Saturday, April 2, 2016

Learning to Lament: Thoughts on Vision Loss

Public transportation has been hugely impactful on my ability to live an independent life. And for all it's imperfections and frustrations, I'm thankful for it. And friends, family, and loved ones have always "gone the extra mile" (pun TOTALLY intended) to help me get where I want to be. And they will never know the full depth of my gratitude for that.

Yet, for all of these blessings, there are moments when I feel trapped by my inability to drive. Trapped by this visual impairment. And my heart aches so deeply because of it.  The pain is suffocating. The pain that I can't be where I want to be, when I want to be there. My heart is so willing, but my eyes are unable.

Tonight is one of those nights.

I don't write this to invite you to a pity party.  I write this as a reminder to myself (and to anyone dealing with chronic setbacks) that no matter how independent I feel on my best days, there will always be, I think, a mourning for things that cannot be because of this disability.  And that's OK. It is called "Vision Loss", after all.

Too often, I get caught up in who I think I'm supposed to be, who society expects me to be, as a woman who is legally blind. I think I've been inherently taught that I need to be continually optimistic, because when I walk around Grand Rapids with my white cane, I'm the Face of Disability. And, heaven forbid that this face is marred by mascara-stained tears.

For the most part, I'm totally OK with pursuing that optimism. My very nature is one of sunny altruism, and I never want that to change.  I recognize that I am abundantly blessed, so that I may bless others. I've just started a job in my field, at an agency I love. I have amazing friends and family, and I am in a loving, committed relationship with the kindest man I have ever met. God has sustained me graciously and lovingly for 26 years, and I rejoice in all of that. I rejoice every single day.

Yet there is still vision loss. And, on nights like tonight, when all I want is to get in a car and drive to Ypsilanti to surprise my boyfriend, the profundity of that loss hits me like news of a death, and I am angry and saddened. It is a loss of spontaneity. A loss of complete autonomy. A loss, on some level, of dreams that I envision for my life, both now and in the future.

And so, I grieve.  I am learning that, on some level, I will always have moments of this grief. Seasons of my life will change, and so too, will the limitations. So too, will the lamentations.  I'm finally accepting this truth.

I believe that making peace with the pain, and allowing myself these authentic moments of sadness, can only increase my capacity to seek those authentic moments of joy.  And it is the search for this joy, and the hope for it, that makes all of this suffering worthwhile.


1 comment:

  1. "I think I've been inherently taught that I need to be continually optimistic, because when I walk around Grand Rapids with my white cane, I'm the Face of Disability. And, heaven forbid that this face is marred by mascara-stained tears."

    Very powerful. Thank you for writing.

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