The other day at work my co-worker asked me: “Do you take any pain killers?”

I shook my head. “No.” I said.

“Why not? Surely with your Cerebral Palsy, you should be able to?”

I shrug. “I don’t take anything but asprin. I don’t like losing control of myself. I don’t feel like living in a fog. ”

“But is it better to remain in pain?” I could tell she was sincerely concerned for me.

“It’s better to live with it rather than trying to put a band aid on it.” I said. “I have to be able to be aware.” I told her. “There are worse things in the world than living with a bit of soreness.”

“Did you take any tylonol today?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yes, it hasn’t kicked in yet.”

“I can tell,” she said. “You’re walking funny today.”

I wondered later about how things change.

Years ago, people didn’t notice my Cerebral Palsy. People were shocked when I told them I had it.

Now, they can see it. It’s as if it no longer wants to hide, no longer wants to keep hidden and is trying to show itself, to make itself known, whether I want it to or not.