Tag: #selfempowerment

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A letter to the over-achiever part of myself

CW: Internalised ableism.

Dear protective mechanism named achievement-focus,

For the purpose of this letter I will call you Little Creature – as you are like a separate being to myself who lives inside my mind influencing me to varying degrees, depending on my vulnerability at the time, and perhaps your mood. 

I am writing to you today because your presence in my life has become more prominent recently. You stick your head through a doggy-door and say hello by telling me the decision to study psychology instead of medicine was giving up. You wave by telling me staying in a job for over four years is stagnation.

I know you very well. Like a ghost you have a tendency to go undetected for a while, leading me on as if you’ve disappeared forever, in those breaks you take from sitting on my mind’s bank like a devil directing my interpretation of the world. Recently I have come to understand your origin, which is of course intertwined with my own.

Growing up I knew I was different from others – I had a ‘leg problem’ and that was a bad thing I had to live with. In order to make sense of life’s unfairness and my fate of pain, bullying, constant operations and traumas, I’ve come up with an equation that made life bearable. It was: pain + special powers = a sensible world. If special powers was removed from the equation, the world did not make sense anymore. I could also replace pain with trauma/disability/hospital visits/bullying etc. So then I’d get for instance bullying + special powers = a sensible world. This worked because bullying or trauma are painful parts of human life. Special powers however, are obviously a positive, uplifting part of life. This way the world could remain at lease a neutral place, somehow fair. I got a really bad luck item in my basket of life, but at least I had some undefined special powers – it meant not only the world was not so cruel but I was a worthy human after all. The simple conclusion I reached was I must hold some extraordinary qualities which compensated for my disability and associated pains – achievements resulting from these qualities were going to make it all worthwhile. This interpretation is not unique to myself. Other disabled people have described a similar experience. There is a social and historical context to this of course, as disability has previously been seen as a punishment or a gift depending on the time and culture one examines. Perhaps these reflect human’s natural tendency to attempt making sense of the world – to order its uncompromising chaos.

Anyway, this is how you came to be – Little Creature, you were born in that small room in our Tel-Aviv apartment on my single bed, above the blue checkered mattress. You were born in my mind and helped me feel as if the world was actually not a terrible place after all, I was worthy after all. You have helped making life bearable. You’ve helped me clean those Ilizarov pins and get through being teased. You have been effective all the while you’ve developed strong roots in my brain to help me survive.

But what about now? 

Now so much has changed – my life, the society I live in, my body and my roles. Everything has changed and so must we. I no longer think the world must be sensible. The equation does not make sense because the world is not neutral. It is much more complicated – even if I tried I could not assign a single value which will carry across genders, countries, cultures, days or even moments. Sometimes the world is fantastic and great things happen, nevertheless simultaneously terrible things happen. There is no simplifying this mess. I also don’t see my disability as a bad thing anymore. Regardless, you, Little Creature, keep telling me that if I do more, if I get ahead somehow, if I reach sufficient success, then the world will be ok. Then I will be ok – I will be worthy.

Today I want to tell you, Little Naïve Creature, that you have been exposed. You cannot hide as I won’t let you act in the background like a puppeteer telling me to be better all the time (i.e. that I’m not good enough) or accusing my past choices were wrong because I am still not there – in that elusive destination of success which will make my worth stable forever.

Right now I know my worth has nothing to do with my achievements. Knowing intellectually and experiencing in one’s body are two distinct things. I hope that this letter will help my body remember this, and internalise it so that you will become powerless, or at least weaker. You are no longer needed. My goals are to be happy and healthy, not to reach any particular milestone you think I should. As I am writing this, you are still whispering that’s not true and also giving me examples of goals I should have in order to be happy. But I am the most content right now – writing and reflecting in silence except for the dishwasher rain-like flow, paralleling the words I’m creating.

I know you are not leaving anytime soon, so this is not a goodbye. This is a hello, from now on I am perceptively watching you – I know what you are doing and I won’t let you spoil this for me. 

Liel K. Bridgford 

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Leaving Performance Anxiety at Home

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/

https://www.instagram.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.

Until next time. 

L. K. Bridgford 

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An Illusion of an Evolution

CW: ableism, parental ableism, grief about disability, anger. 

A recent article published by The Age discussed an exciting and revolutionary podcast called “Too Peas in a Podcast”. Hosted by two mothers of disabled children, it is presented as a safe place to talk about their difficulties as they raise their children. This initiative may be perceived as contributing to the building of social support networks or as raising awareness – both of which are integral to the wellbeing of parents and children alike. What unfolds in the content of the podcast and the article though, is in fact detrimental to the wellbeing of disabled people. 

In the article, the hosts used the stage to describe their revolutionary idea of having a “living grief”. This refers to the supposedly inherit continuous process of grieving one’s disabled child’s life. This essential building block of the podcast is in fact an old idea, which shames disabled people. Parents used to sacrifice their disabled children to the Gods, as an offering for their sins. Disabled people used to be (and still are), thrown into institutions, ignored and silenced. Disable people have always been seen as a burden on their families and society. Being sad, even distraught by having a disabled child is based on the presumption that disability is a bad thing, a tragedy.

The “living grief” and other negative perceptions of disability continuously present themselves in the podcast. In the episode discussing stigma, one of the hosts shared she has kept her children’s ADHD diagnosis a secret in their school to avoid stigma. She referred to it as “not managed very well” and argued it should be considered a disability because it relates to brain dysfunction. She went on to suggest that if ADHD would be considered a disability, no stigma would be attached to it. Only a small amount of research or connection with the disability community would prove that this is highly unlikely. The other host, a mother of a child with cerebral palsy, said in regard to her child’s diagnosis “You can’t fix it.”. It is clear the hosts view disability as tragic, their children as faulty to be “managed” and “fixed”, who deserve to be grieved about.

These messages are based on the objectifying medical model, on which the discrimination against disabled people has been based on for generations. It perpetuates the idea that bodily impairments are bad and are the basis of disability – suggesting that people who are not “typical” are objects to be handled and fixed by medical professionals. This is disabling – it means society blames individuals for their disabilities and takes no responsibility for including everyone.

This podcast isn’t revolutionary, it conforms to old and shaming ideas about disability. Ableism is not a revolution- it is the oppression of disabled people. The impact of these ideas run deep in our veins. When a child learns that they need to hide who they are to be accepted, that they’ve caused grief to their parents by being born – they internalise this ableism, and in turn suffer from guilt, shame, depression, anxiety. They may even consider suicide. 

The social model of disability, developed by disabled people, asserts that disability is based on limitations in the society one lives in, rather than individual bodies. Limitations include both physical and attitudinal barriers. Too Peas in a Podcast puts significant attitudinal barriers within the lives of disabled people. 

What is new though, is that we will no longer be silenced. I feel proud to say my community of disabled folks is strong and comforting. We are not to be grieved for. We are not to be silenced. We are, just like any other human – to be celebrated. We deserve to be happy about being alive, without others grieving our births. And so today I celebrate – being a disabled woman. I celebrate all my disabled siblings across the globe, who stand or sit or lay by my side. It is time that our voices be heard.

The absentminded punchline of the episode was that people should be careful with content they share, to avoid hurting others, and that “If you’re not living it, why are you sharing it?” Good question indeed. If you’re not the person living with the impacts of discrimination, ableism, shaming, lack of access, people grieving for your life, objectification – why are you sharing it?

Step aside and give us the stage. Be an ally and call out ableism. 

Until next time,

L. K. Bridgford