. When I was younger, I used to count when my body was throbbing in pain. I counted to ten, then back down, and I promised myself when I hit one, the pain would stop. I quickly became tired of constantly lying to myself. So I spun tales in my mind going all over the world, never leaving my bed. I dreamed up worlds, where I could travel freely, where I fell in love, where I was could do anything I wanted. I reminisced about old friends; I was worried about abstract things; I let my imagination run free. It made me forget I was in pain, and how people outside my bubble treated me because of my body.

There are other distractions I used to cope with body image and pain, writing the stories in my mind, painting pictures, and making music. These outlets force me to focus on making one thing epic and forget about everything else for a moment. Art does not care about my skills or mobility, it forces me to be innovative to create what I want to.

Growing up with cerebral palsy, I had to learn at an early age what was going on. In doctors’ offices, I wanted to know why I was wearing braces. In school, I had to tell teachers what I needed, what would best help me in the classroom. I had aides with me until I was a senior in high school, because I could not write or carry anything. I had adults help me do most things; however, I felt isolated among my peers. Eventually, therapists stepped in and asked me to take better care of myself. These interactions happened during recesses and study halls, so once again, I was limited in interacting with peers. Not only was I talking to more adults than most kids, but I was also doing it at crucial times in most kids’ days. However, it always kind of worked because I injured myself during recess by playing too rough and I did nothing productive during study hall.

COVID hit. I finished high school, and I never looked back. I tried making friends on the internet and through the church directory with some success. I found friends among adults who went to church with our family, as well as people in the community who watched me grow up. With my newfound acquaintances, life was better, but still questionable. I could not see a life outside of my house, or with anyone besides adults as friends. Few people knew where to set the bar for my success because I feared no one would give me a chance in the real world, so I would be stuck in this rut forever.

My health was rocky. My stomach was annoying me, and my body ached. Chronic pain had grabbed me, and I could barely get out of bed. I was failing college, jobless, lonely, hopeless, anxious, and depressed. I did not eat more than a few bites at a time. I could not sleep even though I was exhausted. Even if someone called and wanted to do something, I declined. I was so scared of becoming ill that I could not see how ill I was.

Then one day my world changed. It was like the spark deep inside me finally had the courage to burn. I found a summer internship at a local nursing home. Because of my depression, I was not looking forward to working 4 days a week. I had the weekends to recoup. My thoughts ran leading up to my first day, wondering if I could do it. I told myself that the worst thing that could happen was they would tell me I could not work there. I walked in. An old lady looked up at me from her chair and said, “Hi, sweetie.” My heart melted for the first time in years. I was hooked!

Medical issues did not scare me like they did my parent’s or sister. I have been around medical issues my whole life, from being in the weird gap of having a crap body but being healthy for having cerebral palsy. I understood how I would like to be treated when my body fails me.

The summer internship went better than anyone ever expected, and shortly thereafter, they hired me. Slowly, they have given me more and more responsibilities. I am now partly in charge of the activities department, filling out paperwork and working every day that I am not at college.

I am loved by most everyone there. They broke something hard in me, the walls I placed so many years ago to protect myself from being lonely. I lied to myself, telling myself I did not need anyone, then I found people who I needed more than they needed me. I pierced their hearts by promising that they will never be alone, and they pierced mine by making me feel something.

They knew the moment I got there I would do anything I could do to make them happy. I was someone to talk to, laugh with, cry on, do an art project with, pass ice cream, paint, sing, and hold hands. For the first time in my life, I was caring for people, like other people had cared for me. Immediately, my mental health became clearer. I could never make connections with my peers, but that no longer matters, because having these connections I have made is so much greater than any party would have ever given me. My confidence improved significantly. I was more willing to try new things and talk to new people.

My stomach pains disappeared, and my walking abilities have slowly improved. I experimented with walking without my crutches, and let’s just say I will use them for a little while more. For a moment in my life from June until October, I had the best few months of my life. Everything finally fit together. I have a lot of growing left to do. However, it’s amazing how much being cared for can change your entire perspective on life.

Life will change. I am now working part time and going to college with better grades than I ever earned in school. I found that just because a few people treated me poorly, it does not mean everyone will. My life is not a fairytale. I am still looking for people closer in age to be around. Here is to continuing growing and celebrating every human being with love, respect, and acceptance.