Three Feet in My Shoes (author's name for it)

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I would not ask you to walk a mile in my shoes. That would be cruel. I do not ask you to understand. That would be impossible. I ask only that you imagine, briefly, what it might be like to be me, and to try to hold on to that feeling whenever you think negatively of my disease. To treat me as though I’m over-dramatic, faking it, milking it, or misrepresenting my state is far harder to bear than anything you’re about to read. 1 foot – Imagine you have a borderline genius IQ. You’re standing on a stage in front of a dozen good friends and 60 complete strangers, and all eyes are on you. You’ve just forgotten the word for “flashlight”. 72 people are watching you struggle. You’re gesturing, saying lightstick and torch. Many of them are laughing. One, and only one, tells you the word, and you move on. You can’t seem flustered or upset, you’re the MC. 2 feet – Imagine you’re at 7-11 buying a juice. Standing at the counter you suddenly feel the ground give way under you. You slam both hands down on the counter, trying to keep your feet, and scare the cashier. She comes within an inch of pressing the security button. You lift your head through the haze and spin and apologize, explaining that you’re having a vertigo attack. She shakes her head, not knowing the word, and makes another move toward the button. You try again, tell her you’re dizzy, you’re sick. She seems to understand that. You then have to explain that you’re unable to drive and will be sitting in your car until it passes. She gets it, but still looks nervously out the window at you for the next half hour. You sit there, trying not to vomit, and wondering when the cops are going to come and make you take a sobriety test. 3 feet – Imagine you get a new job. It’s exciting, it’s interesting, and you’re going to learn new skills. You get two days into training and manage to nail a maneuver that’s proving difficult for the other new hires. On day three you go for a routine physical and are told that your disease keeps you from having this job. You’re fired, more or less. Unemployed because of your body, when your skills and talents make you so perfect for the job. Imagine the other 5,277 feet. Imagine that’s one year. Imagine that you’re only 27. Imagine that you’re me. Imagine that I’m telling you it could be worse It’s not that bad You don’t look sick If you can drive home you can be at work Are you sure you’re not just pregnant? Maybe you’ll get over it I don’t think that’s really what you’ve got Imagine having heard all of those things before. Now….. Imagine ever saying them to me again. I found the Author!!! The Author of this is Angela Reddy!!! I thought that as many people as possible should read it!!! Please pass it on to others that you feel need to read it!!!