You can find the complete transcripts of the episodes on http://lkbridgford.com/unmarginalised-podcast
If you need support after listening – you can contact Lifeline on 13 11 14 in Australia. If you’re anywhere else, you can find support here: https://www.befrienders.org
(Un)marginalised reveals the truth about living on the intersection of diverse identities. Founded and hosted by me, Liel K. Bridgford, the show focuses on improving all of our understandings of ourselves and each other. The podcast reveals hidden truths we all want to know about through interviews of real people who belong to multiple disadvantaged groups. We’re talking about everything – anything from sports, to fashion, parenthood, mental health, disability, migration and much more. We’re exploring the triumphs, resilience, struggles and joys of our multilayered existence. We’re challenging myths and encouraging empathy, equality and love. Join me to laugh, cry, enjoy, and learn.
In this pilot episode, I talk about why I started this podcast, and what I mean by intersectionality.
To support the making of this podcast, go to my Patreon account on
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.
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.
Last night my toddler and I sat in my bed, cuddling under the covers and reading childhood classics I had read many times as a kid. It was beautiful, until the ending of one particular story. This practice is common in many cultures – the passing of classical stories or myths between generations. As a modern day parent, I think we should always apply judgment and critical thinking when we tell stories to the next generation. Some people argue that we shouldn’t judge works of the past by today’s moral standards, others disagree.
The classic I will be referring to here was written in 1993 – almost three decades ago. One would argue that our current moral standards still apply, while other social ideas of today may have been unheard of or considered overly progressive at that time, in the Israeli culture. When we re-tell past stories, it is therefore important we consider and acknowledge the tradition and historical context they were created. I’m not suggesting we shouldn’t read classics or engage with classic art, but only that we execute our own judgement and explain to the next generation how old ideas can, and often should, change (like – women’s right to vote or accessibility being the law). This is especially important when we tell stories to children who are learning about the world and themselves. Here I will exemplify how you can do that – by critically thinking of stories and dissecting what messages may be hidden inside.
The Israeli culture, like many others, highly values its classic children’s books, which are still sold and read widely. One of these that we read last night was The Elephant Who Wanted To Be The Most. Alongside its apparent aim at taming vanity, it sends messages of idealisation conformity and sameness, as well as condemnation of individuality or breaking of expected social roles.
The plot goes like this: a young elephant is sad about being grey like all the other elephants in his flock. With the world being so colourful, he feels low at being given the “old boring grey” to live in
A sad protagonist. [Image description: an excerpt from a picture book page. On the white page is an illustration of a sad looking little grey elephant and a few bigger elephants, alongside black Hebrew text.]
A bird nearby sees his sour face and tries to convince him the colour suits him, but then helps gather colours from nature, helping the little elephant become the colourful self he is dreaming of. A little mirror appears on the page of my child’s board book to show the young elephant finally happy in his colourful, gay skin. His joy isn’t rooted in vanity, but in self pride and celebration of who he wants to be: “Look how pretty I am/ The colorful little elephant.”
Joyful little elephant. [Image description: an open Hebrew picture book with Hebrew text and an illustration of a colourful elephant on a white page. The opposite page is a mirror and a vague image of the colourful elephant is visible through the mirror.”
When our little protagonist returns to his flock, the older elephants mock him so terribly that he regrets the decision, wanting to avoid shaming and asks to return to grey. The others spray him with water, ending the story with a repetition of the mantra “Grey is a good colour, perfectly suitable for elephants”.
Last night this ending suddenly saddened me, as it stood out as punitive and policing – discouraging the elephant, and anyone identifying with him, to express themselves. Although there is a mention of the elephant wanting to be the most beautiful, and critiques argue vanity is the main target of the author’s criticism, other reasons for self-expression and breaking social norms and expectations are also wiped along the way. The elephant is so beautifully colourful and happy after the bird paints him with her feather. The reasons for wanting to get rid of the colours are not because he changed his mind or deeply connected with self-love to his original color, but simply because he didn’t want to be mocked: others said the colours only suit “the circus” (i.e. this isn’t how you’re meant to look) and so he responded with “I don’t want to be a clown in a circus.”
Perhaps unintended, or perhaps calculated, is the message about conformity and sameness. Written in Israel of 1993, many critics and teachers today still interpret this as a story of self-acceptance. I argue that although it may have been the intention, the story can also be read as the exact opposite. The little elephant does not feel right in his body – which is considered a ‘normal’ body (one that conforms to social expectations). There is nothing to indicate the elephant feels he doesn’t conform enough or having a desire to resemble someone else. Instead, he wants to be more colourful like “the world”. This to me, reads that he inherently feels colours would be natural for him, and having a desire to be more colourful, more out-there, different and defy cultural expectations. The inferred expectations could be based on the protagonist’s gender, race, class, disability or others. Once bravely acquiring the colours of the world, he says “Look how beautiful I am, a colourful little elephant!” It seems that indeed, he has found himself and tapped into his internal beauty and found a way to express his true personality.
Anyone in our society’s who has felt judged for how they dress or look – I’m sure can read this as a celebration of self-expression, self-acceptance and even pride. Especially those of us who may feel at odds with society’s expectation of our bodies. As a disable person, society has often told me to blend in, and as a female we are so often told to present a particular way – like every other ‘good’ woman should. The condemnation by the elephant’s peers is a small example of how oppressive systems work in our society – the way our ableist, sexist and racist systems work to keep all of us in line within our expectations – mocking a vulnerable individual to keep them obeying social rules. The little elephant is left with little choice but wash away his colours, and he then “calms down”, looking downwards in defeat.
Happy ending only for the bullies. [A picture from the discussed picture book. A white page with an illustration of large grey smiling elephants washing colours off a small elephant who is looking down. A Hebrew text paragraph in black is on the left page.]
If this was a story of self acceptance, you’d expect the little protagonist to feel at ease or peace with his body, or who he is. Instead, when the others wash his colours away, he simply feels relieved for the mocking has stopped. Very little space was given to the protagonist’s feelings or thoughts about the re-transformation, and his face wears an expression of defeat or relief. Little Elephant didn’t come to self acceptance or celebration, rather, he has just felt obliged to conform with the social expectations to stop the mocking and bullying. He did not have any ally on his side to support his rightful self-expression. After returning to grey, he feels relieved that the criticism stopped, but he isn’t elated, nothing like what he felt when coloured up. He was pushed into place by bigger forces – all but him are happy at the end.
There is no doubt children’s literature plays a huge role in children’s understanding and views of the world. Any protagonist is written to be identified with, at least to a degree. And any child (and adult) identifying with our little elephant, would eventually realise how little choice they had, and that self-acceptance front wrapper is filled with strict rules for individuals’ behaviour within society.
Many of us feel we have to hide who we are, or parts of ourselves – because of messages like these. Normalising bullying, advocating for conformity and strict roles and appearances – do so much damage to the mental health and wellbeing of anyone who doesn’t fit into the boxes built by societies. Many people face ableism, transphobia, fat-phobia, racism and sexism on a daily basis – and this example feeds into those harmful ideas.
When reading this book with my child from now on, I will either change the ending for my child -maybe get rid of the mocking and say the elephant retuned to his flock to find acceptance and celebration of who he was. Or I will add an explanation that it is not ok to laugh at how people present. That we should all celebrate who we are, and feel safe to express ourselves freely (as long as we don’t harm others), remembering that who we are is beautiful and strong. As always, I will tell my child – if you want to dress or behave differently from what others think you should – go for it. And if anyone mocks you, I will come get them.
It almost seems unfathomable that it’s time to conclude the year. Time has stretched, contracted and twisted in strange ways since March. But the calendar and the empty Christmas tree on Fed Square indicate that indeed, this year is coming to an end.
What is there left to say that hasn’t been said about 2020, about the global pandemic, bushfires, borders closures, thousands of deaths, the climate crisis? The list of catastrophes is too long to cover.
During the prolonged lockdowns we have endured, many people have expressed their experience as ‘slowing down’. At first I thought I was just being fashionably late to the party of that reality, but after long weeks it became clear I wasn’t invited. I have not taken up a new hobby, did not catch up on the latest TV series, and certainly did not feel more at ease with myself or the world.
The experience of slowing down is multifaceted, I believe. It often (although not only) comes from childless people who have had stable incomes, healthcare and trust in the systems to keep them safe and well. Even those who relied on the generous Australian government support have attested to a feeling of Netflix & chill amongst the world chaos. (Note: I consider the Australian and/or Victorian government support and healthcare generous as my main comparison points are the Israeli and US systems. None of those two governments could pride themselves on their healthcare, social support systems or handling of the pandemic.)
I remember the moment I knew this year was going to be like no other, and deeply felt my life taking an unpredictable turn. It was a phone call with my mother who told me that her travel agent recommended not to book those tickets to Australia, because of the COVID crisis. Our family plans were shuttered. Since then, with extreme health concerns, lockdowns and border closures, I have been living in the unknown – when would I see my parents and sisters again. Sometimes it feels like an if rather than a when. That uncertainty has been heavy on my chest since last March, to which along the way many more were added.
Being a parent to a toddler during this time has often left me feeling trapped and exhausted. Long weeks of isolation without childcare and minimal supports (both physical and emotional), has felt like a Sisyphean task rather than any kind of slowing down. Working in mental health – counselling mere centimetres away from my bed, has felt hard and intrusive. Listening to others’ pain and anxiety around this time was harder than usual – with so many fears and agonies shared with my clients.
Slowing down for me is when my toddler is entertained and I can rest my legs and peacefully chat to another adult. Slowing down is carving out time for self care – whether it’s Pilates, eating out, writing or attending a poetry night. Slowing down is knowing my cleaner comes this week, and using my energy wisely, conserving for the important stuff, like quality time with my family. Slowing down is having my parents visit, spend time with them and enjoy watching them take some educational and caring load off my shoulders. Not being able to access any of those things for long months, almost all year long, hasn’t felt like slowing down. Spending energy I don’t have, parenting non-stop, working from home, dealing with increased physical pain without crucial exercises, coming up with all the educational activities for my child and more, have felt like a race. Missing family, near and far, managing anxiety about everyone’s health and the state of our world, has been exhausting.
Many people around the world have had much less luck than me, living in countries where social distancing is impossible, healthcare systems are collapsing and/or inaccessible to many, have been forced into poverty and buried their loved ones. Many people did not receive the healthcare they deserved because of their disabilities, skin colour or other discriminatory practices. Many people have been separate from partners and children for long months. Others are still waiting for essential healthcare delayed by the pandemic.
Slowing down is a privilege many of us haven’t got. For me, this year felt like trying to float in a rough sea – constantly being pushed under, struggling to breathe, with limbs constantly flinging around to keep me afloat.
To finish this year, I wish all of us a safer 2021 – a year of equality, health, safety and prosperity for all.
Until next time,
Liel K. Bridgford
A highlight of isolation, when cuddling a bath toy was as much slowing down as it got. [Image description: a portrait of Liel (a white person) sitting in front of a black metal bookcase, cuddling a pink bath toy with her hand and face. She is wearing a grey jumper and brown glasses and is smiling at the camera. Various books are seen in the background.]
Having good intentions isn’t always enough, right? Many people believe accessibility and equality are important, but don’t realise they have a role to play in making those happen – through everyday life choices.
Becoming a better ally to the disability community is something anyone can do. It doesn’t take a huge investment of time, money or effort. It’s not about changing your way of life, dreams or aspirations (unless those involve contributing to the further marginalisation of disabled people). You can give back by carrying some of the weight of an ableist society – through educating yourself, making mindful choices and educating others. It is that simple.
Let’s start with the basics, in case you’ve missed it. What is ableism? Ableism is the discrimination and marginalisation of people based on incorrect and oppressive systems that abnormalises bodies and minds. Bodies and/or minds that are deemed abnormal are excluded, mistreated, even killed in our societies. From my experience of living in two countries, travelling, connecting and reading – ableism is universal. Ableism is many-years-old and crosses many cultures, although it has distinct characters in differing parts of the world, different classes, races and genders.
As a disability advocate, I carry an advocacy burden. The advocacy burden is the accumulation of time, effort, physical, mental, spiritual, and social energy, as well as financial commitment and risks that I take in order to improve the lives of disabled people. This include everything from running this website, to writing social media posts, to calling out ableist slurs in my social groups, to calling out discriminatory practices at my workplace, and much more. Facing backlash from calling out is also a part of the burden experienced by many advocates I know. It often involves bullying, hate, harassment and gaslighting.
This advocacy burden is heavy on our shoulders. On top of navigating inaccessible spaces, attitudes, advocating for our needs, and dealing with trauma, we also carry the responsibility for change. This should not be the case though. Just like all humans are responsible for gender and race equality, we are all responsible for carrying the burden of an ableist society, and to dismantle ableist systems and ideas.
This holiday season I invite you to carry at least a tiny bit of the advocacy burden, so that we can start the new year a little more equal. Here are a few things you can try this holiday season (and beyond).
Start by educating yourself from disabled people themselves. There are many great resources out there. If you need somewhere to start, go to my socials for ideas. Educate yourself about what it means to live with a disability, what kind of barriers we face every day – in attitudes, physical spaces, the medical system, in our social groups. You can do this through reading own voices books, blogs, articles, essays and social media content. Listen to music written and performed by disabled musicians. Watch movies and series written and/or produced by disabled people. Listen to a podcast hosted by disabled people. Search for disability stories wherever you get entertained.
Think of disability as a regular, common, normal experience, and commit to thinking from this lens when you live, love and work. A tip to remember and priorities this is filling your social media feed with disabled, cool people (like me) who will remind you that accessibility and acceptance are critical. Ask yourself how accessible is your workplace. Advocate for change as needed.
Call out ableism in physical spaces – Think of access when you visit public places. Consider asking about accessibility before your visit any venue – and put your money into accessible venues. When you visit the next coffee shop, restaurant, hotel, caravan park, etc, consider its accessibility. Does it have wide, step-free access? Can a disabled person reach the toilet and open its door easily? Is there a step to get in to the premises or the bathrooms? These are just examples (not an exhaustive list). When you visit obviously-inaccessible spaces, challenge this and invite the owners to make access a priority. You can do this with any of the options below:
I’m wondering why you have a step here rather than a ramp? | I’m curious to know why your toilet is upstairs? | Did you notice you have a step at the entry? Do you know that there are 1 in 5 people in Australia living with disabilities? Making your shop accessible will help you get more customers.
Talk to your family and friends about ableist slurs. Show them my post about ableist slurs if you need a starting point. You can start the conversation with “I read something interesting recently about ableist slurs, do you know what that is? Just like there are racist slurs we know are inappropriate, there are ableist slurs we should think about. I’ll send you a link to read about it.”
Call out ableism in everyday language – calling out slurs is a great start, and you can do this using the following suggestions:
“Did you know that’s actually an ableist slur? I’d appreciate if we can avoid those in respect to the many people living with disabilities.” |“The word ***** is actually a slur. Do you mind using something else instead? You can try ludicrous, unpredictable, ridiculous, absurd, unreal, unbelievable”. |“Did you know the word ****** is actually a slur? Instead you can say silly, ignorant, impulsive, risky, dipshit.”
Make your holiday social media posts accessible – start with an image descriptions for your pics, captions for your video, and high colour contrasts for your text.
If you have a useful strategy to carry the advocacy burden, feel free to comment below or on my socials (@Lielkbridgford).
May we all have a happy, accessible and welcoming holiday season.
This is a post that’s a little different than usual – short and sharp, and hopefully leaves you want to read more.
Over the last several months I’ve been contemplating my next steps, hoping to do more writing and creating. A few weeks ago I resigned from my work in a non-for-profit and am now in the process of figuring out. Many people ask me what’s next and the simple answer is I don’t know, and sometimes it’s nice not to know.
The unknown is scary and intimidating but also exciting and energising.
I have several ideas brewing and I’ve started working on several projects (some community, creative, or a combination). I promise to share when anything concrete comes to fruition.
Meanwhile, I wanted to share a little of how it feels to be in this space, so here is the first stanza of a new poem (I wrote especially for you):
—
The path may not
reveal itself
upon my calling,
it may keep winding
by its own tune.
—
P.S. I do not usually share my poems fully because I hope to publish them somewhere beyond this blog. If you want to read or see more, head to my socials (@LielKBridgford), follow me, and tell a friend.
Trigger warning: mental health, anxiety, mention of suicidal thoughts and a brief mention of suicide attempts.
Mental health has been for many years and in many cultures, a taboo topic to be avoided. The mental health of individuals with physical disability is often overlooked in the medical system and society. Still to this day, specialist clinics caring for infants and children with disabilities rarely employ mental health trained professionals, nor does emotional, psychological or social wellbeing is included in treatment goals and choices. I know this from working in mental health and from my personal and community experience.
We know that children and adults with physical disabilities are more susceptible to social difficulties, mental distress, suicide thoughts and attempts[i]. It has previously been recommended that physicians become aware of such issues[ii]. Unfortunately, little seemed to have changed since my days of growing up in the 1990’s.
When I was growing up, my treatments, managed by leading paediatric orthopaedic surgeons, focused on my leg’s shape, length and angle. The social, emotional and psychological implications of my treatments and disability, were a sidenote for my family to deal with. My family has done their best to handle my huge feelings as I was growing up, with little mental health literacy or support. Throughout the years I have gone through multiple traumas, stemming from my environment, rather than my body. My self-esteem and self-worth have suffered as I’ve watched only able-bodied people succeeding in society. I’ve experienced anxiety and suicidal thoughts as I was excluded and forced to quietly take bullying and discrimination (Just ignore it!). I’ve developed a problematic relationship with food and my body. It is no wonder – as a kid who was repeatedly told by society and their doctors they are broken.
There was never appropriate support for my mental health or social barriers. When I expressed distress brought about by bullying or unsolicited treatment or discrimination – the message was that I needed to handle these on my own, or within the family. The psychological and social issues impacting me were my burden to carry, and if I couldn’t cope – well, that was not an option.
My mental health has significantly improved throughout the years since the end of my treatment – not because my leg is ‘normal’ (it isn’t), but because I have gained control over my life and body, as well as a community to connect with and a voice to advocate with. Using knowledge, vocabulary and safe spaces I acquired, I can now recognise more clearly when I’m struggling. I have learned what my anxiety feels like and how my downward spirals look like. Facing my mental health just like any other health issue, helps me find old and new strategies to channel my strengths and handle distress. I often write some of my best pieces in weird mental spaces!
I have been very lucky to have supportive family and friends throughout the years, who have helped me get through and find my paths. I have also been privileged to access wonderful support in recent years, as well as a community. Not everyone is as lucky.
The mental distress risks for any child, adolescent and adult living with physical disabilities, are often preventable. Our society needs to change – visibility, inclusion and access are essential. Just as important is the consideration of psychosocial factors in disabled children and adults’ treatments and supports. Every health professional caring for people with disabilities must be aware of these risks and enable appropriate supports and advocacy. Every mental health professional must become aware of disability issues.
It is time to talk about how ableism in society, in the medical system, in workplaces and in the education system – all impact mental health of individuals with disabilities. We must acknowledge that ableism, discrimination, bullying and exclusion all have a huge part to play in disabled lives’ mental health. We must acknowledge that much anxiety, depression, frustration, trauma and suicidal ideation, can be prevented through social change. Prioritising each individual’s needs is key. Disability equity should look like every disabled person having a full say in what they need, children included. Social and psychological supports, including advocacy and decision-making supports, should be prioritised as essential services, not a side-note.
This is a matter of life or death, as well as respect and quality of life. We all deserve to live our best life, and no one’s health should suffer because of their race, disability status, gender, or sexual orientation.
Like many other disability advocates, I too want to dispel stereotypes about disability being a horrible thing. What we need to include in this conversation is the intersection between physical disabilities and mental health. I certainly don’t have all the answers. We all must ask the questions.
Let’s practice thinking of the complex – instead of oversimplifying this world. Having a disability is normal, it is cool, and it is sexy. Experiencing mental distress and social struggles because of it – is not.
