I use a wheelchair, and the men who write get one thing consistently wrong

I use a wheelchair, and men on this board handle that in one of two ways. Either they decide I must need looking after and write to me as though the arrangement is care with a costume over it, or they overcorrect so hard that they will not mention it at all and then panic about a step. What almost nobody manages is the ordinary version, in which I direct and he does, and sometimes what he does is carry something.

Forty one, Queens, I work in city planning, thirteen years of leading, one relationship of nine years that ended three years ago when he died.

What I run is domestic and detailed. I decide how the household works, what standards hold, how his week is shaped, and I follow all of it up, which is where the real effort goes. My situation changes the logistics of a few things and changes nothing whatsoever about the authority, and a man who cannot hold both of those in his head at once is going to find this exhausting.

I am also not a lesson in anything. I have been thanked for being inspiring by a man who then never wrote again, and I would rather not repeat that particular sequence.

Not looking for a carer, which is a real relationship and is not this one. Not looking for a man who wants to prove how comfortable he is. Not looking to spend a month reassuring somebody that a practical question is allowed, because it is, and asking one plainly is the fastest route to my attention.