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⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.
Apparently, if you’re disabled, you’re only allowed to exist under one condition: Poor. Meek. Sad. Apologising for existing.
That’s the script. Stick to it and you get pity points. Step outside it, and suddenly society glitches like a 90s Windows PC trying to run Doom Eternal.
Want a garden? Selfish. Go on holiday? Fraud. Dress nicely? Suspicious. Cashmere? Criminal. iPhone? Scam artist. Takeaway curry? Witchcraft.
The unspoken rule is this: you are allowed to be disabled only if you serve as a cautionary tale. You’re supposed to sit in the corner like a sad little prop the “what if” nightmare for the healthy.
But god forbid you look happy, stylish, or in control of your own life. Because then the crowd has to face the truth: disability doesn’t mean half-human. And they hate that.
This is why benefits are designed to keep us broke. This is why policy treats independence like a threat. This is why joy, sex, travel, fashion, humour all of it are policed harder than nightclub toilets on a Saturday night.
We break their fantasy every time we live outside their cardboard script. And when we do, they short-circuit. Sparks, smoke, confused faces. Like someone just shoved a fork into their toaster brains.
So here’s my morning reminder: disabled people are not here to make you comfortable. We’re not your tragedy porn. We’re not your inspiration fodder. We’re not going to sit quietly in beige.
We’re going to live, loudly. And if that fries your circuits? Good.
I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.
