For the next two weeks I was, for the most part, immobile. Nothing seemed to ease the pain and the swelling, the bruising (I was black and blue from my hip down, like nothing I had ever seen before) or the fear that I wouldn't be able to walk without a limp. Now I would have a double disability. Lucky me. I was incapable of taking care of myself and needed everyone around me to attend to even the most simple issues: feeding me, answering the telephone and showering. I told my parents that I was temporarily a "vegetable," not knowing if that was a politically correct label.
And then I felt a certain amount of guilt for never having had any compassion or understanding of any other type of disability than mental disabilities. I had pitied people with physical disabilities; I empathized with people who had mental disabilities. I thought about how I had always regarded people with physical disabilities - I looked down at them - and now I was embarrassed. Does one have to come this close to being physically impaired for life to understand the plight of another man or woman with a different type of disability? In my case, yes. I felt terrible shame.
I made the quick pronouncement to my therapist that I would prefer a mental disability to a physical disability any day, that not only the pain of the injury but the inability to have 100% of my mobility was worse than not being able to control my moods and feelings. What had I been complaining about for a decade to my psychiatrist? Some "ups and downs," some anxiety, some hallucinations? All of a sudden, I felt pathetic. My mental illness was a piece of cake compared to my physical disability (even if the latter was only going to be temporary).
For the first time in my life, while I was lying on the pavement in front of a l998 Infiniti with a smashed windshield, I was forced to imagine living my life as a disabled person. And the term "disabled" suddenly took on a brand new meaning. Disabled no longer meant mental impairment, it meant physical impairment - perhaps never walking again. And walking was something I had taken for granted - I'd taken it for granted only moments earlier when I pressed a button to walk across the street and innocently began making my way to the other side, until the driver's car struck my body. I had never endured bodily injury - my whole life was "brain centric." All I'd worried about was the balance of my brain: keeping even-keeled and stable. Now I was faced with an entirely differently aspect of "dysfunction," and I was scared to death.
I have had plenty of time to think during my recovery. It's been almost six months, and my doctors tell me that it'll be another few months until I'm feeling "better." We don't know what "better" means yet. Maybe I will limp. On the bright side, perhaps a slight limp will add some character to who I am. My point is that I've been bombarded with thoughts about being physically disabled, and I've finally come to the realization that it's not necessary to compare mental disabilities with physical disabilities and determine which are worse. Because neither are good. But I've been able to take it one step further. Any type of disability is a challenge, and had I never been able to walk again I would have learned to cope with living in a wheelchair in the same way I learned to cope with manic depression. And learning to cope with my mental illness is my greatest achievement ever.
All of us - challenged by either mental or physical disabilities - are equal. For the first time in my life, after having been involved in this accident, I can truly say that I am proud to be disabled. I'm a stronger human being for it, and my experiences are so much richer - enabling me to give that much more hope to my friends, family and readers.
Andy Behrman is the author of Electroboy: A Memoir of Mania, published by Random House. He maintains a website at www.electroboy.com.
