this is kind of just a vent about my childhood, sorry.
before he died, my dad was extremely forceful about independence. he did not bother to actually teach me anything in order for me to be independent, and any request i made of him was met with “i’m not your servant” and “i’m not going to wait on you hand and foot.”
this started as early as 13. i was an invisibly disabled child that had many of their needs ignored and i was constantly accused of “self-diagnosis” when bringing up my issues and being able to connect them to my disabilities, including my diagnosed ones.
i was diagnosed with ADHD as a toddler. when explaining executive dysfunction to my dad, he called it self-diagnosis—i told him, quite clearly, that executive dysfunction was a part of ADHD. he, then, likely knowing that i couldn’t handle being embarrassed, brought it up with my psychiatrist at our next visit and had my psychiatrist ask me what i thought executive dysfunction was. i couldn’t articulate myself because i was put on the spot and i’m pretty sure i had a meltdown. they both made me feel so stupid for just describing my problems and trying to explain why i had so much difficulty with tasks because i’d finally learned the right words.
i think some of the most egregious cases of my dad’s neglect were the times i sprained my ankle. once was on a hike—i screamed because i have extremely low pain tolerance, and all he could do was yell at me because it would look like he was doing something bad to me. i don’t remember much else from that specific time.
then, once, i sprained it while dancing in my room when i landed on my foot sideways. i screamed, as i did before, and pretty much cried my eyes out. my family all said they thought something was “seriously wrong” and i shouldn’t react like that because nothing was broken. i was in excruciating pain. i couldn’t walk on that foot for several days and my dad still forced me to move around the house, literally telling me he didn’t care when i was having to support myself on walls, tables, and counters in order to move. he still expected me to do everything for myself when at many points i couldn’t feel my foot at all.
neither time was i taken to a doctor. for all i know my ankles are still fucked up as a result because i didn’t get professional care and was forced to walk on them.
i don’t know. maybe i’ll come back later to talk about him more, if that’s okay. my memory is pretty bad though.
— 🐦⬛, if i may.
This is ableism and neglect.
