Month: March 2021

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How a Book Can Change Everything

Last night my yellow hand-made bookmark lost its place inside Growing Up Disabled In Australia (GUDIA). I spent a good ten minutes trying to remember where I stopped the previous night, before realising – I finished it already. That was disappointing. GUDIA is a book I never wanted to end. It kept drawing me back in, for more. And when I finished, I wanted to go back to the start and read it again. With so many poignant components, it became the fastest anthology I’ve ever read.

I loved so many pieces in the book, and strongly related to the majority of them. That rarely happens when you’re a disabled person. Well, maybe now it’s going to happen more. 

It was important to me to write about this, because the gravity of publishing this book cannot be underestimated. For many people, this would be the first time they see themselves represented in Australian literature. For many disabled people, there’ll be moments of first – first time someone accurately expressed their feelings, experiences or thoughts. First time someone found an accurate metaphor for living in a body that others see as broken. First time someone shone beautiful and colourful lights on their bodies, souls, sorrows and joys. 

Admidtingly, I’ve previously read other anthologies by disabled people, published overseas. Even so, I found GUDIA to be unique and broad in terms of topics covered, as well as types of disabilities. I’ve learnt new things, laughed, teared up and folded far too many marks – I wanted to highlight and return to most pieces. No doubt I will be reading most of the stories and poems again. I found parts of my story in many pages of the book, and felt so deeply seen by various authors’ expressions of struggling with ableism in its many forms. I enjoyed the caricature story and the poems, which nicely broke the sequence of the essays. The diversity within the experiences, writing styles and emphases was excellent, and I particularly appreciated the cultural diversity within the texts. The various ways in which ableism is exposed and challenged are so fundamental – to understanding ourselves as disabled people and for people living alongside us to learn what it’s like. 

Some particular lines, metaphors and ideas are still in the back of my mind. I won’t name favourite pieces because there were too many, but my favourite themes were fighting internalised ableism, detailed and relatable descriptions of medical ableism in the system and in families, and disability pride and joy in various forms including speaking up, connecting with the disability community, sewing parachutes and dressing for a disabled life – a well lived life. 

The only thing I would have liked to see in the anthology were content notes or warnings. I’ve seen those in one previous disability-focused anthology and felt they were helpful. There are essays that mention for instance self-harm, medical ableism, bullying etc – so a little specific info like that could have been useful. 

If it’s not clear by now, I highly recommend everyone read this book. But in particular, if you work in the disability field, health, or the education system, and/or if you have a child with a disability – you must read this book. 

A book like GUDIA, where disabled people’s experiences are the centre, can and will change everything. It may finally make someone’s penny drop about giving their child choices in their treatment. It may generate empathy where there is none to invisible pain and trauma. It may probe a health professional or a friend to ask about how someone is experiencing their disability, rather than assuming. It may teach a parent or a teacher to explore disability with their able-bodied little humans, and provide language for disabled people to ask for help or explain how they’re feeling. It may plant a seed of hope in the heart of many who feel alone, and shine a light down a path where their experiences are validated and others are confident to reach out a hand.

This is how a book can change everything.

Until next time, 

Liel K. Bridgford 

P.S. this book has been edited by Carly Findlay and published by Black Inc. Books. 

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I am all sexy, thanks very much.

CW: internalised ableism, ableism, patriarchal beauty standards, exercise, dieting.

When I was growing up, I internalised the idea that to be sexy meant to be able-bodied, thin etc. (You know, all those ableist, fat-phobic ideas we learn from patriarchy). Although it’s no wonder I’ve internalised such toxicity, it’s worth exploring how it likely happened, so we could do better.

As I was growing up, disability was a bad thing. What I had on the other hand, wasn’t a disability, adults would say, but a ‘problem’ – something one can fix, then move on. I always knew I was different, and that that difference was something to avoid talking about, or showing, if you could help it. It was something I needed to ignore and overcome, in order to become the ‘normal’ human I was destined to be. I’ve learned early on to hide my leg behind long pants if I could, to place it behind me to avoid my own and others’ gaze, to hold it in attempt to cover, as much as possible.

As a teenager I slowly filled with trepidation that no one would ever love me because of my ‘leg problem’ – romantically that is. I looked up to characters on my screen, in my books and through my headphone – all were skinny, beautiful, ‘perfect legged’. I saw Brittany Spears, Avril Lavigne, Beyoncé, Sharkira, Alicia Keys, Katey Perry, to name a few. Israeli TV was filled with similar skewed and unrealistic beauty standard. My friends and I read magazines that told us how to become worthy – we were instructed to eat lettuce three times a day, do a hundred push ups just to 30% angle to produce a flat tummy, to name a few strategies. We taught each other specific exercises for each area of the body we needed to ‘tone’. What I feared most, but told no one, was how no amount of exercise would make my legs look like those in the glossy magazines. I was doomed. My only chance was to be as skinny as possible, and hide my leg as much as I could.

I wished I could be me, just with another leg – a regular leg. Every other ‘flaw’ seemed insignificant compared to how ashamed I felt about the leg. I remember thinking surely he would have liked me/stayed with me if I had a regular leg. When my current passion got together with someone else, who always had straight legs with five toes on each foot, it twistingly confirmed that I could never be accepted as a desired, sexy person.

I gradually planned to find someone who wouldn’t know about my leg. I’d hide it for as long as possible, and by the time I’d tell them, hopefully they would’ve fallen in love with my. That way I could get my happily ever after. Needless to say, this was before I had enough of an understanding about the huge issues with such myths.

In my late teens, towards the end of my ‘treatments’ (i.e. the lengthening and straightening procedures), I could mostly hide my disability. Only with my leg, foot and limp hidden, I could feel sexy and confident enough to imagine being desired. After years of on and off crutches, leg braces and casts, I have gained my sense of sexuality by pretending my leg wasn’t there at all. I’d camouflage it with jeans or thick leggings and get on the dance floor, flirt with the guys and get into bed. Every time a sexual relationship didn’t work out, I’d think it’s because of my leg. When in bed, I’d avoid looking at my leg and place it as far from mine, and my partner’s body, as possible. 

Now I am over thirty, happily married and a parent, and am still in the process of unlearning this internalised ableism. Unfortunately it is still radical for a disabled female to feel sexy, express our sexuality, or even acknowledge it. I think this has to do with a lot of things, some of them very powerful. If we’re beautiful and sexy as we are – what does that mean for all the systems benefiting from us hating ourselves? What would do all the surgeons telling people and parents they can fix us? What would happen to the diet industry? How would so many feel ‘successful’ at being ‘perfect’? What would happen if we were all just perfect, as we are? There will need to be a lot of unlearning and re-learning, but it will be worth it.

Only in the last few years I’ve come to not just accept, but celebrate the whole of me. Now I can take a photo with my foot out, and feel sexy. Without cropping, looking away or pretending. This took about thirty years – and that’s too long. The next generation of disabled people shouldn’t have to deal with such ludicrous and soul-crushing internalised ableism.

The way I’ve been challenging these ideas is through reading, connecting, introspecting, and by filling my screens and pages with real, diverse people. I’ve come to realise how messed up these ideas are, and how they benefit only a small amount of people. It’s suddenly clear how we can become a society in which sex, sexuality and erotica would be celebrated and expressed freely, and safely. 

This change starts with each of us, and today I’m glad to report I do feel sexy. I don’t need to hide my leg or avoid looking at it to experience arousal. I’ve also come to realise that there is no me, without this leg. I wouldn’t be who I am. Parts of me that I find sexy are my determination, straightforwardness, humour and an ability to think big, to shift my perspectives and challenge myself and others to grow. All these qualities wouldn’t exist as they are, without my particular DNA, and specific experiences I’ve gone through because of it. 

We have come a long way since the 1990’s and early 2000’s, but we’re not there yet. Representation of disabled people is still scarce and often narrow. We don’t get to see disabled people often enough as the centre of a story, living a full life – filled with love, sex, heartbreaks, friendships, careers and parenting. But things are starting to change.

Feeling Sexy. [Image description: Liel standing in front of a long mirror, smiling. She is wearing patterned grey, black and yellow leggings and a grey and white crop top. She is barefoot and the right foot is small with four curled toes.] 

I’m disabled, and I’m sexy. In fact, I’m sexy because of everything about me, including my disability. Not despite it. And if you need to avoid looking at my leg or foot to think so, this post is for you. 

Until next time, 

Liel K. Bridgford 

P.S. I’m pleased to report I also now have a positive relationship with food and eating, as well as other parts of my body.

P.S.S if this was hard to read or triggering, I encourage you to get some support. If you don’t know where to start, you can contact me through the ‘contact’ page.