Month: July 2020

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Disability Pride and Me

July is disability pride month, and I’ve been pondering the idea the entire month. This is the first time I’ve even heard of, and can identify with, disability pride month. The sad fact that it took me over thirty years to get here doesn’t stop me from being connected with the idea. 

Disability pride has changed my life so significantly it is actually hard to put into words. I’ve written about this before in different ways – my journey of accepting who I am, my disability and my life. But how has this pride improved my life? Here are just a few things that have come to mind as I’ve reflected over the last month.

As a teenager, my leg was always out of sight, especially in photos (I didn’t crop the leg out – it was never captured). Image description: a teenage girl sitting on a white plastic chair at the edge of a lake, looking at the camera, smiling. She is wearing read bikini top and white shorts.

My mental health has improved (well apart from COVID anxiety). I no longer feel worried, scared, ashamed or guilty about my disability or my needs. Instead of constantly worrying about someone seeing my leg or commenting about how I dress or my limp, I feel free to wear what I truly like, that works with the weather, my mood and who I am. 

My physical health has improved. Despite being an Australian resident since 2015 I have never thought about even inquiring about disability support. The Israeli system taught me that is a traumatic process that isn’t worth my effort and time. By accepting that I am disabled, I’ve applied for NDIS funding and received it, allowing me access to services I never thought were even an option for me. A few weeks ago I’ve had an assessment with an occupational therapist for the first time in my life. I nearly cried of joy when she recommended meaningful modifications that would make my life more pain free and manageable.

I found a community. Having a disability community I can be a part of means everything to me. It means that after so many years of feeling like the outsider, the one who doesn’t fit in or belong, the ‘damaged one’, I now feel a sense of belonging to a community which is resilient, powerful, unapologetic and beautiful. Feeling ‘normal’ and that others out there are like me discarded so much shame and hopelessness. 

I found hope. Growing up I’ve learnt to wait for a ‘fix’ of my leg, my body, of me. That was the main goal of all my treatments. Unfortunately, I was never going to be ‘normal’ and felt I would never truly fit it. Disability pride has made me hopeful because I’ve changed my focus. I no longer wait for a fix of myself, because I am not the one who needs fixing. It is our society that needs to do the work – to reflect, fund, support, accept, and change. There is hope in my heart that we can make that change happen – because there are such strong voices out there advocating for that, every day.

People around me understand more. Since accepting who I am, talking and writing about it, I’ve noticed people in my environment responding. I got asked if I need a hand with something previously people wouldn’t have mentioned. People have told me that my writing and advocacy about disability have changed their perspective and their behaviour. My toddler knows about my pain and accepts my body and it’s functions because I talk about them without apologies or shame.

I am more me. As a kid, I remember pondering what would happen to me once the leg thing was ‘finished’. Even as a child I felt sad about being ‘fixed’, despite simultaneously wanting that to happen so bad. Now I know the reason for this ambivalcnce is disbaility pride. Even as a child I knew that my leg, my disability or my journey, could never be sepeated from me. They are an integral part of who I am. Disability pride has released me from this ambivalnce. I don’t want to be fixed, I don’t want a cure, or to be woken up with a ‘normal’ leg, like I used to dream about. My disability could never be taken away from me. If it ever was, there would be a big hole left in me – I feel empty and sad imagining life without my disability. I am different from other people, and I like it! I don’t want to be like anybody else in the world. I wouldn’t choose another journey. I wouldn’t choose an able-bodied body over my own. I would choose my leg, my disability and my life. Every. Single. Time. If it wasn’t for my disability, you wouldn’t have been reading these words. If it wasn’t for my disability, I wouldn’t have been me. 

Until next time, 

Liel K. Bridgford 

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Goodbye Shame, Hello Custom-Made Content

CW: Ableism, internalised ableism.

Walking into a shoe store on my crutches, I looked around for sparkle – preferably blue or green. I scanned the shop several times, while the saleswoman chatted to my mother, who explained what we needed. Not what we wanted, because she couldn’t sell us a normal-leg-to-fit-any-shoe. She offered boots – with zippers, or laces, sometimes both. My mother got pretentiously excited about an ugly-looking boot, or a military-looking one. My leg with its brace, cast or splint couldn’t fit any of the beautiful girls shoe options.

I prayed to God to give me beautiful shoes – the regular kind, that goes up just above the ankle. Perhaps even sandals or flip-flops. That was never going to happen. I grieved that loss every day of every summer of my young life. Especially those super thin and shiny ones. What wouldn’t I give to slide a feminine perfect foot into a Cinderella narrow shoe? 

Throughout the years several doctors, podiatrist, cast-makers and nurses would comment on my need to wear custom-made shoes. I shook in disgust. Why would I want to look even more different from everyone else? Adults around me never got the point that I didn’t fit in already. You might as well hang a sign above my head with words kids used to call me– freak, disabled. That would be better than wearing shoes everyone could see were made especially for my damaged leg. 

When I finally found a shoe to shove my bulky splint into, relief would wash over me. This overly-priced item would help me look a little more like an able-bodied kid – a normal kid. I marched around feeling proud of the boot, a regular fashion item anyone could have picked, avoiding telling my peers it was the only option that could cover my splint. Combined with long jeans and a trendy top, I was almost looking as if nothing was wrong with me. 

I’ve always worried about what shoes I’d wear on my wedding day, discouraged by the options in shops’ windows – all high heeled, narrow, unsteady. Nothing for my small foot, fused ankle and unsteady knee. As the day approached, I’ve decided to go with custom-made shoes. Regular shops had nothing for me, and my podiatrist’s wall displayed a picture of a client on her wedding day – looking gorgeous and happy in her white custom-made shoes and sparkly dress. 

The podiatrist made me fabulous shoes – made of white leather, a little elevated and perfectly made for my feet. I walked so much easier in them. My leg responded well to the padding and bouncy technology to compensate for the diffused ankle. I was a few centimetres taller than usual. I danced and felt beautiful. My wedding day was magical. The shoes remained in use until they fell apart. Walking with the right shoe for my body was freeing, as close to flying as I’ve ever felt on the ground.             

Wearing custom-made shoes meant I could walk steadier, safer and with less pain. It became easier to live the life I wanted to live. Letting go of the need to be like everyone else freed up space to write, create, love and laugh. Shame and embarrassment about not being ‘normal’ have been ingrained in me for years. Connecting with the disability community, reading and reflecting, has changed my relationship with my disability. I no longer aim to be ‘normal’ or hide my difference. These days I celebrate being unique. My disability, and my life, have made me who I am today. 

Right before lockdown I’ve donated a pair of those splint-hiding boots, which has been out of use for years. Saying goodbye to these boots, which never made me feel good, felt like removing a bar on my personal prison cell. It was another step for me accepting who I am – telling the world I am happy to be me. I have no intention again to select shoes based on how ‘normal’ they look, only on how comfortable they make me feel in my own skin.

No longer needed – cast-covering boots. Image description: A pair of brown tall boots with long laces stand on wooden floors.

Until next time,

Liel K. Bridgford