Content Note: This post discusses grief, death (including parental loss), medical trauma, disability stigma, and chronic illness. Please take care of yourself while reading.
Some parts of this story are heavy. Some parts are strange and a little funny. That’s the nature of survival.
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.
Occasional chronic illness and disability advocate.
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.”
If I’m brave enough to ignore that, she escalates to a very firm:
“Mumther, we are not debating your poor decision-making skills today.”
I am the bane of her existence. The reason why she is constantly contacting HR.
Then there’s M&M.
Best friend. Partner. Horror movie watching buddy.
The one who might either be hiding behind the blankets or yelling at the woman on screen to take off her heels and make a break for it.
Half the time we’re yelling at them about how loudly they’re breathing. Because of course the killer can hear you huffing and whining like you’ve just run a 10k marathon.
Because if you think there’s a serial killer in the kitchen, why are you yelling “hello?” like they’re going to answer you that they’re in the kitchen and ask if you want a sandwich?
Common sense, please.
This space is about showing up for ourselves even when our bodies refuse to cooperate.
Chronic illness without inspiration porn.
Disability without apologies.
Love without pretending it’s easy.
Returning cryptids: welcome home.
New cryptids: pull up a chair.
I promise we don’t bite.
Welcome to the Lunatic Cafe.
The Den is big enough for all of us.
On today’s menu: superstition, survival, & the strange comfort of being misunderstood on purpose.
Unlucky on Purpose
The last time a Friday the 13th landed in March was 2020.
A year that cracked the world open and showed us the wiring behind the walls.
A year of sirens and shutdowns.
Fear and grief.
Sourdough starters and the sudden realization that “normal” was a fragile illusion held together with vibes and denial.
For those of us born in the 90’s it probably felt like your average Tuesday.
We watched the Twin Towers fall on TV.
We lived through Y2K.
We were told every other year for as long as we can remember that the world was going to end.
But this was the first time in our lives that it actually seemed like it could really happen.
It was also the year The Crippled Cryptid was born.
Not out of superstition.
Out of survival.
Out of isolation. Chronic illness. Rage. Tenderness.
Out of the need to name what it feels like to live in a body the world already treats like an omen.
It was the year my mom died.
March 15th, 2020.
It was the year I fell down the stairs.
August 21st, 2020.
A lot changed that year.
I changed that year.
So, when 2026 rolls in carrying another March Friday the 13th, plus several more scattered through the year like teeth in the dark, it feels worth pausing.
Not to brace for bad luck.
But to look back at where we started, and forward at what it means to keep existing loudly in a world that still finds us unsettling.
There are a lot of Friday the 13ths in 2026.
The first was in February, which we celebrated the proper way: parked in the living room with meatballs, snacks, and alien movies with my little brother.
But it won’t be the last.
Enough that people will notice.
Enough that superstition blogs will sharpen their knives.
Enough that someone on TikTok will dramatically declare it “the year of the next plague” while knocking on every piece of wood within reach.
And honestly?
I kind of love that for us.
The Folklore of Fear
Friday the 13th has always been blamed for things it didn’t cause.
Accidents.
Mishaps.
Broken mirrors.
Missed buses.
Flare days.
Migraines.
Storms that roll in uninvited.
A convenient scapegoat when the world feels unpredictable and sharp around the edges.
Which is funny.
Because a lot of us already live there.
Disabled folks.
Chronically ill folks.
Neurodivergent folks.
We’re often treated like walking bad omens.
Too complicated.
Too fragile.
Too inconvenient.
Too much paperwork.
Too many accommodations.
Too many questions people don’t want to ask but judge us for anyway.
Unlucky.
So unlucky that there used to be rooms built into homes known as “disappointment rooms.”
Hidden spaces where disabled or disfigured family members were kept out of sight when guests visited, as if disability itself were something shameful that needed to be tucked away with the silverware.
I’m grateful we don’t live in those times anymore.
But the instinct to hide us never really disappeared.
Did it?
Historically, the number 13 wasn’t cursed.
It was powerful.
Sacred.
Feminine.
Lunar.
Thirteen moons.
Thirteen cycles.
Thirteen seats at ancient tables built for balance instead of hierarchy.
The fear came later.
As powerful things often do, it became suspicious.
Then dangerous.
Then something to warn people away from.
Sound familiar?
Disability has its own folklore.
Stories people tell themselves, so they don’t have to sit with discomfort.
That sickness is a moral failure.
That needing help is weakness.
That bodies that don’t cooperate must be tragic or inspirational, but never simply human.
We become the cautionary tale.
The bad luck charm.
The thing people lower their voices around.
First, it’s funny.
At first, I even enjoyed it. Watching people who were too uncomfortable quietly leave a room when I entered.
It felt powerful.
And then it became exhausting.
It’s something that I plan to talk about within the coming months because there was a time when people used to think that the disabled and chronically ill were changelings.
Because of course they couldn’t be human.
Not ours, they would say.
Not human. Not real.
When what they were really doing was looking for a way out.
A reason to explain themselves away.
A reason to justify cruel actions in a cruel world that they thought we didn’t belong in.
Actions that shouldn’t have been alright then, and definitely wouldn’t be okay now.
But that is a post for another day.
And believe me, it is coming.
Living in the Thirteenth Hour
A lot of disabled life exists in liminal space.
The in-between.
Not sick enough.
Too sick.
Not visible enough.
Too visible.
Capable one day.
Incapable the next.
Carefully planned spoons that vanish without warning.
If you know the quiet math of deciding whether a shower is worth the spoons it costs, you already understand this language.
Some of you are nodding because you live this too.
Others look away for the same reasons.
We already live at the edge of the map where monsters are drawn.
So, when Friday the 13th rolls around, I don’t see a curse.
I don’t see a reason to hide inside and wait for the smoke to clear.
I don’t see a day to pretend I don’t exist.
I see kinship.
A day that refuses neat narratives.
A day people side-eye and brace themselves for.
A day blamed simply because it’s easier than accepting that life is messy and bodies are not machines.
Friday the 13th doesn’t break things.
It just exists loudly.
And I find a certain beauty in that.
Some things don’t exist quietly.
And some things shouldn’t.
The ability and the right to take up space might be the most important lesson Friday the 13th has to offer.
Claiming the Unlucky
There is something quietly powerful about reclaiming what we were told to fear.
Bad omens.
Cane taps on tile floors.
Medical alert dogs in grocery aisles who refuse to let their humans pretend everything is fine.
Mobility aids gleaming under fluorescent lights.
Bodies that refuse to apologize for needing space.
Maybe 2026, with all its Friday the 13ths, is an invitation.
An invitation to stop trying to be lucky in the way the world defines it.
An invitation to stop chasing normal.
An invitation to honor survival instead of superstition.
I don’t need a four-leaf clover.
I need rest.
I need access.
I need compassion that isn’t conditional.
I need space for my body to not be like theirs.
The able-bodied.
The healthy.
And I swear, if I hear one more well-meaning suggestion about keto, all-meat diets, or yoga fixing me, I might lose my mind.
Logically, I know that they mean well.
But the damage is still there.
Irreparable. Frustrating.
No, Susan.
Yoga is not going to reassemble my connective tissue.
I wish it would.
I would do almost anything to feel better.
Fasting isn’t going to help me either.
Most of my medications tell you to take them with food.
The ones that don’t warn you they could cause nausea and stomach upset.
On top of that I’m chronically dehydrated.
The last thing we need to add to the mix is a lack of food and water when Keppra already steals whatever appetite I might have started the day with.
I’m not saying I go around eating junk food, because I don’t.
Half the dyes and fillers make me sick anyway.
Taking away what little I do eat sounds counterproductive and asinine.
And if that makes me a cryptid?
Good.
Cryptids survive by staying real, in a world that pretends not to believe in them.
But notice how people still don’t whistle outside after dark in the mountains.
What does that tell you?
A Proper Friday the 13th
This Friday the 13th will be a quieter one.
The back-and-forth weather this week has been kicking my ass, so you can probably find me wearing black and orange Friday the 13th pajama pants, a Pink Floyd hoodie, and curled up either in bed or on the couch.
Either way, the heated blanket will be wherever I am.
And so will my fuzzy socks.
I think this might finally be the day M&M and I sit down and watch the Friday the 13th movies.
Peacock is supposed to be releasing Camp Crystal Lake later this year, a prequel telling the story of Jason and his mother. Personally, I’m thrilled, and I cannot wait.
And what kind of cryptid would I be if I let her go into the story blind?
Will there be popcorn?
Yes.
Will there be sour candy?
Also yes.
And probably leftover pasta and meatballs, because Friday the 13th feels like the perfect excuse not to cook.
Because even though Friday the 13th is about more than scary movies, I’m fully taking advantage of the cold, crappy weather and False Spring: Act I.
Movie day with my girl and Luna Bean.
Closing the Circle
March 2020 taught us how quickly the world can change.
And how little protection “normal” actually offers.
It taught many of us that the systems we were told to trust were already cracked, especially for disabled bodies and minds.
Six years later, standing at the edge of another March Friday the 13th, I don’t feel cursed.
I feel seasoned.
Still tired.
Still tender.
Still here.
My life has changed dramatically since then.
I’m no longer with the job I spent nearly seven years at.
I’ve been through almost five surgeries, with another on the horizon.
I’ve seen more specialists and endured more tests than I know how to explain.
I’ve lost family members.
I’ve lost pets.
I’ve gained things too.
I met Luna, my wild little Service Dingo™, who I genuinely cannot imagine spending a full day without.
And we lost Bear.
That broke something in me.
My grandmother passed away due to cancer and medical negligence.
I’m looking at opening a medical malpractice case.
And still, this space remains.
The Crippled Cryptid was never about tempting fate.
It was about telling the truth from the margins, even when it made people uncomfortable.
So, if 2026 brings us more Friday the 13ths than usual, let them come.
We’ll celebrate each one with movie marathons and popcorn.
We already survived the year everyone else finally felt afraid.
We know how to live in uncertainty.
We know how to build meaning from the dark.
And we are not going back into hiding.
Cryptids don’t disappear.
We just learn where the shadows are safest.
The world can keep its superstition.
We already learned how to survive the dark.
Luna certainly did.
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:
💜 https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-skys-journey-to-health-and-mobility
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