It’s hard to articulate what it feels like to spend a lifetime being told that you are not allowed. Not always in so many words, but in gestures, in spaces, in thoughtlessness.
When your back is against the wall, dumping your loved ones in the president’s front yard can seem like the only rational response.
You will remember, in fact, the first doctor who does ask, who says ‘is it okay if I put my hands here,’ gesturing, waiting for you to say ‘yes.’
Here’s a thing about being labeled “smart” as a kid: When there’s a thing you’re not good at, people assume it is because you are lazy.
Experiencing a severe reaction to medication taught me many interesting things about the limits of my own body, but also the limits of the world around me.
Those who spend their lives in bodies others deem unworthy grow accustomed to building our own self-worth.
It is not so much that these things are invisible as it is that people are trained to hide them, and society is conditioned to look away from them.
Disability is not wrong or tragic or bad, but sometimes it is a symptom of a grave injustice.
How can I say that I fear I’ll never date again without feeding the monster? No one owes me their touch; I am starving for it just the same.
It is very rare, as a disabled person, that I have an intense sense of belonging, of being not just tolerated or included in a space, but actively owning it.