What I Wish Able-Bodied People Knew (or at least understood) – A Cozy Cryptid’s Guide from the Cryptid’s Mind

Welcome back to The Crippled Cryptid, where disability, chronic illness, service dogs, and everyday sorcery gather under the same soft lamp like friendly ghosts trading stories.

If you’re new here: hi, I’m Sky.
Professional cryptid.
Unwilling amateur cyborg.
Medically interesting enough to make half my providers sigh when they open my chart. (Truthfully- I sigh too.)
I live in a haunted meat-suit with a questionable warranty.

If you’re returning: welcome home.

If you’re new here:
Welcome to the Lunatic Café. On today’s menu: something a little different.
A little bit of advocacy that I think even I needed to see.

Let’s talk about a truth most able-bodied people simply don’t get: being chronically ill and disabled is like having a secret superpower- one that doesn’t come with a cape, just a lot of dizzy spells, wobbly knees, and sometimes, really complicated medication schedules. And yes… sometimes a wheelchair.

Recently, my partner suggested I start using my wheelchair more. Something I hadn’t even considered until she said it, and definitely didn’t want to hear. Up until this point, it’s lived in our garage, quietly judging me, and I’ve been okay with my cane and rollator… but at 30, I didn’t want to hear that I need my wheelchair.

And honestly? She’s right.

Since my seizures on December 2nd (and again on the 12th at home), my balance has been… well, it’s like walking on jelly made of migraines, medication, and dizziness. I’m lucky to even be out of Bed Jail™ today and writing this post. The anti-seizure meds keep me seizure-free- so that’s a win- but they also make me wobbly, dizzy, and utterly lethargic. If not for Luna, the Yard Yeti, and M&M, I wouldn’t eat; I’d probably stay in bed and sleep.

Here’s a gentle PSA, wrapped in cryptid vibes:

1. We don’t “look” sick- but we are.

Chronic illness and disability aren’t costumes we wear; there’s no flashing neon sign. We might be smiling, chatting, or even hopping around on good days, but that doesn’t mean our bodies aren’t tired, sore, or misbehaving. Think of it like a dragon under a cozy cloak. We’re powerful, magical, and a little fragile- sometimes all at once.

2. Accessibility tools are literal life-changers.

Back-up cameras, grab bars, power steering, wide doors, sturdy handles—these are not luxury items. For someone with EDS, they’re the difference between independence and an ER visit.

Right now, I’m car shopping, and yes- a back-up camera is non-negotiable. I can’t twist around fully without risking injury, and these tools don’t just help- they keep me mobile, safe, and a little less terrified of every mundane task.

3. Wheelchairs and mobility aids aren’t “giving up.”

There’s a misconception that needing a wheelchair or cane means surrender. It doesn’t. It means strategy. It’s like a wizard picking the right spell for the moment. My wheelchair is not a sign of weakness; it’s a shield, a vehicle for freedom, a way to keep exploring the world even when my body says “nope.”

4. Seizures are sneaky little monsters.

People often ask, “Do you feel them coming?” Sometimes yes. Sometimes no. Sometimes they hit mid-sentence, mid-laugh, mid-cryptid-chaos. There’s no predictable pattern, and the aftermath can leave me dizzy, sore, or utterly drained. That’s why I move slowly, why Luna alerts me, why I might suddenly disappear from a room. It’s not dramatics- it’s survival.

5. Invisible helpers are magical familiars.

Service dogs, braces, ergonomic chairs, wheelchairs- they aren’t symbols of fragility. They are companions, guardians, and keys to the outside world. Luna alerts to seizures and migraines, nudges me to move or rest, and her sunflower gear gleams like little signals of hope.

Accessibility isn’t just convenience- it’s magic.

6. Being sick doesn’t erase our spark.

Just because we need support doesn’t mean we lose our magic. We’re still capable of love, laughter, creativity, and cozy cryptid mischief. Our magic may require a bit more patience, a little help, or a sturdy back-up camera- but it’s still very much ours.

7 Cozy Cryptid Truths About Life with EDS, Seizures, and Chronic Illness

1. Fatigue is a sneaky, shape-shifting monster.
   Even if I slept 12 hours, my muscles and joints can still feel like lead and my brain like fog. Fatigue doesn’t follow rules, and it doesn’t look like sleeping in- it can hit mid-conversation, mid-walk, or mid-bite of cookies.
2. Subluxations and dislocations aren’t always loud or obvious.
   EDS joints can pop, slide, or misalign with the slightest movement. I might brush it off with a grimace or a quiet groan, but it’s not invisible pain- it’s a warning. I’ve learned to respect my body’s whisper before it becomes a scream.
3. Seizures don’t come with a neon sign.
   They can be quick, subtle, or dramatic. I might wobble, blank out, or collapse, sometimes without any warning at all. Post-seizure recovery is unpredictable- it can leave me dizzy, sore, or confused for minutes… or hours.
4. Anti-seizure meds and other treatments have side effects that ripple through daily life.
   They may keep me safe from the seizures themselves, but they also make me dizzy, lethargic, nauseated, or migraine-prone. Being “technically safe” isn’t the same as feeling okay.
5. Mobility aids and service dogs are not props- they’re personal space and personal safety.
   Touching my wheelchair, cane, rollator, or service dog without permission is invasive and dangerous. It can trigger injury, startle a seizure-alert dog, or just make navigating my life much harder.

Staring is also harmful– please don’t treat accessibility as a spectacle. Think of it like approaching a magical creature: respect the boundaries, and you’ll be welcomed without chaos.

• Invisible illness doesn’t mean imaginary pain.
  Just because I walk, talk, or joke doesn’t mean my body isn’t in chaos. POTS, EDS, fibromyalgia, MCAS- they’re all stealthy mischief-makers, leaving bruises, fatigue, dizziness, or joint pain where no one can see them.
• We are still magical.
  Need support? Yes. Feeling fragile? Sometimes. But strength, creativity, humor, and cozy cryptid energy still shine through. Our “magic” isn’t less valid just because we use tools or take meds—it’s amplified by survival, resilience, and our little helpers like Luna.

So yes, friends: if you see me using a wheelchair, leaning on a cane, or giving Luna extra pats while I wobble around, don’t assume weakness. Think of it as a spell: one that keeps me safe, sane, and ready to face the world- even if it’s slowly, with a little help, and a lot of cryptid-level flair.

Remember: chronic illness is real. Accessibility matters. And we don’t need your pity. We need your curiosity, your understanding, and your willingness to see the strange, cozy magic of a body that insists on doing things its own way.

Unfortunately that it’s for now- hopefully I can escape from Bed Jail™ again soon.

© The Crippled Cryptid- Disability, honesty, and a little chaos. https://linktr.ee/skylanarissa

There is absolutely zero pressure to donate, but sharing or reading means the world to us. Support Sky’s Journey to Health and Mobility https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-skys-journey-to-health-and-mobility