Don't Mind My Eyes

Chapter 1: Part 1

'See, Poem By Teddy James

a part of me,
an element in my mindset which I deny constantly wants to see
the way your hips shift and sway when you turn to me with your satin limbs that fall around my neck.
or the speck beneath your belly button that only a selected few have seen. the secret mole that is miles from my eyes.
and with all my energy, this part of me
-oh, this heart of mine-
wants to see you.'

I hold my head up and keep my useless eyes forwards. They don't look blind -according to my ex-psychiatrist they're 'the grey seen in the after-math of a thunderstorm'. Considering she did ask me to dinner around fourteen times, her opinion of me may be a little. . .influenced.

Of course, I've not always been this way. I could see once. Years ago. My sight deteriorated until -eventually- it went entirely.

However, I've had the time to adjust now. It's not as difficult as it had been at first; it had been like standing in a foreign street and then every streetlamp going out. No warning. And you're expected to walk as you would ordinarily.

I stand at the bus stop on the exact slabs of stone I stand on every Thursday and Monday afternoon. I can feel the uneven crack tracking it's way across the surface through the rubber soles of my shoes. My right hand stays in contact with the plastic pane of the bus shelter, whereas my other hand clutches my cane; it's a thin, plastic stick that can extend itself to the length required. It had been a complimentary gift from the Blind Association. I only started using it four months ago when I'd tripped on the curb and bust my lip. I can't describe to you the feeling, not of the injury, but of all the unknown hands grabbing at me and all the unknown voices asking me questions like "how many fingers am I holding up?". It was tormentingly embarrassing. However, I'm a lot more careful now. I suppose it's good I carry a stick. It avoids social awkwardness; people extending their hand to shake yours- not that you're aware, etc.

I hear people shift and the rustle of shopping bags be lifted off of the ground. I then hear the heavy tires grind to a halt before me and the familiar odour of the sour exhaust fumes. I take my stick, extending it and running it across the ground to create a mental image in my head. Once my hands find the doorway of the bus, I'm able to step up and take out the exact change needed for my journey. At home, I have small towers of change counted out to exactly what I need for my bus journeys. They sit on my mantle piece, making it look like a shrine to my mental instabilities and obvious disability. But I couldn't be sure, could I?

I hand the bus driver the tower of change that had been taped together and I feel his eyes watching me. I hear his hesitation- he wants to say something. But a few second later he simply settles for 'thanks. Take your ticket'. The ticket machine snaps and whirs and I run my palm over the surface in front of me to locate it. Once I do, I pull the ticket and push it into my pocket, then turning and using the hand rails to guide me down the aisle. I clear my throat. "Could somebody please tell me if there's a spare seat?"
There's hesitation again, but this time it's of more people.

I refuse to demean myself to the 'disabled' chair. I am not quite at that stage yet. I am in defiance of my blindness. Only when I sit in that throne of illness will I have wholly given up my fight.

"I can't see if there's someone sat there or not." I sound a little more snappy now.
I feel footsteps approach from behind and a bright, female voice speaks. "Two steps forward on your. . .left. Nobody's there." She sounded nice. I wasn't in the mindset for 'nice'.
"Thanks." I say, my voice low. I take two steps forward and feel for the back of the left seat, sitting down. I clutch my cane tightly and listen for where the lady is sitting. She sits behind me, I think. I hear shopping bags get placed on the seat beside her. So she was the shopper I'd noticed at the bus stop.

"My dad's blind." I hear her say from behind me. I note her light Scottish accent -pleasing to listen to. "So, I know the little struggles."
"Not first hand." I reply.
She laughs. "That's true."
I don't respond. I turn my head to the direction of the window and the bus jolts forwards, causing me to sway slightly. I assume she knows the conversation is over.

She doesn't.

"You do well to get on the bus." She says again.
"I do, do I?" I reply coldly.
"Dad gets sick even on short car journeys. He can't see the turns or anything, you know." She pauses momentarily, probably thinking she shouldn't have said that. She attempts to gloss over it. "I'm amazed at how well you're coping."
"Would you be even more amazed if I rode a bike?" I muttered my bitter joke at the window. I couldn't seem to find it within myself to reply to her politely. She was too intrusive for my tastes.
"No, I don't mean to-"
"Is this a dancing-bear scenario for you, or what? A curiosity? Am I a pickled eel in a jar?"
I heard the frown in her voice. "No, I don't think you are. . .I didn't mean to upset you. I'm only trying to be-"
"Well, don't. I don't need it, thank you." I continue to feel engine of the bus work below my seat.

I'm sick to the back teeth with it all.