Some thoughts on invisible illnesses and disability benefits.
To whom it may concern, those who have vocalized their feelings on these matters so far and those who haven’t,
Fuck you to hell and back for thinking you have a goddamn thing to say about whether or not I’m disabled based upon how “able” I appear to you, or about how I should behave because I am disabled in order to make you feel ok about paying fucking taxes.
Would you prefer that I get a tattoo of the kind of agonizing fucking pain I experience internally when I’m at my most crazed, another one that’s a visual manifestation of the kind of oppressive inertia I have to wade through just to make it downstairs to feed myself most days, or yet another one of the fucking Jackson Pollock painting that a chart of my sleep and wake times looks like, just so it isn’t “invisible” to you?
Do you think being well-spoken or talented automatically translates to being sane, able or healthy?
Have you ever suffered from a neurological disorder that, at last count, 4 doctors in the world, none of whom are within 3000 miles of you, specialize in?
Would you prefer if I just shut up and took my crumbs rather than trying to derive any joy out of what’s left of my life, after decades of being alternately neglected, antagonized, abused and…shit, the words literally just fell out of my head. That happens all the time, by the way. It’s invisible, though. Oh yeah, marginalized and…nope, that 5th word’s still gone, from like 5 minutes ago…you get the idea, though.
Would you rather that I stop collecting benefits and suffer or just die, instead of spending your hard-earned tax dollars that would otherwise be spent on transvaginal ultrasounds, beating people who protest inhumane behavior by the government, bombing brown people, locking people up for smoking weed and/or felony interference with a business model, or Joseph fucking Lieberman’s salary?
You can do what you want after reading this, but I’m not going to stop being your friend if you have feelings that come within miles of any of the above, because if I do, it’ll be way too easy for you to continue to be this fucking wrongheaded to the other people in your life who bleed in any way similar to the way I do.
I am a living, breathing example of mental, emotional and neurological illness.
It’s not always easy to understand or process.
It sure as hell isn’t pretty.
It isn’t even visible most of the time because if it were, I’d be in a padded cell.
No matter how fond of me you are on my good days, your fondness will never erase how completely, royally and utterly fucked up I am, how I’ve been shit on for not being able to hold it together and work the fucking fields like you can, how I’ve struggled with it in the past, or how I will continue to struggle with it for the rest of my life.
No matter how “together” I seem, I’m really not.
The best part? You’ll love this, I’ve had it laying around for about 15 years as part of a stupid pop song I haven’t been able to finish because sometimes, I can’t even finish a stupid fucking pop song.
“All it’d take is one bad day to make you like me…”