A field report on accessibility barriers, reluctant rest, and being lovingly supervised by The  Service Dingo™.

Content Note: Chronic illness, disability, accessibility barriers, medical anxiety, surgery discussion, emotional overwhelm, pain, fatigue, medical trauma, survival language, and gentle grounding exercises.

Welcome to The Den

Welcome to The Crippled Cryptid.

Disability. Chronic illness. Service dogs. Survival without the performance.

If you’re new here, hi. I’m Sky.

Professional cryptid. Unwilling amateur cyborg. Writer. Advocate. Human being with a medical chart that reads like a haunted library archive nobody was supposed to open after midnight.

Most days are lived in a haunted meat suit with a questionable warranty and a long-standing blood feud with my nervous system.

I cope with sarcasm, snacks, strange little joys, and building something honest in a world that really prefers disabled people to either disappear quietly or become inspirational posters with good lighting.

This week?

We’re running on electrolytes, iced coffee, and sheer stubbornness, trying to find time to both be a person and learn how to accept our limitations.

If you’ve been here awhile, you’ll already know that I’m no good at accepting the fact that I’m human and can’t simply power my way through everything. No one’s perfect though.

So, I’m going to overdo it.

Luna is going to tell me to sit my ass down.

The rest of my family is going to back her up.

And I’m going to keep watching my sugar snap peas and tomatoes reach for the sky.

The coffee’s gone because, of course it is. I remain a caffeine-dependent woodland creature trying very hard to stick to one cup a day. If I don’t, M&M gets a little testy with me. Occasionally, she permits two cups.

Those occasions are rare and should probably be documented by scientists.

But Thursdays are quieter somehow.

Less performance.

Less noise.

More truth.

So, pull up a chair in The Den for a while.

What This Space Is (And Isn’t)

This isn’t a rant.

This isn’t a medical update disguised as emotional homework.

This isn’t one of those “despite everything, stay positive!” speeches people hand disabled folks like participation trophies for surviving capitalism in a collapsing body.

This is a check-in.

With me.

With you.

With the Den.

Because this space was never supposed to be one-sided.

It’s a place to exist together.

To talk honestly.

To admit when things hurt.

To laugh anyway.

To say, “Actually? I’m not doing great,” without somebody rushing to turn your pain into a motivational quote written in beige script font.

Let’s be honest.

Your ghoul is more of a carved-pumpkin-and-Scary Movie-font kind of girl.

We don’t do beige.

Or greige.

Or anything else of the sort around here.

We do honesty.

Even when it hurts.

Even when it sucks.

We’ll sulk with you.

We’ll celebrate with you.

No inspiration porn.

No forced gratitude.

No pretending wellness is measured by productivity.

Just honesty.

Even when it’s messy.

Even when it’s exhausted.

Even when it’s a little feral around the edges.

Especially then.

The Creatures Who Keep Me Here

I spend a lot of time in Bed Jail™, but I’m rarely alone.

There’s Luna.

My medical alert service dog.

Guardian. Tiny health department employee. Service Dingo™. Best Girl™.

Lately she’s been hovering.

Not the usual Mother, I have detected cheese in another room kind of hovering.

The intentional kind.

Focused.

Persistent.

Watching me closer than usual.

Following me like she personally filed paperwork against the concept of me being unsupervised.

The kind of presence that says:

“Something’s weird, and I’m not letting you ignore it.”

Part of me thinks she’s extra attached because we’re in and out of the house more lately.

Because, if you haven’t heard, your local cryptids are mobile again.

The Summer of Adventure is officially underway.

But I’m also having surgery on July 9th. Yes, they changed the date on me again.

So, we’re prepping for that too.

Doctor’s appointments are coming out of our ears.

Truthfully?

I think part of me is scared.

Not necessarily of the surgery itself because, unfortunately, my body and I are on a first-name basis with operating rooms at this point.

It’s everything around it.

The waiting.

The appointments.

The uncertainty.

The way life temporarily becomes one long game of medical scheduling Tetris.

And I wonder if Luna’s picking up on that too.

Then there’s M&M.

My Player 2.

My soft place to land.

Currently in their “please sit down before your spine files a formal complaint” era.

Especially now that the garden is planted and we’ve both been working our butts off outside lately.

And here’s the truth I keep circling back to:

That instinct to push through everything?

That reflex that says keep going, keep going, keep going no matter what your body is screaming at you?

It kept me alive once.

But survival habits are not always safety habits.

Sometimes healing means learning that rest is not failure.

Sometimes surviving long enough means admitting you were never meant to carry everything alone.

So let me say this clearly.

For you and for me.

Don’t shame yourself for the coping mechanisms that got you here.

Even if you’re trying to outgrow them now.

Even old cryptids can learn new tricks.

I promise.

🐾 Luna Note:

Mama continues attempting to speedrun recovery, responsibilities, and all known chores simultaneously.

This has been denied.

The Actual Check-In

Alright.

No dodging.

No “I’m fine, but…”

No escape hatches.

If it doesn’t work for me, it’s not going to work for you either.

So, tell me.

How are you doing… really?

You’re allowed to be honest here.

You are not difficult for having feelings.

You are not “too much” because your body hurts.

You are not failing because you’re tired.

You are not weak because this world asks more from disabled people than it was ever built to give back.

Take a breath with me.

In for four.

Hold.

Out for six.

Again.

Unclench your jaw.

Drop your shoulders.

Let your tongue leave the roof of your mouth.

Get some water.

🐾 Luna Note:

If you are not drinking water, I will escalate.

This is a formal warning.

I’ll wait.

If the big question feels too heavy today, try this instead:

• One word for today.
• One thing your body needs.
• One thing you made it through.

That counts.

It all counts.

And if your body feels loud right now, try naming five things you can physically feel.

Fabric.

Air.

Warmth.

Pressure.

Something steady beneath you.

You do not have to fix yourself to deserve gentleness.

You only have to exist.

Where I’m At

There are still parts of me that want to lump everything under “everything’s been great!” and leave it there.

But we both know that wouldn’t be entirely honest.

Especially if you’ve been reading the other blogs.

We keep running into access issues.

The kind that come from people who don’t understand that disability doesn’t always look one way.

First at the pharmacy.

Then at Aldi.

Both stuck with me for different reasons.

One of them hit especially hard because not only were they rude to me, they were rude to M&M too.

And when she told me afterward, I wanted to get back out of the Jeep and march right back into that store.

Because here’s the thing.

These access issues happen almost everywhere I turn lately.

The food bank.

The grocery store.

Out in public.

Places where I should be able to simply exist.

And I think that’s why these moments keep sticking to me.

It’s never just one rude comment.

It’s the accumulation of them.

Death by a thousand paper cuts made of disbelief.

I shouldn’t have to walk around with my medical history on display for someone to take me seriously as someone who is disabled.

Why isn’t the blue parking placard enough?

As if those are things you can just buy from somebody.

As if nobody verifies them.

As if disabled people owe strangers an explanation for existing.

On top of that, we did something big this week.

At least I think it is.

And in my world?

Big purchases are scary.

My Apple Watch got upgraded.

At first, it felt impulsive.

But then I thought about it.

This isn’t just a gadget.

It’s a tool.

It’s something I wear every day.

It tracks my sleep.

My activity.

My heart.

The things my doctors ask about.

The things my body keeps score of.

I can show them the data.

I can point to it and say, “This is what’s happening.”

I first bought an older, inexpensive Apple Watch because I wasn’t sure my body would tolerate it.

My Fitbit didn’t.

The light from it reacted badly with my skin.

One of the many weird little gifts EDS likes to hand out.

But the Apple Watch worked.

I’ve worn it almost nonstop for seven months.

And with surgery coming, it felt like the right time to upgrade.

I think, in a strange way, it was also an act of self-trust.

It’s me admitting that my health deserves tools and support.

That paying attention to my body isn’t me being dramatic.

It’s me participating in my own care.

Which is something I’m still learning how to do without apologizing for it.

Speaking of things keeping us on our toes, Luna Bean is officially two weeks post-op.

She’s allowed to run and play again.

She is a very, very happy beanie baby.

She’s thrilled to go outside whenever Illinois weather isn’t rioting.

Which it’s been doing a lot lately, again.

And she’s equally thrilled to return to work.

We’re starting small though.

Recovery deserves respect.

Even from service dingoes.

Tiny Victories Count Too

Before I leave this section, let me ask you something else.

What’s one small thing that went right this week?

Not something huge.

Tiny things count here.

Maybe you took your meds.

Maybe you showered.

Maybe you watered a plant.

Maybe you laughed.

Maybe you made a doctor’s appointment you’ve been avoiding.

Maybe you simply stayed.

I think we’re taught to ignore our tiny victories because they don’t look impressive from the outside.

But sometimes surviving is made almost entirely of little things.

I think those victories deserve witnesses too.

For You, Wherever You’re At

If this week is kicking your ass, I see you.

If you’re barely holding it together, that still counts as holding it together.

If you’re exhausted from surviving things nobody else can see?

That exhaustion is real.

And if things are good right now?

You’re allowed to say that too.

Joy does not cancel out struggle.

Struggle does not disqualify joy.

There is room for all of it here.

Even if you don’t have the words today.

Even if all you managed to do was make it to this moment.

You still showed up.

And honestly?

That matters more than people give it credit for.

🐾 Luna Note:

Reminder:

You are allowed to:
• sit down
• ask for help
• cry a little
• celebrate tiny victories
• exist without earning it

I checked.

Those are the rules.

---

The Door Is Open

If you want to talk, my DMs are open.

No pressure.

No expectations.

No requirement to package your pain into something digestible first.

If all you’ve got today is a couple pawprint emojis because you need some extra Luna love?

I’ve got you there too.

I am fully stocked on soft, sleepy, devastatingly cute Luna photos this week.

Including some photos and videos of her now that she’s getting to play again.

No words required.

The house is finally quiet tonight except for the AC humming and Luna snoring somewhere behind me.

The Den’s still here.

So am I.

So are you.

And I hope the rest of your week is kinder to you than the beginning was.

I’m really glad you’re here.

I mean that.

Love you.

Yeah, I said it first.

And if all you’ve got today is lurking quietly in The Den, that counts too.

🐾 Luna’s Final Report:

Pack status: present.

Hydration status: still suspicious.

Emotional status: varied, but acceptable.

Recommendation:

Be gentle with yourselves.

I’ll be checking.

Some weeks survival looks loud.

This week, I think it looked a little softer.

Maybe that’s enough.

Maybe softer survival still counts as survival.

Maybe sitting down when your service dog and your entire family are collectively staging an intervention is, in fact, growth.

© The Crippled Cryptid
Disability. Honesty. A little chaos.
(But softer today.)

🔗 https://linktr.ee/skylanarissa

There’s never pressure to donate. Reading, sharing, lurking quietly in The Den, or simply staying another day is already more than enough.

If you’d like to support the long, slow work of staying alive, stable, and still wandering when I can:

💜 https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-skys-journey-to-health-and-mobility

🐾 The pack has been emotionally perceived. That is all.