This one’s personal. I know most of my blog posts have a personal flavor to them, but this one? This is different. This isn’t about my politics or media or music. This is about my life. Not a plea for sympathy—this isn’t some “my life is so hard” post. This is just the truth, and if it hits, it hits.

I moved to Florida in 2018. And if you’re reading this, you might be thinking, “Why the hell would you do that?” Fair. I was having medical issues that nobody in Madison seemed to be able to figure out. So I came down here for the winter to stay with my parents, thinking maybe the weather would help. And yeah, the weather is nice. But, surprise—it wasn’t just a cold-weather thing.

Thankfully, I found a doctor here who actually knew what was going on. They got me diagnosed and on the right path. So that part? No complaints. That worked out.

Fast-forward a few years, and life—like it always does—changed. Plans shifted, situations evolved, and now I find myself back at my parents’ place, regrouping with my dog and trying to chart a new path forward. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again.

They’ve helped me get everything set up so I can function independently, and I can’t thank them enough. I don’t take that for granted for one second. But they’re getting older, and I know I can’t rely on them forever. I’ve got to put on the helmet and figure this shit out—again.

For those who don’t know, I’m disabled. I’ve talked about it before, probably just last week. I don’t need full-time care, but I do need some help. Little things like putting on shoes or taking them off. Holding my shower chair while I transfer. Vacuuming. Mopping. I can do a lot on my own—hell, probably more than people expect—but that extra bit of help makes a world of difference.

And yet, I keep getting hit with questions like:

• “What facility are you in?”
• “Who handles your finances?”
• “What agency are you with?”
• And the all-time favorite: “Can I talk to your mom?”

I’m 47. A grown-ass man. I run a business. I’ve lived on my own for decades. But in Florida, the assumption seems to be that if you’re disabled, you must be under someone else’s care. You must be in a facility. You must be managed. It’s exhausting.

Let me be clear: I’m not ashamed of needing help. But I am tired of being treated like I’m incapable of making my own decisions just because I do life a little differently.

And here’s the thing that really gets me—this state makes it harder than it needs to be.

In Wisconsin, there were systems in place to support people with disabilities who lived independently. Programs where you could hire someone to help with the basics so you could stay in your home and live your life with some damn dignity.

In Florida? Not so much. Here, the default assumption is that your family takes care of you. I’ve heard that directly—more than once—just in the past week.

Now let’s talk local.

I live in Flagler County, where the average age is probably about 70. It’s a retirement-heavy community. You’d think services would be a little more locked in for older adults and disabled folks. But no.

Flagler finally got some paratransit service, and don’t get me wrong, it’s better than nothing. If I need to go to the grocery store or grab something to eat, I can usually make it work—assuming it’s between 6 AM and 6 PM on a weekday, or 8 AM to 6 PM on Saturday.

But here’s the kicker: no Sunday service. That genuinely surprised the hell out of me. I mean, I’m not religious, but a whole lot of people around here are. You’d think they’d at least offer Sunday morning rides for folks trying to get to church. Especially in a place that caters to an older population where not everyone drives anymore. It just feels like no one thought it through.

And if I wanted to move to another county where there are better services? Good luck. You have to already live there to even apply. Otherwise, your name gets slapped onto the bottom of a very long, very dusty waiting list. That’s not unique to Florida—Wisconsin had its own version of that nonsense—but here, it’s next level. The list is longer than a CVS receipt, and just as pointless if you’re starting from scratch.

Now, to be fair, some of this may be more of a county-level issue than a statewide one. I’ve done some digging—OK, a lot of digging—and it’s pretty clear that if you want services, you need to be in a big city. I already knew that, but living it is a different story.

Take Gainesville, for example. That’s where my doctor is. It’s a college town—think of Madison without the snow. The accessibility? Beautiful. The transportation system? Fantastic. In the grand scheme of things, I probably wouldn’t even need it all that much, because I can drive my chair just about anywhere I’d need to go. If I could just get on the list for services there, I’d seriously consider it.

But then there are some… realities. One, I’m not 25 anymore. Gainesville is a college town, and I’m not sure I want to spend my days surrounded by loud dorm parties and students blasting TikTok videos on full volume. I mean, no offense to the kids—they’re just not my people.

The other option I’ve seriously considered is bailing on Florida entirely and heading back to Madison. At least there, I know how the system works. I know what to expect. But then… I’d have to deal with snow. And cold. And all the physical stress that comes with that kind of weather. It’s not a small thing for someone with a disability. It’s a real dilemma: familiarity and support vs. physical climate and accessibility.

And speaking of Gainesville, there’s one more piece of this puzzle that’s incredibly frustrating.

That amazing doctor I mentioned earlier? The one who got me back on track? I still need to see them every three months. Gainesville is about 100 miles from where I live in Flagler Beach. So every three months, I have to figure out how to make that trip.

Right now, I can transfer into a car and use my manual wheelchair to get through the visit. It’s usually a 15-minute appointment, which is ridiculous, but it is what it is. The problem is that making it happen requires three or four transfers—into the car, out of the car, in and out again, etc. And that may not sound like a big deal to most people, but when you’re disabled, every single transfer takes real energy.

And yes, I get it—if I were in better health, maybe it would be a little easier. But even on my best days, this isn’t a walk in the park. And there will come a time when I can’t do it anymore. I know it’s coming.

To make it worse, my insurance doesn’t allow the doctor to come to my house to fill my pump—which is what these appointments are about. It has to be done in the office. And as of today, I haven’t found anyone who can help me with transportation from Flagler Beach to Gainesville. Not one agency. Not one service. I’m on my own.

So yeah, I’m frustrated. I’m tired. I’m doing my best to adapt, again. And I’m sharing this not because I want you to feel bad for me—but because this is the kind of stuff people don’t talk about. This is what it’s like to try to live independently as a disabled adult in a state that would rather assume you’re someone else’s responsibility than support your autonomy.

Florida, if you’re listening?

You can kiss my whole ass.

Oh, and if you’re seeing this on my personal Facebook page—it’s because I’m cross-posting. Not everyone has followed the Rolling with Scissors page yet, and if that’s you, it’s time. That’s where most of my blog and show updates are going to live going forward.