Not Alone

I woke up squinting just as the sun was beginning to stream through my bedroom window. Still exhausted from a restless night of sleep, I rolled over and looked at my phone to realize that I had slept in later than I meant to. I sat up slowly and waited a moment to let my blood pressure rise before pulling my legs off of the bed, one at a time. After pausing another few seconds, I transferred into my wheelchair and headed to the shower, grabbing a towel on the way.

I opened my iPhone’s music library and scrolled through until I found an upbeat playlist. Turning up the volume, I set it on a ledge next to the shampoo, just out of the water’s reach, and turned on the shower. I aimed the water against the wall, waiting for it to warm up, and sat with my arms crossed and head lowered. Despite the uplifting music and rising steam that offered to lift my spirits, I couldn’t shake the heavy feeling that I had gone to sleep and woken up with. 

The last six months have been some of the most difficult I’ve lived since my injury. They’ve been full of firsts in the wheelchair, something that always tends to bring up grief for me. Since May, I moved out on my own, got a puppy, enrolled back in fall semester, and started dating more. Progress in these areas is worth celebration, but each came with major challenges that wouldn’t exist were I not paralyzed. I don’t want to have to worry about finding an accessible apartment building, or train a puppy from a wheelchair, and I don’t want to deal with the insecurities of having a disability in the context of a relationship.

As I sat in the shower with the warm water running over the back of my head and shoulders, my mind was filled with thoughts of wanting an easier life, a “normal” life. When will this stop being so difficult? When will I stop grieving? I shut off the water, and reached outside the shower curtain for my towel. I leaned forward to dry my legs off, and as I did so my feet slipped and I fell forward onto the wet bathroom floor. This is the second time I’ve fallen in a month, and I almost never fall.  

I grabbed my towel and pulled it under me before disentangling my legs from the footplate of the shower chair. Finally freed, I sat with my legs in front of me, sopping wet, with Lindsey Stirling’s “Crystallize” blaring from my now out-of-reach phone. I felt my face warm as I became overwhelmed by a combination of self-pity and disgust. There could have been no better image that represented how I felt about life at that moment, than a cold, dripping Carson, sitting naked and paralyzed on the bathroom floor. Filled with rage and pain, I leaned forward onto my elbows and sobbed. 

After a few minutes of trying to collect myself, I pushed my wheelchair out of the bathroom ahead of me, scooted across the carpet, and transferred up onto my bed. I dried myself off of the cold beads of water that clung to my goose-bumped skin, and began dressing while a stream of angry tears ran down my face. “This is pathetic," I thought over and over.

The last few months have brought me into such a turbulent emotional space that I’ve questioned whether or not I actually possess the resilience necessary to overcome my challenges. I’ve felt pushed to my absolute limit, and it’s been sobering and terrifying. I’ve found myself earnestly asking, “How can I make it through these challenges? How can I endure this pain?” 

Not knowing how, or perhaps not trusting my own strength, I’ve turned to others. My dear older brother received several texts a day for many weeks. Messages like,  “Braun, I’m reaching out, I’m struggling”, or “My heart feels so heavy, I don’t know if I can do this”, and sometimes, “I know you’re busy, but can I call you when you have a moment?” From giving me ideas to reduce my anxiety, to offering wise relationship advice, he made himself available to support me. Every time he messaged back, he reassured me that I was never a burden, asked questions to better understand the situation, and expressed love.

The night of the same day that I fell in the shower, I was supposed to meet up with two friends. When I expressed to them that I wasn’t feeling up to making the trip into Salt Lake, they insisted that they come to my apartment, sensing I needed support but not knowing what had transpired that day. I sat cross-legged under my softest blanket on the couch across from them as they listened with concern written on their faces. “You can talk about this as often as you need to”, was their response as I hesitated to share the struggles they’ve heard so many times.

Asking for help isn’t easy for me. It’s especially difficult when I have to ask for support more than once on the same issue, but the other option is that I fight my battles alone. I’ve realized that my response to “How can I make it through these challenges? How can I endure this pain?” is “I can’t on my own.” In my darkest moments, it is always another human being that reminds me that I’m loved, that I can make it through another day, or that I’m doing a good job with what life has given me. It is always another person that gives me hope, or reminds me that I still have what matters most in life. It has been humbling to realize that I’m not as strong as I thought I was, that there are some challenges that I can’t take on alone. But now I know that I don’t have to fight my battles by myself as long as I’m willing to reach out and ask for help.