In this week’s episode of the podcast, I spoke with Laura Pettenuzzo about internalised ableism, how using a wheelchair can be easier than walking, physio, writing days, spoons, dating with disabilities, easy English, how our intersections shape our reading and writing, chopped vegetables.
If you need support after listening – you can contact Lifeline on 13 11 14 in Australia (24/7). If you’re anywhere else, you can find support here: https://www.befrienders.org
In this episode of the podcast, I spoke with Zoe Simmons about chronic pain, how weight and gender shapes our experience of the medical system, internalised ableism, changing our relationship with mobility aids, mental health challenges, shame, pride and so much more!
Content note: this episode contains discussions about fatphobia, ableism, Mental illness, suicide, sexual harrasment and assault
If you need support after listening – you can contact Lifeline on 13 11 14 in Australia (24/7). If you’re anywhere else, you can find support here: https://www.befrienders.org
In this episode, I spoke with Jess Japuscinski-Evans about sex on premesis access, what’s it like to be queer and disabled, public transport, Activism, allyship, emerging and elders in the arts space, disability-related humour, bringing together the physical disability and psycho-social disability communities, and much more.
Content note for ableism – please take care as you listen.
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 (24/7). If you’re anywhere else, you can find support here: https://www.befrienders.org
In this episode, I had an enriching conversation with Sonja Plitt, whose eloquent honesty impressed me. It was particularly powerful to hear their journey with gender, and with national shame.
We talk about national perpetrators and victims, intergenerational trauma, gender, labels, how language impacts and shapes reality, cultural shame, mental health and much more.
Content note: mental health, Holocaust, intergenerational trauma, sexual assault, ableism and transphobia
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
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.]
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.
CW: COVID anxiety and grief, intergenerational trauma.
It was the death anniversaries of both my grandparents a couple of weeks ago. Here is a letter I wrote to them:
“I want to tell you about what you’re missing right now. You might be here, somehow, somewhere, with us. But I’ll tell you anyway, the way that I see things.
Only a few months ago my mum was planning a trip to Australia. Our little family was enjoying our new routine – feeling on top of our work and life. The delicate balance was somehow maintained. My toddler and I were going on little adventures – a museum, libraries, playdates, train rides. We’d take Chilli for walks and meet our friends. I’d drink coffee and chat to a friend while the toddler was learning about sharing with his little mates. I was going to work, and the toddler was settling into a new daycare. In my little free time I wrote and even performed my poetry. I got a great gig as a feature poet.
Then, in what felt like a spilt second, our world has completely changed. Your experiences in Europe with the Nazis means you’d know how this feels, and much worse.
One day coronavirus was some disease in a far-away land. Another day there were people locked on an island off Australia to prevent it spreading here. Then my mum’s travel agent told her not to book flights, tickets were non-refundable. Worse, you could get quarantined in an unknown location for an indefinite amount of time. A little while later, coronavirus was everywhere. Countries under lockdown, the disease spreading, people dying. I doubted whether I should go to poetry nights. I read an article about social distancing and got worried about daycare.
My in-laws were about to go caravanning, then they weren’t. Lockdown was discussed, and we started feeling more claustrophobic at home. I felt a little ill and the toddler was a bit congested, so we started isolating ourselves. Lockdown was announced by the Government. We sent Chilli away to my in-laws so we can avoid walking around the contaminated streets. My anxiety was so high, I started seeing germs everywhere. Other humans looked like incubators for death traps. My hands started cracking from the washing. Then they bled. We started working from home, taking turns caring for the increasingly irritated toddler. He was watching a lot of television. We’ve contemplated our next move.
The house was packed in a haste, with books, toys, clothes and last few toilet paper rolls. We drove down as the toddler was screaming in the back and I kept passing him the phone. I felt like crying but didn’t have enough space. We haven’t seen anyone but delivery people for weeks. The toddler hasn’t played with another child for a very long time. He asks about his friends and we talk to them, which is often upsetting for him. I also get teary chatting to loved ones – it breaks my heart when he asks for cuddles he cannot have, not knowing when he might be able to. I miss every person in my life I cannot see right now. I grieve the time he is missing away from friends, grandparents and aunties.
I’ve been crying more than usual, my heart aches more than before. Germ anxiety has entered my system. I stopped wearing my rings because they were getting in the way of the hand-washing. I am tired and irritated. Without my usual exercises, my leg and back are sore. Some moments an urge arises to wail under the covers for a really long time. I crave hugs with far-away loved ones, not knowing if and when we’d see them next. On my mind are loved ones who have long left us.
But I am confident we’ll be ok. One of the reasons I know this is because in my blood runs your experiences of the late 1930’s: I know how it feels to walk around fearing you’d be taken and never returned. I know what it’s like to say goodbye to everything that is home, without a choice, because you need to take the best chance of survival. As we debated what to do, I remembered these feelings.
Although sometimes it feels like I’m still running away from Nazis, I also hold the hope of things turning out ok. Although anxiety runs through my veins, so do strength and resilience. Your ability to leave everything behind to save your life, to cross borders and live in fear for years – also lives within my heart. You lived through sixty years of war, sent your children and grandchildren to fight wars you didn’t really believe in. You have taught me to breath through life’s challenges, to keep going, and believe it will be ok, whatever it’d be.
Your smiles and embrace keep me going. My worries of my son’s language dissipates a little when I remember it wasn’t even your preferred language. We will be all right, whatever happens. Most likely it’d be a new life – a new world is upon us. I don’t use the phrase ‘back to normal’, because things are forever changed – they always are.
Just so you know, we are settling into a new routine, and we are extremely lucky. Unlike others in the world, we have clean water, soap, disinfectant, a fantastic health system. We are ok.”
Until next time,
L. K. Bridgford
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If you follow me on social media, you would’ve seen I’ve had my very first feature in a poetry night. Actually, do you follow me on social media? If not-follow me to support my writing and see what I’m up to between posts: https://www.facebook.com/L.K.Bridgford/
So, what is a feature? In most poetry nights an established poet is introduced, then takes the stage for a longer reading than others, privileged to be a central part of the event. When I first started reading at poetry events, I wondered how one becomes a feature, and looked up at those who were skillfully presenting. I’ve observed that majority of feature poets I’ve seen are at least 1. Regular attendants at such events 2. Great poets 3. Strong performers and sometimes 4. Published.
At the time I wasn’t a regular attendant, I barely considered myself a poet, and my performances resembled more of a frightened kitten in a pet shop than a confident spoken word performer. With time, my confident grew and my performance improved. If I’d recorded myself and put the videos one after the other, you’d see my head and gaze gradually moving up from my phone towards the audience, to a point I could make eye contact. You’d also hear my voice rising with each night. The shake of my hands slowly dissipated, so I could use them to hold the microphone or gesture alongside the words of my poems.
Then I was gratefully and kindly invited to become a feature in a local poetry night called Be Mused – Poetry & Humanity. I was somewhat nervous about it. I knew it was a unique opportunity to showcase my skills, connect with the poetry community, as well as receive some feedback and recognition for the work I’ve been doing. It was also a chance to prove to everyone (myself especially), how much I sucked.
I got as organised as I could before the feature; decided on an outfit (which I ditched in the last minute), decided on poems to read and the order in which to read them (which I changed a few hours before the night). I took a couple of the poems to my writing group and received the worst feedback about one of them. “The line…is the most poetic line in this text, and I don’t like it.” I took the feedback quietly, with a smile and an open mind. I pondered what this feedback meant for hours and reached several possible conclusions: 1. This poem sucks. 2. This person didn’t like this poem. 3. I am useless as a writer & poet and should give up immediately. 4. The poem has potential, but it’d need a complete re-write. or 5. I have excessively high self-confidence, therefore my ability to objectively reflect on my writing skills is zero. Therefore I probably suck at writing, but at other things I think I’m good at too. I most definitely should not go on stage to perform as a feature poet and embarrass myself. I didn’t want to be seen as overconfident and presumptuous.
Eventually I settled on options 2 and 4 as most comfortable to handle. After all, I cannot give up now. I’ve already said I’ll be there, and if any or all other options are true, I shall find out on the night. I decided to do the feature anyway and also read that poem, because most other feedback about it was different (i.e. positive) and I wanted to read it.
In The Zone. Image: a white woman’s face as she is reading a poem into a red microphone. she is wearing brown glasses and colorful artwork is visible behind her.
I remembered what I enjoyed when listening to other people. I decided to do more ‘me’ and less ‘nerves’, leaving my nerves at home. I aimed to be in the moment and connect with my poems and the audience. With this in mind I took the stage (read: just stood at the front of the room). I was incredibly lucky to have support people with me. I was hearing clicks from the audience as I was going along, meaning they liked what they’d heard. ‘I’m not completely rubbish’ I thought as those fingers clicked in the background. My strategy seemed to have worked. Notably, I enjoyed it.
Are you listening? Image: a woman standing in a dim room, a small light shining towards a stand in front of her. She is looking at the audience, reading into a microphone. Some people from the audience are partly visible in the background.
I walked out refreshed and inspired, as one feels after a long hot shower. The positive feedback is the most exhilarating and scary thing. Self-doubt pops up and says things like ‘What if these were your best poems? it’s all downhill from here’. These doubts and anxieties are to be expected. This is the talk of the achiever side of me, which has been on autopilot for so long. Having to be ‘great’ or the best, because otherwise I’ll just be me (read: disabled human) and that’s not enough. Luckily, I know better than that now. I write because I want to write, writing itself is the goal. The creative side of my brain has been dormant for too long, like a deserted petrol station in a ghost mining town. Now it is finally free, and all I intend to do is let it be.
Goodbye, performance anxiety.
Feeling like a real poet with my poems organised and ordered in a folder. I also got lucky in the draw, supporting the Australian Red Cross. Image: a book laid on a black folder. The book is Unexpected Clearing – Poems by Rose Lucas.
