Content Notes: This post references car accidents, seizures, medical trauma, grief, loss, and negative self talk related to body image.
Please take care of yourself while reading.
Welcome back to the Cryptid’s Den.
This is The Crippled Cryptid– a soft-lit corner of the internet where disability, chronic illness, service dogs, and everyday survival magic gather like familiar spirits who know when to sit quietly and when to laugh too loud.
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. I sigh too. Then I roll my eyes and ask for snacks.
I live in a haunted meat suit with a deeply suspicious warranty, spend a lot of time in bed jail, and am almost never alone thanks to my medical alert service dog, Luna– part guardian, part shadow, part “excuse me, Mama. Sit your ass down, right now.”
This space is about showing up for ourselves even when our bodies refuse to cooperate.
It’s about chronic illness without inspiration porn.
Disability without apologies.
Love without pretending it’s easy.
Returning cryptids: welcome home.
New cryptids: pull up a chair. The Den is big enough for all of us.
On today’s menu: 2026.
Let’s get this out of the way early. This is not a “new year, new me” post. You’ve seen that flavor of nonsense already, and frankly, 2026 is probably not going to change me all that much. If at all.
But I am human. Allegedly. Which means I have hopes. Dreams. A few cautiously guarded sparks of optimism wrapped in bubble wrap, sarcasm, and a frankly irresponsible amount of paper tape lately.
So, let’s talk about what I’m hoping for in the new year.
First and Foremost: A Car
If you’re new here, or if your brain has kindly blurred this detail, on October 22nd of this year I was in a car accident. I was turning left when my vehicle was struck, totaling it on the same day I was supposed to go to China Lights in Milwaukee with M&M and the Yard Yeti.
The plan was simple. Food bank. Gas. Home. Finish getting ready.
We almost brought Luna with us, the way we sometimes did when running errands. Because obviously, she is a task trained service dog. She is allowed to go with us wherever I want or need her to.
I thank every God out there that she was not with us that day.
We made it to the food bank.
We got our groceries.
We never made it to the gas station.
We didn’t even make it out of the intersection.
I got out of the car. M&M got out of the car… and then…
M&M hit the ground and had a seizure. The rest of the day is a blur, smeared edges and missing time. I’m not going to relive it here. I’ve written about it before, and I’ll link that post nearby for anyone who wants or needs more context.
What I will say is this: the months since losing our car have been brutal.
Uber has become a necessary evil for doctor’s appointments and food bank runs. Sometimes friends save the day. Sometimes they can’t. Sometimes that means our family goes without.
And sometimes Uber means harassment. Unsafe driving. Or the very real fear of being stranded.
You might get dropped off, but there’s no guarantee you’ll get home.
When you use a cane. Or a rollator. Or a wheelchair someone desperately wants you to use, like now, when M&M keeps gently reminding me that my mobility has gone downhill since the seizures and maybe the wheelchair isn’t the enemy. When accessibility equipment doesn’t fit. When drivers won’t let you put it in the trunk. When you’re disabled and alone and stuck.
That fear hits differently.
And that’s before we even touch the issue of service dog discrimination.
Some drivers refuse to pick us up when they see Luna. Others insist we need Uber Pet, which is illegal. Luna is a task trained medical alert service dog. Her vest is clear. Her behavior is textbook. The law is not ambiguous here.
Car shopping is its own special circle of hell when you’re disabled. I need a backup camera because EDS makes turning my neck and shoulders dangerous. Without one, I could seriously injure myself.
A car would mean independence.
It would mean groceries without delivery fees. It would mean quality produce. It would mean being able to pick up medications that cannot be delivered, including certain migraine meds classified as controlled substances.
It would mean Luna gets to the vet on time. Shots. Meds. Nail trims. Care.
For everyone’s sake, I hope 2026 gives us a car.
Luna’s Goals, Both Sacred and Silly
Luna, my sunflower clad shadow, has goals this year too.
First of all, a new set of gear. Because yes, she has a wardrobe. And backups matter when you work as much overtime as she does. Some people might see it as “dress up” but, Bean having a backup set of gear if something gets dirty or damaged is important, not only for her to continue doing her job but for both of our safety. -her gear is there as a tool to help her do her job.
Yes, we’ll continue practicing migraine alerts, seizure alerts, heart rate alerts, DPT, “find mama,” and all of her usual magic.
But we’re also adding new skills to her spellbook:
• Walking politely beside the rollator, on and off leash
• Walking politely beside the wheelchair, on and off leash
• Alerting beside the wheelchair
• Picking up dropped items
• Bringing meds and water
Task trained service dogs are allowed to be off leash in public when performing tasks. With the seizures becoming part of our new reality, it’s time Luna learns how to do her job off leash, especially if I’m going to keep M&M happy and actually use the wheelchair more. How this will work with Uber remains a mystery, but we’re nothing if not determined.
But Luna is not just a service dog. She is also a dog shaped joy generator.
So her non-work goals matter just as much:
• More park time and ball throwing
• More walks, even if I’m in a wheelchair
• More exploration that isn’t just public access work
• More car rides, fingers crossed
• More play, period
She isn’t just a service dog. She’s my partner, my safety net, my joy.
She’s also very loudly campaigning for more ChuckIt kick and fetch balls, which are apparently the greatest invention of our time. Frankly, pizza crusts, bed snuggles, and heated blanket privileges are not adequate compensation for dealing with my medical nonsense.
So, now she has her own Amazon Wishlist for anyone who might be interested.
The Garden, The Books, The Stories
I want to spend more time in the garden. Last year was rough. Weather. Health. Timing. Squash bugs. Bad plants from Home Depot. It felt like nothing grew.
I want a good garden year. Please.
The things that worked are invited back. The rest are politely uninvited. Loudly. You can see that chaos over in the Garden of Whimsy tab.
I want to read again.
This year stole whatever scraps of my love of reading were left. Seizures didn’t help. Neither did exhaustion. I love my Webtoons and silly comics, but I miss books. I want to finish at least thirteen in 2026. Old favorites. New discoveries. Comfort rereads. I’ll even write reviews here to keep myself accountable.
And maybe most tenderly, I want to learn how to write again.
When I was ten, I told M&M I wanted to be an author. Poetry came first. Then short stories. Then fantasy. Dragons. Witches. Realms that didn’t exist yet.
Mean girls stole my notebooks in middle school and read my words aloud. My health declined. A laptop fried itself and took a nearly finished novel with it.
I never found my way back to her. The girl who loved dragons and could write until her fingers wanted to fall off.
So, in 2026, I want to find her.
The girl who loved stories.
The writer who believed in dragons.
I know she’s still in there. She speaks folklore the way other people breathe.
She talks to you several times a week.
Learning How to Be Kinder to Myself
There’s another goal I didn’t quite know where to put, because it’s quiet and heavy and doesn’t fit neatly into a bullet list.
In 2026, I want to learn how to love myself again.
Or at least learn how to be kinder to myself.
There are moments when I look in the mirror alone and call my body a failure. I tell it that it failed me at thirty. At twenty. At twelve. At every age I’ve ever been.
I tell it to get its shit together.
And I want to stop doing that.
I want to practice self-care even on days I don’t like myself or my body very much. Especially on those days.
I want to keep using Finch, the little self-care app that’s helped me survive for the past four years. I want to start journaling, too. One journal I’ve been working on quietly for myself. Another I’ve been making for M&M. Christmas gifts that she’ll have by the time you all see this post.
I want to be accountable. Because if I only promise myself, I know I’ll disappear when I’m tired and say, “I’ll do it tomorrow.”
And tomorrow rarely comes for a spoonie who is always spoonless.
So, if you’re reading this, consider yourself part of that accountability.
Witnesses matter.
Health, Hope, and the Weight We Carry
I hope my health improves.
I hope we can finally remove the rest of the DRG. The leads. The metal. All of it.
I want MRIs again, a sentence I never thought I’d say. They make me claustrophobic. Sick. Dizzy. But I want answers. I hate not knowing.
I want to understand the seizures.
I want to stop waking up at night reliving the moment I opened my eyes to the basement ceiling. M&M panicked above me. The Yard Yeti hovering nearby. Luna sitting in the corner. All of them wondering if they were going to lose me.
I don’t want to scare them anymore.
And if we make it through all of that, maybe we talk about a puppy at the end of the year.
Maybe.
M&M and I play a game called Treat that lets you care for real shelter dogs and send them food and treats. A few of the dogs I’ve been caring for have already been adopted, and it makes my heart feel like it might burst.
Maybe someday one of them comes home with us.
For Bear
There’s one more presence I carry with me into 2026.
Bear.
My grumpy old man. My couch potato. My red and orange sweater-clad shadow. Brown eyes deep enough to drown in.
This house holds his absence loudly, along with my mom, my grandma, and my grandfather.
But Bear taught me how love can be steady. How it can show up every day. How it can nap beside you and still guard your heart.
Some love doesn’t leave. It just changes shape.
In 2026, I plan to make the place where we buried him beautiful. Wildflowers. Paving stones. Peace.
Because that’s what he gave me.
What he gave all of us.
He brought color back into our lives after Rex passed away, color he later taught Luna how to paint into our hearts.
He will never be forgotten.
What I’m Taking With Me
If I’m taking anything from Bed Jail™ into 2026, it’s the jokes. The laughter. The silly TikToks. The Yard Yeti checking on me if I disappear for too long.
I want more love.
I want growth.
I want my people happy and thriving.
The past five years have been hard.
It’s time things got better.
I may be a pessimist, but right now I’m choosing optimism. Even if it’s fragile.
Even if I’m still the Crippled Cryptid.
Maybe 2026 makes me a little less crippled.
Just enough for the zoo.
Or C2E2.
Or the Field Museum’s Pokémon exhibit.
Maybe a road trip. Texas. Winnipeg. Anywhere.
Because it’s been too long since we’ve done anything but survive in a house full of ghosts.
It’s time to live.
I just don’t know how yet.
And I’m hoping 2026 shows me that even if my body feels broken, there’s still so much living left to do.
What are you hoping for in 2026? And what are you taking with you?
Love you. Now say it back.
-Sky
© The Crippled Cryptid
Disability, honesty, and a little chaos.
If you’re here, you belong here.
If today was heavy, thank you for carrying it with me.
If you’re reading from Bed Jail™, give your service dog an extra scritch for me.
🔗 https://linktr.ee/skylanarissa
There’s never pressure to donate – reading, sharing, or simply staying is more than enough.
But if you’d like to support my ongoing journey toward health, stability, and mobility, you can do so here:
💜 https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-skys-journey-to-health-and-mobility
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