When I go out, I hope no one notices.

There’s a show tonight and I want to go. I’ve been to this place before. I know what I’m about to put myself through. I take all the preparation I need and make the trek out. The first thing I see are steps that seem to go on forever. These steps are like working my way up Mount Fuji. I climb and climb. Putting my body at risk. I navigate stairs and also stares. I’m used to the stares though. "This isn’t difficult, this is just something I do," I say to myself. I just have to get up these stairs that seem to last forever, so I won’t have to deal with this again for a few hours.

"Wow, it’s so great you made it out! It really shows you like this band," someone says enthusiastically. In my head I say, "I like this band, but I also just wanted to see my fucking friends." But I smile and say aloud, "Yeah, for sure," because what else can I say?

-=-=-=-My friends are sitting at the bar. Instead of struggling to get on the tall chairs that seem more trouble than they’re worth, I just stand behind them. We all talk, but, because I’m behind them, my part in the conversation seems muted. My friends are drinking, but I don’t really participate because if I do, that sip of liquid would mean back down that mountain I’d have to go to reach the bathrooms. I know my friends want me around, but deep down I wonder if my needs are a burden to them. Maybe they don’t feel that way, but I don’t want to risk it.

I never notice my legs. I sometimes notice the metal contraption that’s in front of me though. This thing, this walker, acts like a force-field when I go to shows. Sometimes, when there are a lot of people around, it gives me some welcome extra space. Sometimes, it acts as a signifier to not come close or start conversation with me.

I leave my friends after a few minutes. If I don’t get a spot right in front of the stage, then I might as well just stare at the ground all night. My walker tonight acts like the force-field of extra space. I can’t think about what jokes I’m missing or what records they’re discussing. All I know is that if I want to experience this show, I have to do these things I do. I never think it’s difficult—it’s just what I have to do.

So I wait up front. The band comes on and I forget about everything. Well, not everything: the walker is really confusing people, they keep their distance, and that’s ok. That heavy feedback, the extreme way the drummer plays, it all takes me somewhere else. I get really into it and move as much as my body allows. I feel my body trying to stop me, I let it, but in my mind, nothing is stopping me.

I try to find my friends. Sweaty and beaming from the show, we all go back to the bar. I figure now is the time to have a drink since we’re leaving soon. I know all of us at the bar won’t hang out as long as we did before the show, but I’m happy for any bit of time I have with my friends.

We stick around for 15 to 20 minutes after the bands. Some friends want to go to another show, some sort of harsh noise warehouse show. "I can’t. I already have a ride planned to go home," I say. But in my head, I’m just thinking of what mountains I would have to climb if I went with them.

We say our goodbyes and my friends help me make my way back down those stairs. My legs are throbbing from standing so much, and I’m sweating after going down 20 or so stairs. The railing ends before the staircase ends, so once I’m down, and my friends are gone, there’s no going back up. I wait and my ride pulls up.

I’ll be back here in three days to do this again at another show. No one will notice everything I have to do just to see a band play, but it’s what I have to do.

Sean Gray runs the DIY record labels Fan Death Records and Accidental Guest, fronts the band Birth (Defects), and runs "Is This Venue Accessible?" You can find him on Twitter as @seanjgray.