#disability cw

[grafdumbass]

I'm tired of the slightest shit triggering my body to react violently.

[krakenartificer]

Do any of my disabled peeps in the US have resources on how to FMLA?

What to say to HR, what not to say, what to alert on if HR says it, things like that?

[ofsyzygies]

there is a shipwreck between your ribs and it took eighteen years for me to understand how to understand your kind of drowning. there are people who cannot be held quietly. there are screams that are never externalized. there is a shipwreck between your ribs. you are a box with fragile written on it, and so many people have not handled you with care. -- shinji moon. 

memory 001; ― a vivid memory.

‘Can I help you get that?’

Her warm, brown eyes had lifted to meet the gaze of the man beside her, her soft smile resting readily on her lips. He seemed young, probably younger than her. They usually were. One of the double-edged swords of being her mother’s daughter was the set of youthful features that didn’t betray her years. ‘Oh,’ She acknowledged, her eyes moving back up to the can of cream she had been eyeing while deciding what to make for dinner. She hadn’t tested if it would be too far out of reach yet. ‘Yes, please,’ She said, too embarrassed to claim that she didn’t need it. She would return it later, once he’d left.

A smile slid onto his youthful features as he made a grab for the can and held it out to her. ‘So, uh, actually, this is embarrassing, my friend -’ He began explaining, though his words tapered off into silence when she reached out with her prosthetic arm to accept it, his eyes falling onto her arm like it was some sort of alien appendage.

The look in his eyes shifted between different emotions before settling on the one she hated the most: pity. Her shyness, too, faded at the sight of it. “Can you point me towards the dairy aisle?” She asked sweetly, though she knew exactly where it was, shopped at this exact supermarket every two days. It was just to give the poor boy the out he desperately needed.

He pointed, almost gratefully. It was in the wrong direction, but that was no bother. She was as desperate to end the conversation as he was.

Once she had finally turned into the dairy section, she let herself break only slightly, her composure suffering a hairline fracture. You can only control how you feel - not how others feel, she reminded herself. Instead, she pretended not to see either of them as she stepped forward to reach for some Greek Yogurt. Maybe she’d make Biriyani.

memory 002; ― a happy memory.

The flat was still a mess, really. But, the moving process had been more arduous than ever before. After sixteen new addresses and sixteen new flowerpots, Yuri had grown desperate to finally break the cycle. Desperate enough to move continents altogether. It wasn’t an easy decision and her parents struggled to cope with the idea of her living so far away. The way her mother had crumpled when she heard her decision was still imprinted on her mind, as clearly as if she was still standing in front of her, looking small, not daring to ask her to stay.

Though leaving had been bittersweet, there was something about this town that promised a fresh start. The distance, for one. No matter how persistent he had been over the years, he surely wouldn’t be able to find her when she was across the ocean. This place, for another. Though the brunette had travelled all over Europe, there was something about this place with its mixture of rustic charm and urban beauty. The gorgeous nature of the mountains that surrounded the town. The vast farmlands. Yuri had never been to a place like this before. A place unlike the hustle and bustle of the city she grew up in and once called her home, London. It was also unlike any of the cities she had chosen as her residence over the past few years. She used to think that the more crowded the place, the busier the city, the easier it would be for her to disappear in plain sight. To live a normal life, but even though this town seemed more open in many ways than she was used to, it really felt like she had finally found a place that could offer her some normalcy.

Then, there was this home. Her new home, with the walls freshly painted in a colour that made her feel safe. Even with the boxes placed all throughout the apartment, she could visualise just how cozy and safe it would look once it was finished. The fact it was an apartment that led out into a garden didn’t hurt. The idea she could plant her own flowers and breathe life into this place, and maybe into herself, made warmth spread throughout her. 

It was difficult to keep the smile off her flushed face, exhausted from the day of labour she had to endure. She sat for some respite, back pressed up against the wall and her knees drawn up. On her lap, lay her greatest source of new happiness, the thing she would be able to pour all of her love into. Her new baby.

The baby rodent was delicate and so small that she fit into the palms of her open hands. The edges of her mouth twitched into an even wider smile as she watched the rise and fall of the small animal’s body as it breathed. She began gently petting it with the tip of her finger, eyes fond as she regarded the small capybara. It was always difficult starting over again, but at least this time she would not be doing it alone. 

“Welcome home, Siegfried.” 

memory 003; ― a memory involving a friend

April 2nd, 1969.

She always felt at home on the ice; maybe more at home there, poised like a doll, spinning in endless circles, than she had ever felt anywhere else. In the rink, she could be alone with her thoughts and her feelings, no matter how negative some of them may have been. In the outside world, she worried too much. Worried about her school work, her friends, her parents, her cello tutor and what they all thought of her.

She never needed to worry about Katya though, mostly because she was direct and did not shy from withholding praise. 

Despite landing what she felt was a satisfactory triple jump, Katya’s groan echoed throughout the room. “Once again,” She began, her accent thick. “The landing is not good. You land like you are scared you will break the ice.”

A blush stained the teen’s cheeks. Was it that obvious? “I mean...I’m a little scared,” She admitted sheepishly, spreading her arms in one wide and fluid motion. “What if I fall wrong and break my arm? What if I can never use these hands again?” There was nothing impertinent in how she asked her questions, her voice dripped with genuine curiosity as she looked at her dainty hands. “I’m going to be a surgeon, so I need them.”

“Волко́в боя́ться — в лес не ходи́ть,” Katya deadpanned with a dismissive shrug of her shoulders.

Yuri’s eyebrows furrowed. “Sorry?” 

“If you’re scared of wolves, do not go in forest,” Katya explained simply. “You will get nowhere in life just being scared.” Then, gesturing for her to start moving. “Now do it again.”

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Whumptober 2021

Prompt #7: Helplessness

Balancing on his one good leg, Strike leaned into the shower stall and turned the water on, waiting for the meagre stream to warm up to a decent temperature before stepping inside. Or hop, rather. The small flat he’d been able to afford on his ridiculous army disability pension wasn’t designed for one-legged tenants, and the shower tub wasn’t level with the floor of the tiny bathroom. When he’d finally moved out of Nick and Ilsa’s guest room two weeks ago, declaring that he would be able to handle life as an amputee without assistance from now on, Nick had insisted on at least adding a handhold inside the shower stall, and he’d bought one of those ugly shower chairs they’d had in the hospital.

“Don’t start whining at me about dignity,” he’d forestalled Strike’s protest. “This is about safety. Stuff it!”

Strike had removed the chair from the shower as soon as Nick had been out the door.

The water running pleasantly warm now, Strike firmly grabbed the handhold with one hand and the sturdy shower fixture with the other and hopped inside, onto the anti-slip mat Nick had also laid out. Strike had done this before; it was a tried-and-true procedure after two weeks in his new flat. Until today.

With a sharp crack, the shower fixture he was holding onto suddenly gave and tore out of the wall. Strike was still holding on to the handhold with his other hand, but he lost his balance, his brain forgetting for one startled second that he only had one foot left. He came down hard, smacking the back of his head against the wall and landing on his arse, all three-and-a-half limbs askew. A few broken tiles rained down on him, and the showerhead and hose along with them.

“Ow, shit!”

He cursed, trying to gather his bearings. His head was spinning, and his buttocks and right hip hurt. Blinking, he shifted a little to take his weight off the most painful spot where the showerhead was lodged against his lower back. He almost slipped again on his hands, the mat having come loose during the fall, now partially bunched up between his legs.

The shower was still running, spewing water out through the open sliding door with Strike’s good leg now sticking out as well. He pulled it back inside and tried to get his one foot under him. Pushing against the floor with his hands, his stump waving about uselessly, he tried to get up.

It didn’t work.

He was too tangled up, his large body too jammed in the stall, his sense of balance too off, the pain in his hip too bad. From the other side of the room, the banished shower chair seemed to jeer at him, his crutches leaning against the wall right next to it, out of reach.

“For fuck’s sake!”

Strike looked at his truncated leg, its scars still purple and chafed in a few spots. Then he looked at his own nakedness, his flaccid dick between his legs. And then he began to cry.

He’d become used to feeling exposed and embarrassed in hospital. In those first few days and weeks, when an infection had added to the fallout of his injuries, he hadn’t been able to do anything himself. Peeing into a catheter, getting sponge-baths in bed and being spoon-fed, he’d quickly learned that dignity was a privilege he would have to regain, one-legged step by step. He’d worked on it, fighting for every bit of independence he could reach.

But even then, he’d always been surrounded by helpful hands. Nurses, physiotherapists, then Nick and Ilsa had always been close by to compensate for his disability. He’d felt his limits, for certain, and he’d raged against them in endless frustration. But here and now, in a heap in his shower tub, all alone, unable to even pull himself up and get to his phone, he felt completely and utterly helpless.

Everything crashed down on him: his bravado of the recent weeks, his determination to hold it together even when it got difficult - he was SIB, made of tough stuff - and his insistence that he could make it on his own. It all fell apart, and everything hurt.

Strike buried his face in his hands and let the tears flow.

When his sobs began to subside, he became aware of a noise in his flat. Alarmed, he lifted his head. He’d closed the bathroom door and even locked it, by habit, defending every bit of privacy he could get. Steps approached. Only two people had keys to his flat: Nick and Ilsa and the cleaning woman Ilsa had insisted on hiring for him.

God, please, don’t let it be her.

It wasn’t. A knock on the door followed, and Strike heard Nick’s voice, muffled through the wood.

“Oggy? You in there?”

Strike wiped his face.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely.

“You alright, mate? You didn’t answer the door, so I let myself in. Can I come in?”

Nick was already turning the knob, but the door was locked.

“Oggy! What’s going on in there? You aren’t wanking, are you?”

Strike, despite himself, gave a half-sob, half-laugh.

Outside, Nick paused at the strange noise.

“Listen, unless you’ve grown fins or a dragon’s tail since the last time I helped you get in the shower, there’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Let me in?”

Strike heaved a quivering sigh, unable not to smile a little at Nick’s off-hand remark.

“I can’t,” he finally answered. His voice sounded steadier now. “I slipped in the shower and fell, and now I can’t get up. I think you have to-”

With a crash, the bathroom door flew open, lock and jamb splintering, and Nick stumbled inside the room, catching himself against the sink. The door swung back on its one remaining hinge, creaking decrepitly.

“... find the spare key on the rack,” Strike finished his sentence, flooded by a sudden feeling of hilarity that made him want to both laugh and cry at the same time.

Nick stood staring at him, panting.

“Are you hurt?”

He leaned inside the stall to turn off the water, running his eyes over Strike as he did so.

“Just my pride, I think,” Strike answered, buoyed and strangely touched by his friend’s unassuming, unwavering presence in this precarious moment, in his life.

“Help me up?”

Nick did. Strike pushing, Nick pulling, they maneuvered him onto the chair that Nick had grabbed and placed just outside the shower stall.

“God, you’re heavy,” Nick complained.

“Are you calling me fat?”

“I would never.”

Nick took a towel from the rack and spread it over Strike’s lap. He grabbed another and threw it across Strike’s shoulders. Then he proceeded to give him a once-over, checking for injuries.

“Oggy?” he said, standing behind Strike and palpating the lump at the back of his head.

Strike grimaced. “Yeah?”

“Use the bloody shower chair next time, alright?”

Strike nodded, guilt mixing with warmth in his chest.

“Yeah,” he said, meaning it this time. “I will.”

(You can also read and comment on this fic on AO3:)

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[megedonnelly]

I don’t know if anyone’s said it before, and I know there’s more important metaphors happening in Zombies, but Addison makes a good proxy for some people who grew up with a mental illness or hidden disability. The ones who were taught to act ‘more normal’ and hide their ‘quirks’ because it made other people uncomfortable. Addison hiding her hair was never about her, it was about the fact the Seabrook residents would be uncomfortable with it - and idk, just has the same vibe as being taught to hide what comes naturally to you because other people, including family, don’t understand and don’t want to make an effort to - it’s easier if you change for them, than have them try to change their beliefs. 

[heldtoflames]

// I’m still salty about the fact that so many people seem to sacrifice accessibility for aesthetics on this website.

Like I know people want pretty blogs and to them it’s just a couple of minutes of finding a little star or something to click where the rules will pop up - but for people like me with sight problems it just basically make the whole thing impossible to navigate

and I know I have no damn right to demand people make their themes suit me, it’s their blog and they make it how they want but it just makes me a little sad that I’m being cut out based on disability.

I don’t even have the chance, and it’s kinda depressing.

I used to rp here back in 2011, and I even had a couple of friends who were blinder than me but able to roleplay.

But roleplay etiquette on tumblr now is just a massive “if you can’t see go elsewhere” and it’s just.... yeah. Another thing I can’t do because of my sight, that I used to be able to do.

[notfrenchpip-blog]

I need to just freaking ramble about South Park and this is the best place to do it. Basically I keep thinking about Timmy and Jimmy after having watched Cr***le Fight the other day and I’m just… so freaking pissed off with Jimmy and my heart goes out for Timmy. Note: I know Jimmy’s character develops and they become friends and he understands these things more. But in this episode he PISSES ME OFF SO MUCH.

First of all, all of the able bodied people in this episode fucking suck. They make no recognition of Timmy being at Scouts while praising Jimmy for being a disabled person there which clearly hurts him???? Like you can’t say “wow we have a new disabled kid!” and not recognise the kid in the wheelchair – especially when he was so excited to be there! But Jimmy is just fucking AWFUL to Timmy. He seems to parade himself as the man that “doesn’t let his disability take over” because he has comedy, but Timmy doesn’t have that. It’s like he’s the “acceptable” face of disability, whereas Timmy with his involuntary movements and difficulty speaking is unacceptable. The abled people seem to go along with it, but Jimmy first implements it. Then to make matters so much worse he dictates how Timmy should feel about his disability? He does an imitation of him on stage, mocking his involuntary speech “Timmy! I’m living a lie!” without checking first. Everyone laughs and mocks him, which Timmy is obviously very unhappy with. Jimmy’s response is to just tell him he should laugh at himself (which is fine for Jimmy, but not for anyone else!) and seems to think that because he’s disabled too he should be able to dictate how other disabled people cope. And then makes him wear a special hat to mock him further? Piss off Jimmy! Just because Timmy struggles with talking doesn’t mean he’s not emotionally intelligent. He understands what he’s okay with, and clearly it affects him to the point that he tries to kill Jimmy and edits him in that homoerotica. Timmy’s amazing and smart and lovely and I just love him okay? P.S I don’t hate Jimmy. I like Jimmy too, just not in this bloody episode.

[meowcatpotato]

sometimes disability is soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. i hate it