Years of Frustration

I live two miles away from the Capitol. On Wednesday I’m going to the Capitol for Disability Day. To most people with disabilities, being at the Capitol is a big deal. To me, I live on the square. Representatives have probably seen me riding around the Capitol wondering who I was. The man in the electric wheelchair with vegetables and fruits hanging on the back of the wheelchair. Who is he? I’m living my dream now. My agent accepted my middle-grade manuscript. I’m writing my thirteenth manuscript. Two manuscripts are being submitted by my agent to publishers, but I still have to fight the government in order to live. My benefits are always denied every year; either I make too much or I don’t have a job. When some people look at me, they think I’m helpless. And you’re going to take away my benefits because I don’t fit the ideal mold. Every year I go through this process. It is sickening. The State labeled me as unemployable when I was eighteen. Therefore I shouldn’t have to work. That left an indelible mark on me wanting to prove the State wrong. The $900 a year was probably a disabled advocate’s figure to put people with disabilities to work and say they are paid, making the State look good. The mentally incompetent don’t care about money. They are just happy to work. I’m a rare gem needing to be left to pursue my career. I want to write and earn money without my benefits being threatened every year. That’s my wish.