I was different before I knew what different meant.
Punished for tics, for blurts, for not sitting still.
School was a battlefield, not a place to grow.
The army promised structure—until it didn’t.
Tourette’s had no uniform, no rank, no mercy.
I worked. I worked hard.
Job to job, no safety net, no understanding.
Until one place saw me—really saw me.
I climbed. I thrived. I accepted help.
I thought I’d made it.
Then came the scalpel.
A routine fix, a simple recovery.
But infection doesn’t care about simplicity.
It crawled into my brain and stole my stamina.
One day’s effort now costs three days of silence.
Diagnosis after diagnosis.
Tourette’s. ADHD. PTSD. OCD. ASD. FND.
A chorus of acronyms that explain everything—
And change nothing.
Too disabled to work.
Not by choice. Not by weakness.
But by biology, by trauma, by fate.
And the world turned cold.
Politicians pointed fingers.
Not at banks. Not at billionaires.
But at us.
Disabled.
The scapegoats of austerity.
They lied. They twisted. They dehumanised.
And the public clapped.
Because hate is cheaper than empathy.
And shame is easier than truth.
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