Sometimes Success Has Nothing to Do with Money
I thought that being sick with an unknown virus for seven weeks in the summer was bad. I was couch-ridden, exhausted, dizzy, nauseous, and thoroughly miserable. I would rally strength here and there to run an errand, then collapse again for days. The sickness never ended. The doctors couldn’t help (I saw two), there were no meds to take, and here I was with a book to finish and some freelance writing to do. Then I learned that I was doing it all wrong. A few weeks ago, somebody put a price tag on my success. Apparently, it was a zero followed by a dot and two more zeroes. That person felt that if I labeled my disability, I penned myself in by it—that it defined me and limited me. I argued that labels empowered me. By defining my limitations, labels helped me find solutions. I also tried to explain that I successfully managed my depression because I constantly fought it off. The person then implied that since I was poor, I wasn’t very successful. As far as they were concerned, soluti...