This is what ableism feels like
Hello,
Apologies for the radio silence. Life got on top of me a bit and I needed some time off. But I’m back! Hello.
Unsurprisingly, the reason life got on top of me was simple: too much ableism in a short space of time, especially the particularly nasty brand of it engendered by the assisted dying debate. I felt fuzzy and emotional and sad, so I closed the laptop, read a book, saw my friends, and generally looked after myself a bit. (Incidentally, I asked my best mate if taking time off meant I’d finally learned my lesson and she said “depends if you stick to it,” and then I ended up writing a piece on Saturday, so the jury is still out and also, yikes, talk about being overly known.)
Anyway, I have been trying very hard to reckon with the emotional fall out of ableism. At the same time, I had a conversation with someone recently about how ableism can be so subtle that sometimes I recognise it as a feeling before my brain kicks in to tell me what is happening. She looked perplexed, and I explained that 30 years in I can sense ableism from the way my body reacts to someone’s tone of voice when they say hello. And it all got me thinking that maybe we’re very good at talking about what ableism is, where it comes from, and how it affects our lives - and very bad at talking about how it feels.
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So, today, let’s fix that. This is what it feels like to experience ableism:
That moment when I recognise ableism feels glue in my throat as I try to make myself heard. It feels like the taste of old metal. Adrenaline. It feels like charcoal smoke in my eyes and in my lungs. On the worst days it feels like a cheese grater on a paper cut that only just healed, my skin raw and smarting from the constant aggravation of the same old wound.
When I see the awkwardness in your face or hear the condescending tone of your voice, it feels simply like I've been here before, like I’m stuck in my own particular version of Groundhog Day. Like someone has strapped me to a cinema seat and pressed play on the same movie over and over and now I'm bored of the ending. It feels like I just want to watch something else but for some reason I don’t get to choose.
In an instant, it feels like everything has been made heavier than it should be, the world's bright hues just a little muted. Like there's a dirty-dank window pain between me and everyone else that makes the world feel grotty and grimy. Like I’ve tried to go in the front door only to be told I’ve been relegated to the back alley, just me and the bins.
It feels I’ve summoned all my strength to be optimistic, to dare to stretch out a hand to a stranger in the hope of being treated fairly, and now I have to snatch it back and put the heavy armour back on so I can get through the next hour, days, weeks without being injured any further. It feels like covering up my bubbliness and warmth and replacing them with a cold person I don’t really like; responding to being dehumanised by dehumanising myself. It feels like mistrust. It feels like bitterness.
It accumulates, this feeling. I know the twist in my gut and the tightness in my chest as well as I know the way home. I hate that I can sense a storm swell in a tiny wave. I hate that I have surfed its rough, undulating rhythms so many times that I know when to brace. I hate that I have leaned to stay calm and steady myself. Where does all that accumulated anger and hurt and bitterness go? Sometimes it feels like it’s all just sloshing around inside me, and a single extra drop could cause it - and me - to spill out and never stop.
Until next week,
Lucy