Does It Serve Me Well?

I came across a question reading Confessing Queer. Does the culture in which I find myself serve my mind, body, and heart? The quick answer is no, but I believe the longer explanation bares elucidation.

In this case, culture refers to what we as a people believe, the standards by which we collectively judge the world around us, and what we expect from individuals. We are an industrialized, productivity-oriented, evaluation based on results society where what you can do is highly valued along with how you look. Though pluralistic, democratic principles permeate our social fabric so that even outside of government, majority rules.

Does this mindset positively impact my mind, body, or heart? I don't produce, achieve expected results, or even do things in the usual, efficient ways. I look different, want different, and feel different.

Think about that for a minute. I live in a world that, by its nature, says I am of lesser value because I do not produce, am a failure since I need help, and take up valuable resources. On an individual level, a child raised with such negativity would not thrive nor would anyone expect it. How, then, is it any less damaging to an adult when her society believes it?

I am beginning to confront some painful realities and not liking it much. I tend to kick and scream my way through such a process. It is messy, unpleasant, and deepens my sense of isolation. But, well, moments of revelation come when they come and working through things happens without one's convenience or comfort in mind.

The revelations are these: I will have medical issues cropping up routinely for the rest of my life because I am medically fragile. The things I want – either because I was taught to or genuinely want them – such as home, family, and avocation are not statistically likely. In fact, they are very unlikely. Finally, hard isn't a word to describe a period of my life but a word that will describe the rest of my life.

Have I depressed you yet? That's not my intent. My point is that I inhabit a specific reality that means certain things and I should really accept them so I can stop making myself miserable. Medical issues aren't bad unless I buy into the idea that they are. It is possible to learn to want other things that are more likely. A hard life is not a bad life.

I spent years clearing society's beliefs about beauty out of my head and heart. Somehow I seem to have left many ablist beliefs that do not serve me well. It's time to do more than just decry them from the pages of this blog. It's time to actually stop believing them.

The Stories WE Tell

Because they are primarily associated with creations of fiction, Stories have acquired a bad reputation. When the word refers to events in our lives, it calls their validity into question. In this blog, I tell stories frequently in the hopes that they will convey a truth better than an explicit statement for "Truth dressed as story can be easier to embrace." The color of context, character and surroundings does not dilute or nullify the genuineness of my experiences, but it does transform it into something softer. Same end message with a more pleasant mode of receiving it.

Our lives can be framed as a series of stories we tell ourselves and others. It goes beyond anecdotes to encompass an overall message. My story, for example, is about how disability has shaped me giving it the power of a character that can impact plot. My life contains a story about how circumstances impact two people in very distinct ways. My presence out in the world tells anyone listening how what is thought to be life-ending can be the opposite.

Unspoken stories – those conveyed without me saying a word – have one kind of power. My spoken narrative, I have found, has a transformational strength uniquely its own. I can give a lecture with facts and theory that articulates why plastic surgery is a solution to body image issues that appeals because it takes less effort but also has a shelf-life because we all age. I can also stand before a room telling a string of stories about my experiences with reconstructive surgery and how I felt by it's end. Then, I can describe the various events and phases that morphed my body image into something healthier. While the same truth is conveyed, the one with greater transmutative power contains my life stories.

And then there are the stories about me that other's create. They are woven around the 'truths' of my life others believe they know, such as my life is full of hardships, I must possess special abilities as compensation, or even simply I cannot do x activity. From I cannot drive," they imagine a tragedy of isolation and loneliness with me as the unfortunate protagonist. As is the case with that example, there can be a kernel of truth in the reality they have fashioned. Just enough truth so that a vague vision gains the substance of fact in the inventor's mind.

When I run up against people who are operating based on these supposed facts, I tend to feel like I've hit an unmovable wall. There I stand, a living, breathing contradiction of their story, and yet it has no power to change the plot or elements of their tale. I often must engage in gorilla tactics to cause alteration. One always successful ploy is to say something that involves the phrase "I am the co-coordinator of the San Diego Bisexual Forum."

I would have less objection to these narratives if they did not inform action. People creating stories about my helplessness is one thing. People treating me like I'm helpless is quite another. Behavior of others evokes tears and yells, frustration and pain. Ultimately, I tend to take such events, treat them with sarcastic humor, and create my own stories to lessen their sting.

Unfortunately, sometimes the stories spun by others have sway over even me, especially when it comes to narratives about my value as a person. Often such tales begin with incontrovertible truths such as I don't work or pay taxes, I receive social welfare aid, and I need help to accomplish daily tasks. Intertwined with these truths are societal beliefs about independence, what is considered a worthy contribution to the world, and what is assumed about my ability to achieve. Suddenly, a story springs forth that has enough truth to make it as insidious as sand on a beach. One minute it's on the ground under your shoes and the next it's in your socks, stuck to your leg, and in your clothes. While you might clean it off with great dedication, it's somehow present that night when you undress.

It bothers me that other's stories profoundly effect me, engendering self-doubt and feelings of unworthiness. I wish I had a way to wall myself off from all of it. But, if I am going to believe in the transformative power of my own story, then I must acknowledge and accept that the stories others imagine for me have their own influence. This is why no matter how long I live or how hard I try, I will forever be effected by what others think.