Chronically Catherine: Disability is not a dirty word
There are many words I use to describe myself: incredibly sexy, wildly smart, a comedic genius, always humble and of course, if you’ve read my column before, totally fabulous. But disabled? That’s a new addition.
The word “disability’’ was a word that gave me the same feeling as hearing the word “beefy” — uncomfortable. My discomfort isn’t because I believe the word “disabled” or “disability” is bad, derogatory or dirty — in fact, it’s quite the opposite. It’s a term and community for which I have deep respect, but a label I never dreamed I’d identify with myself.
As I trudged through my traumatic multi-year healthcare journey, I used other words to describe my lived experience: uncool, not it, excruciating, fucked up and unfair. However, disability was not among them, and that was on purpose.
I was terrified of identifying as someone with a disability because I hadn’t been for 20 out of my 24 years of life. Who was I to take that term as my own? I also believed my poor health was temporary, and I’d bounce back like a Brentwood mom’s freshly done cheek implants.
First came the phase of skirting my way around using any term entirely. If I didn’t use them, none of this would be real. But my diagnoses are incurable, so there was no finish line; my new life required managing and living with them.
Then came the issue of convincing myself I wasn’t disabled enough to call myself disabled. I thought it was a term that applied only to visible disabilities. I got it in my head that in order for a disability to be real, you must see it, and by see it, I mean someone using a wheelchair, cane or other assistive device — and mine’s invisible.
It’s hard to admit, but it became clear that I’d fallen victim to internalized ableism. I realized I’d been socialized to question peoples’ disabilities if they didn’t fit a stereotypical archetype — even my own. Not to mention, it was hella confusing to be so sick yet stand in the mirror looking the same as I always had. I also have the privilege of passing as able-bodied, which amplified my discomfort with identifying as disabled.
Oh, and I tried the whole “differently abled” and “handicapable” thing, but both felt wrong. They felt like a new, trendy way to make able-bodied people more comfortable about their aesthetic anxiety over disabled people. In fact, in my first few columns of Chronically Catherine, I identified with the term “differently abled” because I thought that was the most politically correct term to use. That’s what all the able-bodied people in my life said so that’s what I should say too, right?
Not exactly. I quickly started to pick up on the fact that “differently abled” was a confusing term. Differently abled suggested I lost certain abilities and gained other abilities. I lost the ability to be upright all day, but I wasn’t gifted with a new ability in its place, like the ability to fucking echolocate or grow gills. I have a dis-ability — I lost an ability.
Ultimately, two years into my diagnoses and health journey, I simply got tired of having to explain my health conditions and how they impact me. It took too much effort to paint a picture of all the challenges. I realized one word could convey it all immediately.
Once I started to identify as someone with a disability, a huge weight was lifted. Uttering that one word communicated the gravity, severity and immediacy of my lived experience. Do I get bitchy Karens coming up to me in the parking lot like, “Why are you parking in a handicap spot, you don’t look disabled”? Yes, I do, and truthfully, I live for those moments just so I can shatter the disabled stereotype and maybe expand the mind of a Karen.
Disability doesn’t have one face, shape or name. People with disabilities are unique, diverse and vastly different from each other. It’s an umbrella term, and fun fact: People with disabilities are the largest minority group in the world, and they are discriminated against, marginalized and face specific socioeconomic barriers simply because they have a disability. It’s also the only minority group anyone can join at any time.
So, to those out there who think disability is a dirty word, it isn’t — it’s an accurate descriptor. And as far as being afraid to utter the word? Don’t be. The more we include it in our common vocabulary, the more normalized the term becomes.
A final tip: Not everyone with a chronic health condition, wheelchair, cane or service dog may identify as disabled, so take your cues from them. Pay attention to how they refer to themselves, and if you aren’t sure, ask! Say, “How should I refer to your health condition?” or, “How do you prefer I refer to your lived experience?” For some, “differently abled” may be just what they need right now, or perhaps another term satisfies their identity. Or, they may not feel the need to identify in any specific way. That’s okay too.
Being disabled is not the entirety of my identity, but for me it has provided relief and created a community for me. But no matter your condition, the disabled community is yours and welcomes you no matter how you identify.
But I swear to God if you come around me and say “beefy,” prepare to be asked to leave, you dirty-mouthed harlot.
Catherine Ames is a senior writing about life as a young person coexisting with chronic illness in her column “Chronically Catherine.”
Writer’s note: Feel free to reach out to Chronically Catherine if you’re also a student with a disability working to coexist with daily adversity without losing sight of your fabulosity – [email protected] or @itschronicallycatherine on Instagram.
Catherine Ames is a senior writing about life as a young person coexisting with chronic illness in her column “Chronically Catherine.”