I Hate The Disabled

This week, when PMDD disrupted my mood, SPD came back from pregnancy’s hell so every step made my pelvic bone feel like I was part wishbone and my husband found me on the floor in the middle of the night from what we now know is an ovarian cyst — my online therapist listened to me cry as I bottle fed my baby.


I told her I hated my body. It sucked at doing what it was supposed to do.

I told her my marriage was falling apart. (It totally isn’t.)

I told her that I’m a failure for not being able to work a typical job.

I told her that my baby was going to hate me in 15 years because of all my disabilities.

My therapist said something like, “Don’t you have a blog about disabilities? Aren’t you an advocate for people with disabilities? You’re putting someone with disabilities — because that’s what you have, not moral failings — through hell.”

Holy $%*#.


How am I hearting everyone’s stories on Instagram, publishing work I believe in and telling people to take care of themselves — while I’m absolutely trashing myself? Why do I find my fellow disabled peeps “disBABEled” and I haaaaaate myself?

My daughter will probably hate me in 15 years, but that’s because she’ll be 15 years and 4 months old.

So yes, motherhood involves some oxycodone right now and we’re spending most days in bed. But as June Jordan writes in her brilliant “Poem About My Rights” —

“I am not wrong: Wrong is not my name
My name is my own my own my own”

Every year I think, “I should probably stop hating myself.” Every year I forget to even try. My baby is going to be able to understand what I’m saying before I know it. If I don’t stop hating myself, I will teach her all my self hate — and I refuse to do that.

The first step? Admitting I have a problem. Here I am,  publicly calling myself out for not being a friend to disabled folks because I truly hate one of them for being disabled.

The next step? I don’t really know. I am open to suggestions!

I know that it involves creating things, it involves introspection and forgiveness and I need to work at it fiercely. As fiercely as the way that June Jordan poem ends:

“and I can’t tell you who the hell set things up like this
but I can tell you that from now on my resistance
my simple and daily and nightly self-determination
may very well cost you your life”



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