Children yelling and racing through the yard. The smell of fresh cut grass. Teenagers singing happy birthday and cutting the cake. A girl approaches my perch on one of the picnic tables. “Hey Joslin, do you want me to pop that big fat zit on your nose? After all, you wouldn't want to be seen in public with that now would you?” The party that seemed fun and playful dissolves from my eyes, and all I can see is the people watching me be humiliated and staying silent. The brand of the sun turns into a brilliant red dye of embarrassment covering my face. I stand up and walk inside. The stunned silence fades and the party returns to full volume. I was nine years old when it first appeared. I greeted the day and shuffled into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Bright red splotches littered my face, like the trash beside the road before community clean up. I run to my mother, my predicament obvious. She tells me acne is normal, everyone gets it. The next several months though, it becomes more than a common cold, but rather a fever, and then a cancerous tumor spreading across my body. My face begins to swell up and turn red and puffy on a daily basis. I look in the mirror and all I see is blow fish cheeks, and they never deflate. I'm twelve years old. My parents finally have to accept that this isn't just acne, but puberty on steroids. We go to the doctor. Twelve bottles of topical creams, pill bottles, and a dairy free diet later, they tell me I'll get better. But the pockets of pus won't leave when the radiation of medication hits them. The first day of high school comes, and I'm embarrassed to leave the car. My face is just as puffy as before, only now, scars litter the battlefield where my clear face cells once fought and sacrificed their lives over the years. I slathered cover up all over my face hoping no one could tell the truth. Inevitably though, someone would see through the camouflage and blurt out, “What's wrong with your face?” As the stresses of trying to make new friends, selling my horse, my siblings leaving for college, and my parents' separation built up, my face released it through acne, not yoga. In a culture where value is calculated based on appearance, my stocks were at the level of the Great Depression. On the plus side, figuring out who my true friends were was easy. Compared to other kids who struggled with frenemies; I had only to find people who were willing to sit by me. My Sophomore year, however, the grin-and-bear-it method began to dissolve. I walked by a flyer advertising for Cheerleading tryouts. As a Freshman I had seen the same exact flyer Mrs. Dvorak recycled year after year. I'd let my mind take a brief flight of fancy of what it would be like to be a Cheerleader. Yet the poster said applicants were partially judged on appearance, and with a face that had only marginally improved since I was 12 years old, that placed me firmly out of the running in my mind. As a fifteen year old girl though, I was ready to challenge what society dictated was appropriate for someone who looked like me. I tried out. And that Friday, teeth chattering and knees knocking, I scurried out into the parking lot. I expected the opening words to be “I'm sorry, however…”, but instead they were “Congratulations!” I worked as hard as I could to be the best cheerleader because I felt I had to prove I was worthy of the honor. I continued to hide my face when I washed my hands in front of the mirror, but I also chose to put a hold on the cover up. After all, it was my face. If I didn't care, who had the right to? Slowly I became friends with the other cheerleaders. Girls whose faces were as smooth as models. For them an acne problem was one zit in a whole month. I felt sure that they secretly found me ugly. Finally I asked one of the girls why they were friends with me. They told me that after years of people seeking their friendship solely for their physical attraction, friendship felt tainted. No one appreciated them as a friend, but rather only as a status symbol to be seen with in school. My friendship though, was more about personality than appearance. Acne forced me to find intrinsic value within myself. I wasn't traditionally beautiful, so I cultivated my humor and intelligence. Without experiencing this dermatological condition I might never have gone beyond my surface stock market value to polish my personality. Acne helped me build a self esteem that would last longer than a smooth complexion because it was based on my intrinsic worth and uniqueness, not what I looked like as a person. Some days I still struggle to look eye to eye with my reflection, and whenever someone mentions my acne, even as a compliment, I feel hurt. I never want people to see me as an object to admire or be disgusted with. I am a person with character who may suffer from acne, but I do not let it define me. I am a person with dreams and goals who twice a day washes my face with special medications.

In my naivety, I believed that I had complete control over every aspect of my life; I had my dreams and aspirations just within my grasp. I've heard time and time again that things can change in the blink of an eye, but I never imagined I'd experience it quite so literally. On July 1, 2016, I had awoken after a fairly normal night of sleep with a tingling, burning sensation throughout my arms and neck. I got out of bed and brought my complaints to my mom, which she shrugged off, suggesting that I had slept in an odd position. I agreed and decided to go downstairs and pay my brother a visit; but he was still asleep and I didn't want to bother him. The condition of my arms continued, so I laid on the nearby couch hoping that I would soon feel better. In a matter of twenty minutes, my body began to shut down. I lost the ability to move my arms and legs and breathing became increasingly difficult. While laying in the ambulance, I watched my house grow smaller in the distance and I knew my life would never be the same.In the days that followed, I was diagnosed with a spinal cord injury that had resulted in paralysis from the neck down; and unfortunately, I remain in the same condition today. At the time of the injury, I was 18 years old, freshly graduated from high school, and excited about starting college. In today's world, limitations are just a part of everyday life. While some like myself, are affected physically, others are affected in a plethora of ways. When plans are disturbed by an unforeseen obstacle, there are usually two choices—fight or flight. I realized I could give up my aspirations and dreams, or I could accept the situation and adapt. Albert Einstein said, “Once we accept our limits, we go beyond them.” Through this long process, I've recognized that success is just a matter of my desire to push through boundaries and achieve goals. In addition to my physical limitations, one challenge I've also been dealing with depression. While left to my own thoughts, finding out that I was immobile made me feel less than human. I truly believed that I had no value and my future was in a bed; I soon realized the only thing that confined me was my mindset. I have a newfound respect for my upbringing. In my darkness, I had forgotten what hope was. However, I believe growing up in a religious household gave me something to grasp in my trials and tribulations--my faith. Along with depression, my anxiety became unbearable. I dreaded visits from friends and being out in public wasn't an option for me. I wasn't comfortable with people staring and getting around was stressful, especially trying to fit behind tables and through doorways. Individuals with disabilities are less likely to feel normal in today's society. Even still; I do my best to stay positive and do things that I enjoy so I don't focus on the difficult parts of my situation. As long as I can remember, I have used my sense of humor to cope. Dealing with my disability made it hard for me to remember what being happy was like. Through the of support from my large family, I learned how to laugh again. As a resident in the state of Georgia, my family and I have faced numerous issues with nursing agencies. For instance, trying to find stable help with personalities that blended with my family. We had often been left without care but our church community and friends have helped tremendously to fill this space of “need” and assist my mother in taking care of me. Through the unpredictable nature of my medical care, I had to learn to be my own advocate. Constantly relying on people caused me to believe that I didn't have a choice in anything. I was never a confrontational person and in many cases, I let others take advantage of me. Eventually I found solace in the fact that I have a say in my body, my care, and my feelings take priority. I confronted my fears and stood up for my beliefs. I regained power through my words. I found a voice that I thought was gone. Anxiety and depression isn't something that should be faced alone, so I want to dedicate my time to helping others who felt the same way I did. I am extremely passionate about furthering my education and giving others a sense of hope and belonging. That being said, I would love to be a psychologist who specializes in working with people with disabilities. Having experienced these difficulties myself, I might better empathize with them than others would. A disability might seem like a setback to some, but in my opinion it is a reflection of whether a person has the strength, resilience and will to persevere through their circumstances. I'm persistent and unwilling to accept anything less than success. Giving up is not an option. Despite all of the hardships I endure and continue to endure, I refuse to accept that having a disability stops one from living a fulfilling life and I know I'm on my own path to making my dreams a reality.

I lay on the hardwood floor, propping my chin up with my fists. I had crawled over to the hallway's sliver of light shining beneath the door. The shaft of light illuminated the worn cover. Edges were scuffed, pages were torn, this book had been bought used at a garage sale for a dollar. Helen Keller's "The Story of My Life" invited me to explore its truth. Little did I know this long deceased, blind, deaf girl would teach me, able-bodied and blessed, how to truly see. Helen Keller, the daughter of a Confederate general, stricken with blindness and deafness before the age of two, struggling, and then succeeding at shattering the blackness that engulfed her. Then me, born a century later. Living in the age of convenience and technology with impeccable sight and hearing, yet in a blackness of my own. Two women, both blinded, seemingly worlds apart. I found a friend in Helen Keller. I poured over her words, I had felt a glimpse of the light she found, and I wanted it for myself. I now followed along, book in hand, illuminating my way like a flashlight. A decade ago is when my light turned off. I grappled along walls, trying to find the switch, but to no avail. I have an older brother Colby. My parents adopted him before I was born. His birth mother also lived in the dark and tried to remedy that with drugs. Colby, to no fault of his own, was born with fetal alcohol syndrome, addicted to the liquor. The toxins had warped his developing brain, and he was left to become a toxin to those around him. When I was eight the unthinkable happened. Colby entered and left my room in the dead of night, leaving behind a broken girl and a list of threats. It severed my trust with men and it isolated me from the rest of humanity. I was left alone, searching for a match in a wet, inky world. I searched and pried Helen for an answer, turning page after page looking for the source of her light. I found it on page 97. “I remember that I was sorry for them. I felt vaguely that they could not be good even if they wished to, because no one seemed willing to help them or give them a fair chance. Even now I cannot find it in my heart to condemn them utterly. There are moments when I feel that the Shylocks, the Judases, and even the Devil, are broken spokes in the great wheel of good which shall in due time be made whole” (97). Forgiveness. That was the missing piece, the black shroud that dampened my life. I wrestled with it for a while. Logically I could understand Helen's argument but emotionally her empathy felt like a betrayal. How could she condone that type of behavior, that type of hurt? I had to detach myself from the situation. Had I been born in Colby's body, with Colby's chemistry and make up and experiences, who's to say I would not be floundering, struggling to stay afloat amid his crises. Condoning the wrongs committed was not the conclusion. Understanding and forgiving them was. “As time went on my thoughtless optimism was transmuted into that deeper faith that weighs the ugly facts of the world yet hopes for better things and keeps on working for them even in the face of defeat” (29). Forgiveness was not a switch. The light switch I had so desperately been grappling for did not exist. It took hours and days and weeks of feeling the emotions. Of allowing myself to immerse deep in the sorrow, to feel every last drop of trauma. To soak in it and let it pass. Of letting myself be angrier than I have ever been, fierce and on fire with emotion, and letting the blaze burn itself out. And finally, to let the soothing calm settle in. To exhale and feel the tenderness of my mother's hug, of my girlfriend's touch, my twin brother's smile. The light did not flicker on immediately. It came as a gradual glow over the horizon. Sometimes it grew so drowsily I worried it had stopped all together, that I was beginning to fall backwards. Even now a misty cloud may roll by, obscuring my sun, so I fall back on Helen's words: “Sometimes, it is true, a sense of isolation enfolds me like a cold mist and I sit alone and wait at life's shut gate. Beyond there is light, and music, and sweet companionship; but I may not enter…. So I try to make the light in others' eyes my sun, the music in others' ears my symphony, the smile on others' lips my happiness” (109). Works Cited Keller, Helen, et al. The Story of My Life: Helen Keller. Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1954.