When people ask,Ā āHow can I tell if someone is disabled or just lazy?ā I think about my parents.
My parents have known me my whole life. When theyāre not actively contemptuous of me, they do seem to be somewhat aware of my general personality and character. In one of his nicer moments, my dad has called meĀ āsweet-natured.ā They can tell that when I make them a surprise breakfast or lunch that I enjoy being helpful and doing nice things for people.
They know from watching me grow up that I have always had trouble keeping my room clean, getting homework done, and keeping my desk tidy at school.
The longest I can push myself past my limits is about nine months. Then I collapse and end up less functional than I was before I pushed myself. This has been a pattern throughout my middle and high school years. I would go to public school for about a year, and then collapse and have to do the rest of my education at home. My work history follows this pattern, too.
I once sat in a therapy session with my dad to talk about the constant struggle we were having at home because he wanted me to help out more and do better in school. When he asked me why I didnāt do things, I broke down in tears, because I couldnāt explain it. āI just CANāT. I want to, and I CANāT.ā Nobody listened.
My mom asked me why I donāt do things, and I said,Ā āI just canāt. I sit there for hours trying to convince myself to do things, and I canāt. Move.ā
And she said,Ā āDonāt think about it, just do it,ā completely missing the point.
When I got older I found words for the things I was dealing with. I got professionally diagnosed, and Iād look up information about my diagnosis and e-mail articles to my parents explaining what my disability is and why I canāt do things.
My parents have firsthand information about my character (helpful, likes doing things for others) and my history with disability (canāt consistently keep things clean, canāt manage a daily schedule). Iāve talked to them extensively about my diagnosis and given them information about it. They have known me my whole life, and Iāve always been this way. And they still, STILL choose to believe Iām just a bad person who doesnāt try and doesnāt care.
My disability isnāt invisible, people refuse to look at it.
People like problems they can yell at. They like having a target for their frustration. They donāt want to admit disability is real, because they want problems that they can either solve, or blame someone else for. And the disabled person themself is Ā their scapegoat, someone who canāt ever opt out of their role because the disability is never going to go away.
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