Three more weeks of “can I have a turn?” and “pop a wheelie!”. Three more weeks of quick, cold elevator rides in the morning. Three more weeks of relying on somebody to help you during the hallways, in classrooms, after school and during lunch. Three more weeks of doing nothing by yourself. No more movies with friends, no more hanging out with your significant other, no more going on road trips with your dad. Three more weeks of being called handicapped, cripple, hop-a-long, scooter-girl. It’s pathetic and it got old quickly.

You think it’s fun and games when I ride along in the hallways. You don’t know how painful it is to have to lift a stiff, heavy, hard cast everyday, all day. My legs, back, shoulders, everything hurts. I have to wait ’til everybody is out of a classroom to try to enter. Everybody bumps into me and laughs. Nobody wants to move over a foot to let me move past so I can wait there until the crowd leaves.

Do you know what it’s like not being able to be home alone? I’m 17 and I can’t manage to feed my cats without help. I can’t act like an adult with a cage wrapped around my leg for three more weeks. I feel like a toddler learning to walk all over again. I can’t venture out into the world without having a babysitter watch me.

Honestly, I’m getting real sick and tired of everybody asking how I broke my foot. No, it wasn’t a car wreck, I didn’t fall on ice, I did not break it on purpose to get out of something. It’s none of your business. You don’t even know my name but yet you want to know how I managed to get a cast on my right leg. It’s not important to you. It doesn’t affect you at all to know what happened.

Three more weeks of going nowhere, of not visiting family, of having to stay home bored every Saturday night when your friends want you to hang out with them. Three more weeks of feeling like a child.