what you don't know

Bile rises in my throat, threatening to drown out the plastic smile I have plastered on my face.
What is wrong with them?
Do they not know they are talking about a real person, with the same thoughts, wants, wishes, and dreams as the rest?
Is dignity such a precious thing that so many must be denied it?
But I do not make a sound, I do not look in their direction. I keep my smile on and keep my eyes drifting aimlessly about.
They are not talking about me, but they might as well be reciting my list before my face.
Feeding
Bathing
Bathroom
O you can read those words and move on with your life, but you are not among the Specials.
You have never had to have someone else do those things for you, costing you every ounce of dignity and pride you ever had, forcing your face into your worst weakness, like a trainer pushes a puppy’s nose into its pee.
“As a dog returns to his vomit, so a wicked man returns to his ways.”
Except I’m not wicked.
And even if I had the wickedest of hearts, I have never been able to hurt a fly.
All I do every single day is lie in this chair and stare.
I cannot walk. I cannot talk. I cannot move.
But I can think.
No one else has ever realized this, but I can think and I can listen.
When they talk about me in front of my wandering, ever gazing eyes, when they discuss my treatments in front of my smiling, never flinching face, I can hear every word, and I understand.
‘Why do you not show yourself as responsive? Why do you not reveal that you understand?’ You wonder.
Don't pretend you know my pain.
Don’t pretend you know what it’s like to have someone else wash you, someone else share the knowledge of what every inch of you looks like uncovered and unclean.
You don’t, and that is the unbridgeable gap between us.
Don’t pretend you know the feeling of seeing the future laid out before you, and it is a future where you grow older and more defiled, and nothing ever changes because you do not change.
Don’t pretend you know my pain.
Feeding
I’d rather starve to death than accept another mouthful from a spoon held up to my unflickering lips. I’d rather starve to death than feel saliva and food dripping down my chin. I’d rather starve to death than see a napkin held by someone else’s hands come away from my face, dirty.
Bathing
I’d rather drown than be undressed and touched again. I’d rather drown than feel the familiar texture of a sponge, running over every surface of my body, letting me know that someone else is looking, someone else is feeling my skin making my body a communal project instead of something I own.
Bathroom
I’d rather die.
There is not much more I can say, without this becoming too graphic, but believe every word of it when I say I’d rather die. My mind goes a fiery blank, and then everything becomes screaming, because the places that are supposed to be mine alone are being handled by someone else, and I cannot say no, I cannot send them away, I must only smile and let my eyes wander.
Bile is rising higher and higher, as their talk restricts like a snake until I am the sole subject, squeezed helpless between their loving, kind talk.
And all I can do is smile my plastered smile, letting my eyes drift aimlessly around the room.