othing is visibly “wrong” with me. I’ve heard that before, I will hear that again. What people don’t know is what is hidden on the inside. Inside of my body is copper grids, wires, and a battery pack. Few people have seen the evidence (save for the TSA agents completing my security check). Few people also know that I have Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy Syndrome. A nerve disorder that was misdiagnosed and mistreated so much that I nearly had my leg amputated.

I struggle with acknowledging that I “may” have a disability. It’s only pain, we all have pain, others have more pain. I have ways of adapting and managing my pain, all the typical thoughts. I struggled with disability identity when I was on crutches for a couple of years or used a wheelchair for long distances and was called the names that go along with those mobility aids.

My art is in response to the concept of something needing to be “wrong” with a person for them to be called disabled. It is in response to the deep desire to conform and hide so that elements of physical appearance can’t be pointed out. It is in response to the machine inside me that helped for so long, and will apparently, against my wishes, be with me for life.