I’ve been blessed with good physical health most of my life. I have never had any life-threatening illnesses; I have never broken a bone, nor even sprained an ankle. So back in high school, when my friend broke her foot and had to walk everywhere on crutches, I sympathized, but I still thought it was pretty cool. The idea of walking everywhere on crutches, I mean: she got to leave class ten minutes early, people helped her carry books, and she got this hot-pink cast that we all signed in colorful sharpies. Okay, I admit that the cast didn’t sound so terrific–– colorful as it was, I’d seen my brother’s leg in a cast and knew that it wasn’t pretty; it was smelly, itchy, hot, and it made bathing a real chore. I ruled out the cast as something that might be fun to try, but when I saw my friend hopping out of class early and booking down the hallways, the crutches seemed like an exhilarating accessory.

The other day, I saw some crutches available to borrow as part of University Accessibility Awareness Week (that’s a mouthful, what about people with speech impediments?!), which challenges students to pretend they have a disability of some sort, in order to better understand what those who actually have said disabilities go through on a daily basis. With the memory of my pink-casted friend scooting through my high school’s hallways, I excitedly signed my name to the list and grabbed the pair of crutches the student leader handed me. I swung my backpack around and tucked the crutches under my arm and cheerfully raced to the door towards my next class, I was flying–– for about three steps. Then I got to a door. I had to turn sideways and awkwardly lean down to push the door open and hop through.

Crutches: easy and fun as my friend made them look? False.

It was absolutely horrible. My cross-campus speed was reduced to at least half my normal walking pace, and I frequently had to stop and readjust my balance. It took surprising dexterity to manage the way my body and the crutches interacted, making sure that one didn’t get ahead of the other. I felt like the little mermaid when she first gets her legs, bumbling and falling because she doesn’t know what to do with them, she has a brand-new kinesthetic connection to figure out. I tripped a couple times and automatically supported myself on my pretended “twisted ankle,” which anyone with a real injury wouldn’t have been able to do, not without serious pain. But I thought that almost would’ve been nice, since a broken ankle might distract me from how badly my armpits were aching. And that’s another thing:

Crutches: more painful than the actual injury? Quite possibly.

Two days later, I’m still incredibly sore. The body–– well, mine at least–– was not meant to function with its entire weight supported by the shoulders. My muscles ache from my elbows up all the way down my ribs, a much larger area than I expected. I didn’t even feel those muscles as I crutched around campus; all I could feel were my armpits and hands burning from the pressure, and the rest of my body burning from the heat of the effort as well as the afternoon sun. By the time I turned my crutches back in, I was so ready to walk on two feet again. Why had I ever thought that, when blessed with my own two legs, losing the use of one and walking around on crutches would ever be preferable to walking on my own?

How many of us think that using half our ability and relying on something or someone else to support us is more exciting and fulfilling than doing it ourselves? I’ve met many. The man still living with his parents at age 29, because it’s easier than finding a job and moving out; he has luxuries he couldn’t afford on his own. He doesn’t see how his parents still control him, or he doesn’t care. The girl who won’t break up with her boyfriend, though he’s emotionally neglectful, because she thinks she can’t be happy without him; she couldn’t bear to be alone. She doesn’t consider the fact that she isn’t happy with him, she is alone. But I’ve also met those that refuse to rely more heavily on crutches than themselves. The woman whose parents could help her pay for college, but chooses to work hard to pay for it herself. The boy who should be on medication for his mood disorder, but wants to find his own way to real healing. The kid who keeps scraping her knees on the sidewalk because she hates training wheels. Are they better off without the help? They already know what I just learned: the soreness left over from leaving those crutches behind is worth the freedom of standing on your own legs. And walking on crutches hurts your armpits anyway.

I have never labeled myself as a “writer.” Any teacher I had in high school could tell you how my good essays were–– when I actually managed to write enough to turn them in. Either of my parents would amiably reveal to you my tendency to procrastinate a paper until approximately 3 a.m. of the morning it’s due. My sister might show you the pages of one-verse songs that I scribbled out, too disgusted by my own failure to attempt coming up with a chorus, let alone finish. Writing is rarely enjoyable for me, so much to the point where I’d rather let my biology grade drop from a B to a D than compose a ten-page research paper. So why would I choose to torture myself by signing up for a class that focuses exclusively on writing?

Besides my intrinsic masochism, there are a few different reasons why I decided to add English 218, most of them minor. One reason is that I’m aware of and believe the cliché that practice makes perfect, or at least permanent. What better way to lessen my aversion to writing than to put myself in a place where I’d be forced to do that to which I object, under pressure of academic failure? While there is a possibility of it back-firing, causing me to despise assigned writing even more, my optimism here is that I’ll get used to it, or even better at it. Also, I’m hoping that by taking a creative writing class, as opposed to one that requires me to write only research and analysis, I can start to enjoy writing, and gain enough practice and confidence to appreciate my own writing, instead of dreading it, knowing that I’ll just hate whatever the end product is. This actually reveals the true reason I’m taking this class–– because secretly, I want to write. I want to do well at it. I want to love it. And the most profound reason, more than any other, that I want to be able to call myself a writer is because I look up to one person whom I do label a writer: Ben.

I met Ben the first day of my freshman year at college. While he was instantly friendly and talkative, I sensed that there was a much deeper part to him. He seemed be hiding some intelligence and experience that I couldn’t discover, let alone comprehend. But time went by, and while we became closer friends, he still didn’t let me (or anyone else I knew) see what dark mysteries he kept. Though almost unbearably intrigued, I eventually accepted that he wouldn’t open up to me, so I let it go–– until we were assigned a personal essay in the English class we had together. Our professor chose one of the finished, graded essays to read aloud to the class. From the very first sentence, the entire class sat in rapture, mesmerized as she quoted a story so astonishingly tragic, so heartbreakingly beautiful that I knew it was Ben’s. This was confirmed by the fact that while every other student’s eyes were fixated on the professor reading, Ben’s remained lowered to his desktop. His writing was so pure, unadorned yet poetic; achingly honest, skinning his soul and cutting right to the core of each who was listening. He had opened up that deepest part of himself, and permanently affected me.

I admire Ben for this more than anything else. He inspired me in ways I can’t explain. This is why I write–– I want to reveal my true self to those who might not understand, and thus better understand myself. While I don’t expect to permanently alter others’ lives, I hope someone will be touched by what I have to offer. I owe that to Ben for what he did for me.