When chronic illness or disability mess with the image and expectations we have about and for ourselves, I figure we’ve earned a bit of delusion. I would not ever chose to know all that is actually happening to me, cognitively and physically, as I age and progress; I know enough, every day. There are enough changes, subtle and dramatic. How I have always defined myself is continually threatened; the reality is too stark to face.
David, my husband, says I’m sexy (I have to ask him first) but if I knew it for myself would I have to ask?
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