Background image by Elena on Pixabay
Text art and effects by Ornery Owl (Cara Hartley)
in the autumn of my life
I hoped to find a little peace
freedom from reminders
of how I've fucked up my life
but people just can't let me be
everyone insists on reminding me
that my body is broken
as if I didn't know
I've always wanted to be invisible
but I'm just too strange
seen as obscene
I want to leave this scene
let me pass by your screen unseen
should you see me walking by
turn a blind eye
please
can't you just let
this lonely xenomorph
walk on by
I want to leave this movie
I have a whole bunch to say, so I'll credit the prompts used first in case you'd rather stick with just the poem.
prompts
further thoughts
When I lived in the suburbs of a major city, I could anticipate randos shouting crap at me from cars if I tried to take a walk, so I never did.
I now live in a town of 134 people, many of whom want to be up in my business because, despite the fact that I want nothing more than to be invisible, I'm very visible.
My back is fucked up and I find that using an upright walker helps me keep pressure off my lower back so I can walk longer distances without pain. I can also stop and rest. This situation is unlikely to improve.
I need to either go out early in the morning or late in the evening because otherwise, it's just too "people" out there. As a wise soul once said, "I hate when I go out in public and the public be there."
I'm quite introverted and I have social anxiety. I used to alleviate my social anxiety by getting trashed. I don't want to get trashed anymore.
I can deal with people in small doses but I don't do well with people who either deliberately or inadvertently point out everything that is "wrong" with me. I also have body dysmorphic disorder and it is hard for me to see myself in a neutral light.
I don't like to call attention to myself but the big blue frame I use so I can walk with less pain is pretty damn visible.
I've always been different, and I've always been very aware that I was different. I once read an interview with Phil Lynott of Thin Lizzy where he discussed life as a mixed-race person in a primarily white country (Ireland.)
Phil said that he did not have a difficult childhood. His mother ran a bed and breakfast and provided a solidly middle-class lifestyle. Phil was well-liked at school and said that he never encountered any overt racism, but he was always extremely aware that he was different and it bothered him considerably.
I deeply resonated with what Phil said. I'm pasty white, which one would think would render me mostly invisible in Western society, but I haven't had that luck. I've often heard that I'm extremely ugly, but I've also heard that I'm "beautiful."
The guys who spout that nonsense probably think that I'm an easy mark because I'm strange-looking and insecure. When they find out I'm not an easy target, their rhetoric quickly devolves to the same tired insults. Yes, I know, I'm fat, I'm ugly, I'm a bitch. That being the case, why the fuck are you bothering me?
As I've gotten older and more disabled, I've had fewer assholes trying to get into my pants. I always say that one asshole in my pants is enough, and I guess you can interpret that as it suits you. Either the person wearing my pants is an asshole, or opinions are like assholes and everyone has one. Both are probably true in my case.
Something happened earlier in the week that really bothered me, and I didn't realize how much it bothered me until I started crying about it yesterday. I'm not given to tears. I usually get angry. But this got under my skin and festered.
There is a man in town that gives me unwanted pep talks whenever he sees me. I'm an agnostic and a realist. I don't think there's going to be any miraculous healing in my case. Whatever. I try not to roll my eyes too hard. But on this occasion, the conversation took a troublesome turn.
Mr. Pep Talk told me that I have beautiful hair. I don't like to talk about my appearance, but, okay, whatever, I have very thick, wavy gray hair. I started going gray at 27. I used to use henna, but I developed a sensitivity to it. Now I just use silver hair dye every few months to give my mop a bit of pop--for my own benefit, no one else's.
I hoped we were done at the "beautiful hair" commentary. Alas, it was not to be. He went on to say:
"If we could just get your body to match your hair, you'd be a real doll."
I felt kind of sickened by that comment if I'm to be honest. It implies several things, none of them particularly good. I didn't have a good response because I was kind of taken aback. I simply said, "I don't care what I look like."
"Well why?" he asked, and given his expression, you'd think that I'd just revealed that I had been sacrificing my neighbors at midnight every full moon, and he was next.
"Because I'm this," I said, tapping my forehead. "I'm not this," followed by a sweeping gesture indicating my body.
"Oh, Honey, you've got to believe in yourself," he said.
Living in a small town, I can't really afford any animosity, so I just gave a non-committal "okey-dokey" and went on my way.
I don't know why the Universe thinks that shitty cake needed any icing, but it provided me with icing. As I tried to make my way home, a utility worker asked me if I needed a ride home. I tried to make a joke about it, which he didn't get.
"I'm just taking my walk. If I don't, nobody else will."
"Okay, but do you need a ride?"
"No thanks. I live right over there."
Fucking fuck's sake.
I haven't been for a walk since.
I'm thinking about getting some big, obvious headphones so I can ignore people and have an excuse for it.
Please, please, please, don't condescend to disabled people. It's extremely demoralizing.
We don't want to hear about how (your) God will heal us if we just pray hard enough.
Don't tell us that we "just need a positive attitude" or "miracles can happen." I suppose they can, but the reality is, it's not likely.
I also have diabetes, and it feels kind of like this when people tell me about "miracle cures" or how their brother's wife's uncle's best friend's sister was cured of their disease or disability by some sort of questionable practice or snake oil.
Unless we're obviously struggling, i.e. with an overload of parcels, don't offer to help.
Don't focus on our disability or our mobility aid.
Don't tell us our condition is "a shame" or that we're "too young" to be so compromised.
Don't use terms like "handicapable" or "differently abled." That shit is so condescending. I'm disabled. I'm handicapped. That's reality. That other shit feels like telling a toddler "you're getting to be such a big girl!" Don't do it.
I guess that's about all I have to say about that.
Crowley and I are done with everyone's shyyyyt
"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
Ernest Hemingway
The Icky, Sticky, Nit-Picky Legalese If You Please (Or Don't Please)
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