Good morning and happy Sunday, beloveds,
Today we have an assortment of smackage up on deck for you. Your professor, as some might know, is a disabled individual. That’s a crazy loaded term, “disabled” because a lot of so-called “normals” have all kinds of ideas and opinions about what “disability” means. First of all, every beloved, let’s do a little exercise. Close your sweet little eyeballs and visualize a “disabled”. Go.
WRONG! (well, maybe not. Some of my beloveds are super duper hip). This “disabled” doesn’t “look sick”. Oh, your professor wishes she had a dime or something for every time she’s heard this. Yes, beloveds, your professor looks fab. u. lous. She also carries chronic pain, has some muscles that decide to get all spastic on her sometimes, and a brain that occassionally (and this is SUPER FUN for an educator and writer. Super. Fun. ) cannot remember words, or confuses words that for whatever reason are filed in the bizarre filing cabinets of her grey little brain together. This is a multitude of isms, the most prevalent of which are psoriatic arthritis and a little something called fibromyalgia. This means that some days every muscle and a lot of the joints in my body are racked with pain, and if I do not give up my seat to you on the bus, even though I don’t “look sick”, there’s a very good reason. I have to maintain a very careful assortment of pharmaceuticals and supplements, and some days I have to make the decision between making tiny slow progress while in pain or medicating and watching PBS documentaries on TV because my brain won’t function for much else. Also, I have to manage my energy levels very, very carefully or I will run out of spoons. If you love or know someone who is disabled, please, please, please read the spoon link. Just read it. Or I will snap my lavender riding crop at you.
So, this smackupsidethehead is for every person who has shot me a glare for not standing up on public transit so that they can sit, when my calf muscles are in complete spasticity and I cannot balance, and my arms feel too shaky to hold on.
Or for everyone, anyone, every who has ever said “you don’t look sick” to me or any other person with a non-visible disability.
Or, for the cranky old lady who started piling her groceries onto the belt before I had even finished unloading my cart, then pushed her cart into my legs, then made a giant sigh so that I felt I didn’t deserve time to amply pack myself up, so that I left my motherfucking debit card in the machine and then panicked at dinner last night and then had to call and cancel it and then have to go tomorrow with energy I don’t have to spare to the bank to get a new one. Oh, cranky old broad, I have a very special smack to you.
Unless you are disabled, too. Then we’re totally cool.
Until tomorrow, wishing all my beloveds many, many spoons,