Yesterday, out of nowhere and just as I arrived at work, I was overcome by a rage so powerful that I had to sit in the car until I could breathe properly again.  Rage that I’ll never again feel really good about how I look; that I’ll never be able to jump out of bed and get on with my day; that not a day passes without people wondering what has happened to my leg; that every day for the rest of my life I’ll have to strap on half a stone of metal, foam and plastic; that I have to live with unbearable burning and fizzing right down to my non-existent foot which people seem to think is “all in the head”; that I have to take drugs about whose side effects I don’t even dare read; that one missed step is a fall; that so much disability access isn’t at all; that I have to ask busy colleagues to make me a cup of tea; that I have to ask people to carry things for me; that I can’t get anywhere fast enough; that there is nowhere to sit down in shops; that the disabled showers at the pool are at the end of a wet corridor; that I have to worry about how to give a powerpoint presentation on one leg without falling over; that it takes longer to dress my prosthetic and get it on right than it used to take me to get up and out of the house; that I have to ask people if their stairs have banisters before I visit; that staying at friends’ houses now seems just too difficult;  that people think that having a prosthetic leg that looks just like the other one will somehow make everything all right.

*Emil Cioran