I have a dear friend with a crippling disability: she is unable to move forward. Like a crab she can move side to side, moving backwards is second nature to her, but to the intrigue of many physical therapists, neuropsychologists, and other professionals who have examined her throughout the years, she cannot move forward. When asked to take a step she falters and invariably steps back, or to the side.

The odd nature of her disease has largely confined her to her mother’s apartment on 6th Avenue, where she maneuvers about easily, and without the distress that being looked at oddly by strangers begets. Her mother has grown so accustomed to her daughter’s odd way of functioning that to her it is nearly imperceptible.

A combination of the comfort of this living situation and my friend’s defeatist nature led her to stop seeking treatment several years ago. She insists the doctors were a superfluous waste of time and expenses; that she can make more progress on her own. She keeps the idea of “making progress on her own” close to her, like a child with their most adored stuffed animal, but it’s a fallacy. She has made no progress. She has only grown more comfortable with her condition, accepting it internally, while claiming outwardly that she is working towards correcting it.

The ailment began when she was a child, slowly festering in the dark recesses of her being, leaving imperceptible but significant marks on the complex inner workings that develop into our adult selves. Still she was a vibrant, bright and spunky kid, seemingly healthy and robust. Being that there was no early cause for alarm, the disease was allowed to grow uninterrupted. It began to express itself only after she embarked on that rite of passage into adulthood: college.