I am all sexy, thanks very much.

🔊 Listen to this

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.

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.