Choose Rest

Choose rest. Choose getting sick. Choose a lifetime’s illness. Choose having to ask your family for help to survive. Choose a fucking big chasm between your life and the abled world. Choose walking sticks, wheelchairs, shower stools and heart rate monitors. Choose bad health, a shite immune system and minimal sickness benefits. Choose ever increasing costs of disability. Choose any home you can afford. Choose isolation. Choose always wearing pyjamas and a matching eye mask. Choose having to stay in bed for most of your life, surviving on whatever minimal PIP the fucking DWP admit you’re eligible for. Choose paying for at home care and wondering who the fuck you are on a Monday morning. Choose lying in bed watching mind-numbing, spirit crushing wellness content on your socials, pouring fucking electrolytes down your throat. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a darkened room, nothing more than an embarrassment to the entitled, fucked up ableist world that left you to suffer alone. Choose your future. Choose rest. But why would I want to do a thing like that?

A still from the film Trainspotting: looking down from above at a man's head and shoulders, wearing a yellow Tshirt, who is lying on a reddish carpet. Around his head are various items on the carpet, arranged like a crown around his head: a condom, a few syringe needles, a video, a cassette tape, a pill blister pack, and several loose pills of different colours.
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