London Calling: Part 2.

That evening I had a bath. The hotel was built over a set of tunnels, one for the trains in and out of London, and one for the various tube lines running from St Pancras, the tube station attached to King’s Cross. As I submerged myself in the warm water, a train ran underneath us, and the water made a strange bubbling noise around me. Having not eaten Mexican food recently, I was perplexed, and it took me a minute to figure out what the noise was.

Perhaps it was the fatigue from the long day, perhaps it was the alcohol, or perhaps it was the insanely comfortable bed, but that night I slept better than I had for months. Even the trains failed to wake me, and the rattling of their passing beneath us was strangely soothing. I didn’t wake until the alarm sounded at 8 am the next morning, and while eating breakfast, I discussed various futile plans with Jarred for stealing the mattresses.

The morning was bright and sunny, and after getting dressed, I leant against the window frame watching the trains rattle past until Jarred was also ready. We made our way to the nearest entrance to St Pancras, but the lift here had been closed without warning. Fortunately, at another entrance a different lift was available, and we went underground. We bought our tickets in the unbelievably stuffy ticket hall, and then hopped on the Piccadilly line to Green Park, which was the nearest accessible tube station to the Science Museum, our destination.

Tube

We went straight from the tube station to Green Park, and the fresh air was a welcome relief from the heated stuffiness of the underground tunnels. We had coffee at one of a small chain of coffee shops found in central London’s parks, and then made our way towards Buckingham palace.

Once Jarred had snapped the obligatory photo of me in front of the titular palace, we made our way through Hyde Park, along the edge of the Serpentine. The day was warm, and soon we shed our coats to hang them off the back of the wheelchair. About half way along the Serpentine, we spotted a heron wading through the water, slow and graceful as if it were royalty.

Eventually, we arrived at the Science Museum on exhibition road, adjacent to the Natural History Museum. Here, I met Jarred’s mother and little brother for the first time, and we went to the café in the museum to eat lunch together. Jarred’s sister, who worked at the Imperial College next door joined us for her lunch hour, and we sat together, laughing and joking as if we had known each other for years.

After this, Jarred’s sister returned to work, and the rest of us explored the Science Museum together. The space exhibition had life-size models of rocket engines, the moon-landing station, and even one of the surprisingly small Hubble telescope. Tim Peake even had an exhibition dedicated to him as the first Brit to enter the International Space Station, and the first Brit to undertake a spacewalk. The floor above housed an entire room dedicated to genetics and DNA, where I was able to answer far more questions from Jarred’s little brother, who is an aspiring scientist himself. I was in awe of the model built by Crick and Watson to discover the structure of DNA, one of the biggest and most important discoveries of the 20th century. Above this was the environment floor, and after this a floor dedicated to flight. This including model Spitfires, and even a model of the first machine ever to fly.

All too soon, the afternoon came to an end, and we were saying good bye to our family. The sun was still shining as we travelled back through Hyde Park and Green Park, returning to the tube station just as rush hour began to kick in.

Having bought an unlimited travel ticket for the whole day, we were able to pass the ticket hall in Green Park tube station, instead going straight to the Jubilee line headed for Stratford. While the platform was crowded, we didn’t have to travel far to the raised platform for wheelchair access, and within a minute the strong breeze that announces the presence of a train far before you see or hear it rushed past us. The tube squealed to a halt, and we were able to squeeze into the wheelchair space inside the carriage. Jarred clicked the wheelchairs’ brakes on to prevent any inertia-related wheelchair incidents, and then we were off, howling down the dark tunnels and stopping every few minutes. I felt a little like Katniss Everdeen headed to the Capitol of Panem, except I didn’t have to worry about a murdering contest at the end of the line.

At each stop, more and more people climbed aboard the carriage. Soon, every seat was taken, and most of the standing room too. It was easy to identify the regular users of the tube; they were standing unaided in the carriage, looking at their phones or reading a book with their bags between their ankles, swaying gently with the motion. The heat of so many crammed into such a small place was overwhelming, and I had to avoid several bags held on a level with my head, but I still had to wonder what all the fuss of the London Underground during rush hour was about, as I had faced far worse before.

Eventually, the train sped into daylight, and I was momentarily blinded after the darkness. Minutes later it came to a halt at the end of the line, Stratford. We left the tube, and wandered over to Westfield, the humongous shopping centre over-looking the 2012 Olympic park, where we ate our evening meal.

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London Calling: Part 1.

Just prior to midday on the 30th August, Jarred and myself made our way down to the train station, a mere 10 minutes down a gentle slope surrounded by shops. I had borrowed my mother’s manual wheelchair which Jarred was pushing, as I wasn’t confident that the trains could accommodate my powered wheelchair. We grabbed sandwiches from a café hidden just behind the doorway of the train station, and sat in the waiting area looking at the departure board, waiting for the 1.15 pm to London King’s Cross (yes, that is the one featured in Harry Potter) to appear.

Half an hour before we were due to leave, we went to the disabled support desk. When booking the train tickets, we had also booked a porter and ramp in advance, and I had printed off the documentation to prove this. Once the documents were shown to the porters, they happily escorted us to the train, and by 1 pm we were safely aboard. The only fly in the ointment was the woman who had a pram in the space reserved for wheelchairs, who not only refused to move (despite the notices and even the law giving wheelchair users priority to these spaces), but once I had claimed a nearby seat and the wheelchair had been folded up, fretted to Jarred that it would fall on her precious offspring. Her precious offspring then continued to cry all the way to Wakefield, where I was grateful to see them exit the train.

A little over half way through the journey, having drunk a 500 ml bottle of Coke Zero, certain needs made their presence felt. I waited until the next stop before getting up and hobbling the few metres to the bathroom. Unfortunately, the train set off just as I was getting up again, and I very nearly ended up flat on the rather sticky floor. I managed to steady myself against the walls of the cabin, and then made the short journey back to my window seat.

As I sat down, Jarred began to laugh. Naturally assuming he was laughing at me for something stupid like having toilet paper stuck to my jeans (we’ve all been there), I glared at him. Then I realised that he was using his phone to track the progress of our train, and as it turned out, we were passing through the charmingly named “Bitchfield”.

Less than an hour later we pulled into King’s Cross, and a porter greeted us with a ramp almost as soon as the train had come to a halt. We made our way through the impressive train station, which in all seriousness has a dedicated Harry Potter shop, alongside a platform 9¾ complete with luggage rack entering the wall which fans spend hours queuing just to get a photo of.

We wandered out of the train station, from which our hotel could be seen. We crossed the insanely busy roads in the pouring rain, and were soaked by the time we reached the reception desk. The lovely receptionist offered us two key cards for our room, not just one, in case I wanted to venture out on my own. Given that I was relying on Jarred to push me everywhere, this would have been pointless, but the unprejudiced gesture was very much appreciated anyway.

The room we had been given was perfect, with plenty of room to park the wheelchair, and a bathroom full of grab rails to help me move around. The beds were twin beds, because in most cases a disabled person would be with a carer, and it wouldn’t be appropriate to share a bed. Fortunately, the beds were pushed together, although on occasion one or the other of us disappeared down the gap between them.

Tired as we were, it seemed a shame to waste the remaining afternoon in our hotel room, and so we made our way to a nearby attraction you may have heard of; the British Museum. It was both free to enter and accessible, although the tent where bags were checked by security guards had wheelchair ramps that were, rather ironically, almost impossible to surpass in the wheelchair. Just inside the accessible entrance to the side of the museum there was an old lift. The first time the lift arrived for us, however, we couldn’t enter because a family of physically able-bodied people refused to budge one inch. The lift being old and slow, it was another 5 minutes before we finally got to enter the lift.

With only an hour or so before the museum closed, we didn’t have time to explore more than part of the Ancient Egyptian display. However, we still had plenty of time to find some impressive artefacts, including the Rosetta stone, and this sheep-sphynx that reminded me of my favourite teddy, a sheep named Lamb-da.

Rambda

By 6 pm we had returned to the hotel, where we made hot drinks to warm ourselves through. After this, we made our way to the only accessible pub in the vicinity – Wetherspoon’s. Having travelled all the way to London, we ended up in a pub we have less than 10 minutes from our flat. One hotdog, millionaire sundae, and Strongbow Dark Fruits later, I was feeling very happy.

Roll Models.

I’m usually one to stay well clear of clichéd ideas such as the role model, as I believe that people should be themselves and not have to live up to anyone else’s standards. However, I cannot deny that there have been inspirations in my life, particularly where living with a disability is concerned.

Perhaps the most obvious choice for the role model of a disabled scientist is, of course, Professor Stephen Hawking. The man is legendary, and has not only pushed physics into ground-breaking territory with the discovery of Hawking radiation, but has helped to advance the medical understanding of Motor Neurone’s Disease, a relatively rare and peculiar condition. He has also been involved in encouraging children to pursue the sciences as viable subjects in schools, has co-authored a series of science fiction stories that are entirely feasible according to laws of physics, and has attempted to make complex physics accessible to most adults in his book “A Brief History of Time”. In all of this, he has not been afraid to expose just how debilitating his condition is, nor has been afraid to poke fun at it. In fact, he has featured on charity specials and TV shows like The Simpsons, and on most of these occasions his disability forms a comedic element of the performance. It would be ludicrous of me to deny that he has influenced the way I cope with my own disability, and has made me grateful for the things that I can do that he cannot, such as talking with my own vocal cords, as well as earning my respect from a scientific perspective.

Stephen Hawking

Other inspiring role models include two of the hosts of The Last Leg, Adam Hills and Alex Brooker, both of whom are missing part of at least one limb. Although neither is wheelchair bound, they have helped to make people more confident around disabled people, and have showed the viewers that disability isn’t the burden some make it out to be. They have highlighted the serious issues surrounding disability on a widely viewed television program so popular it got its own series of special episodes at the Rio 2016 Paralympics. Similarly, they have proved that disabled people are capable of caring about other social issues such as racism, sexism, Islamophobia, and homophobia, and in this they have earned my complete respect, and have helped me come to terms with my life circumstances.

The Last Leg

Although I am a lover of rock music, one other significant role model for me is pop superstar Lady Gaga. She is completely unafraid to stand up for what she believes in when facing an intense media following, and is open and confident about her sexuality and any other trait that sets her apart from the norm. She might not be disabled herself, but I am more than certain that if someone disabled approached her, she would not prejudge them, or talk to them in a condescending manner. I would dearly love to have the sort of self-confidence she exhumes, although I perhaps wouldn’t follow her fashion choices.

Lady Gaga

There are lots of people, some famous, some who are friends and family, who have inspired me, encouraged me, and helped me to become who I am today. While I do not wish to become carbon copies of any one of them, I would hope that my actions emanate their intentions, and that I could also have an impact on issues in the modern society.

Words Without Meaning.

Even as a young child, I found great freedom in writing. It was a way for me to escape the bullying I experienced at school, and to become immersed in a world different to my own. To be able to sink into someone else’s problems helped me not to think about mine, but the countless pages I filled with half-developed characters and meagre plots are long gone. They were words without meaning; I knew in my mind where the characters would go, and what they would say and do, and I never let anyone else see much of my work. The stories were already told. Besides the escapism, there was no purpose to the writing, and as such the joy I found in it soon dispersed.

I find that the pleasure of writing comes not from the putting of pen to paper, but in the knowledge that others will read the words you wrote, and will perhaps think about them and learn from them, and maybe even be emotionally moved by them. It is this that prompted me to create “Diary of a Disabled Person”, and it is this that keeps me filling the pages of notebooks while sat in coffee shops; a perfectly typical writer with a message to send.

This blog is not aimed at those with disabilities themselves, although I am extremely pleased that many disabled people have given me positive feedback and support, which means that I am representing the community well, and have avoided offending anyone. However, this blog is in fact targeted at those without disabilities.

Disabled people know what living with a disability is like; they do not need to be told once again by someone in a similar situation that there are issues in the way disability is incorporated into society. While I accept that disability support groups help some people, I find the culture of a large group of disabled people meeting up to sit off to one side moaning about being disabled irritating; nothing will ever change if the rest of the world doesn’t know that there are issues. Nothing will ever change if we don’t try to integrate with the rest of society. Martin Luther King had the support of the African-American community when he gave his infamous “I have a dream speech”, but the people he wanted to target were the white supremacists. It would be like preaching to the converted; it wouldn’t have an effect.

Those not living with a disability, or not living or working with someone who is disabled, is probably oblivious to some of the issues faced on a daily basis; how could someone be expected to know about something they have had no experience of? It is not a criticism, it is a fact, and I started this blog to address that fact. In my attempts to integrate with society, and to preach my message to those who have not heard it, I have made some headway in the battle to fully incorporate disability into modern society. The more people become aware of the issues, the more they will fight back against them, and support those with disabilities. Many people discriminate by accident; by not switching on an automatic door or lift, or parking over a ramp. Educating people as to why those things are significant will make an impact on society.

Perhaps, if anything, I’m trying to stir up a little trouble. The good kind of trouble, I might add. I want people to talk about disability. I want people to ask me questions. I want people to think a little more carefully about their actions towards anyone with a disability. If enough people raise their voices, then the authorities cannot deny hearing us.

I didn’t write this blog to generate sympathy, but empathy, and it is this that gives my words meaning.

Power to the Wheels.

Want to know when the words “wheelchair access” don’t actually guarantee wheelchair access? When you use a powered wheelchair.

In all honesty, I’m not certain someone would choose to use a powered wheelchair over a manual one if they didn’t have to. I’m pretty sure I don’t have to spell this out for you, but powered wheelchairs are significantly heavier, bigger, and bulkier than their manual counterparts, reducing manoeuvrability. They are also far more expensive, and much harder to fix should something go awry.

Additionally it appears to surprise some people that I’m using a powered wheelchair because I need to, and not because I’m too lazy to propel myself, which is an accusation I have faced on multiple occasions. Propelling your own manual wheelchair with the addition of your body weight with muscles smaller than those in your legs is extremely hard work, and I am simply too weak and fatigued to do this, plus the cut and blistered hands and muscle strains don’t appeal to me either. Being pushed around by someone else in a manual wheelchair means that you can’t even go to the toilet without asking someone, and you can’t go out or do anything independently. I decided to sacrifice a little manoeuvrability and money in exchange for my independence, and I do not regret that in the least.

What I dislike about using a powered wheelchair is the way companies are allowed to claim that they have full wheelchair access even if a powered wheelchair can’t be used in their facilities. I cannot count the number of taxi firms that have told me I can’t use their accessible cabs because my wheelchair is too big or cumbersome for their vehicles. On one occasion using the trains, the porter sulked at me because he wasn’t sure whether the ramp they’d provided would take my wheelchair’s size and weight, and he had to fetch another. One of the libraries at university had spaces between the shelves wide enough to take a manual wheelchair, but not a powered one, although fortunately a similar set of books could be found in another, more accessible library. Many accessible toilets and changing rooms are barely large enough to take a manual wheelchair, let alone a powered one. A local shopping centre even decided to replace their broken lift for entering the premises with a thin plywood ramp that doesn’t even look strong enough to take a manual wheelchair, and won’t change this despite me launching a complaint. On one occasion, I was even turned down for a job because their lift wouldn’t accommodate my powered wheelchair, and they weren’t going to adapt to my needs. Whether this is even legal is debatable, but I don’t have the finances to take them to court for discrimination, so they got away with it.

None of this is to say that life in a manual wheelchair is easy; this is far from the truth. Businesses still choose to make themselves inaccessible in general, they face the same problems I do concerning the perception of disability, and sometimes the seats in manual wheelchairs really aren’t comfortable when staying seated for any length of time. It just seems that the world is set up to accommodate some disabilities more than others, which is equally as wrong as any other discrimination against disabilities.

Ignorance is Bliss.

Despite having reproduced for millennia, humans continue to marvel at the mind of a child, and the way it tries to piece together the coalition of chaos that is life. This often provokes brutally honest, and usually quite amusing reactions to social situations, which arise from the ignorance of complex societal norms created by adults with the sole purpose to make other’s lives as miserable as our own. Their views on disability are no exception to this, and in particular, young children will not treat someone in a wheelchair differently to someone who can walk. They also occasionally think we’re mermaids (https://diaryofadisabledperson.wordpress.com/2017/06/10/the-real-mermaid/).

One summer, I was browsing the isles of the local supermarket searching for a birthday present when a little girl with blonde pigtails and big blue eyes tottered round the corner, almost into my wheelchair. She stopped and looked up at me, before asking in earnest;

“Are you poorly?”

I smiled and confirmed this.

“Will you get better though?” she continued.

“Hopefully,” I said in reply.

“And you’ll be able to walk like me?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” I returned.

Throughout this exchange, the blonde woman who I presumed was the girl’s mother looked utterly mortified, and desperately tried to coax her daughter away. I looked up at her, smiled, and said it was absolutely fine. I would much rather children ask the questions they want to ask instead of staring silently at me, so as to break the taboo surrounding disability. Children are remarkably robust when facing the negative aspects of life, and are rarely as perturbed as we might have assumed. As such, disability and sickness should not be hidden from children, as it is simply a part of real life.

Sometimes, children have wonderful reactions if they see that the adults they are with block the path of the wheelchair. In many instances, children have pulled prams, bags, baskets, or even the adults themselves out of the way, allowing me to pass safely. On a good few of these occasions, the adults have even received a ticking off from the children. My personal favourite occurred after a distracted mother let a door swing shut in my face. Her son, a boy of maybe 6 or 7 years old, came back and held the door open for me. His mum called out for him to stay with her in a somewhat irritated tone, and in response the boy told her he’d only tried to be nice, as she had taught him. He then attempted to say it was “hypocritical” without much success, which fortunately broke the ice, and the mother relaxed and apologised.

At other times, it has been me who has been the first to speak to a child if the situation calls for it. I remember on one occasion I was in the local park, and a girl was riding her scooter down the hill much faster than her dad could walk. Unfortunately, the front wheel of her scooter got caught in a rut in the pavement, and the girl went headlong over the handlebars, landing heavily in a messy heap. The closest adult to the fall didn’t bat an eyelid, and walked past almost as if they hadn’t seen or heard what had happened. As the next closest adult, I went to the child to check she was OK, and handed her a tissue to wipe her tear-stained cheeks. Her injuries were very minor, superficial scrapes to the skin, but the shock of the fall seemed to be what had upset her. I remembered doing almost exactly the same thing ten years before, on another hill within the same park, and said as much which made her smile. Seconds later her dad arrived, almost out of breath from trying to stay upright on the slightly slippery path. He smiled, and they both thanked me, before we went our separate ways. It was not that a disabled person had stopped to help that required gratitude, but the fact that a person had stopped to help at all, and I fully believe that they would have spoken to anyone else in exactly the same manner.

The ignorance of these children towards the taboo surrounding disability did not bring bliss to themselves alone, but to me as a disabled person, and I can only hope that as they grow and develop, that their inclusive attitude is unmarred by the loss of their ignorance.

Pride Without Prejudice.

The first weekend in August is Pride weekend in the UK, where the LGBTQ+ community come together with the rest of population to celebrate their differences, mostly by sinking back huge quantities of alcohol.  This being my first pride since coming out as bisexual, I was incredibly excited to be attending the various events occurring in the city centre throughout the weekend. So excited, in fact, that I decided to turn my wheelchair into Donald Trump’s worst nightmare.

Pride chair

On the Saturday, the sun was out, and a gentle breeze helped to prevent my skin from burning and peeling off like I was some kind of mutant reptile in the roasting 20°C heat. Jarred and myself made our way to the viaduct, a region of Leeds so closely associated with gay culture that a man in a dodgy police uniform walking down the street is not necessarily a policeman. A street party had been set up; there was music playing, and an impressively sophisticated outdoor bar set up on one side of the street. There was also a small stage, and people were being invited up onto the stage to sing and dance together. It was, perhaps, the only time I’ve ever been glad to see something inaccessible.

We meandered up and down the street, listening to music and investigating the few stalls there were. After a little while, the music stopped rather abruptly, and a drag queen whose make-up was far in advance of anything I could do took to the stage, introducing a performance by the Show Girls, a group of drag performers from one of the local venues. During the introduction, various members of the audience were subjected to light-hearted criticisms, such as querying whether a woman’s afro was fake or real, or whether one man naturally had silky smooth legs. Being on the front row, I was pretty easy to spot.

“And oh, look, Davros has delighted us with their company!”

Jarred and myself both burst into uproarious laughter, setting off the rest of the crowd who had seemed a little nervous as to how to react. What no one seemed to realise is that it was actually quite refreshing for someone else to make a joke about my wheelchair, which quickly becomes the elephant in the room when people do everything they can to ignore its presence for political correctness, highlighting in the process that the wheelchair is all they see. The drag queen was teasing everyone, not just myself, and there was nothing to take offence to.

The Pride parade took place on the Sunday, starting in Millenium square in the centre of Leeds with a free-entry concert. The council had made sure to provide an elevated wheelchair platform, meaning that I could see the stage above the rest of the crowd, although because I couldn’t see through the crowd, another audience member had to direct me to it. I lost count of how many other wheelchair users I saw at the event, and not once did I have to deal with things thrust in my face, or people stepping directly over my feet. Nobody stared at me, and nobody ignored me either.

Towards the end of the concert, I was invited to ride on one of the council’s accessible buses in the parade, representing both the LGBTQ+ and disabled community. I jumped at the opportunity, figuratively, not literally of course. Once I was on the bus, my wheelchair was secured safely to the floor of the bus by a driver who clearly had many years of experience doing this. I got the flag I had attached to my wheelchair to wave, and waved it while meandering slowly through the crowded streets until my arm felt like Attila the Hun was trying to remove it. I was extremely surprised to find that I got a huge response from the crowd, who cheered loudly and waved vigorously back at me.

The best reaction of all the crowd members came from another wheelchair user, who I had shared the wheelchair platform with earlier in the day. When she saw me waving from the bus, her face practically split in half as she grinned from ear-to-ear, and I knew then that I had truly made a difference to someone’s day.

I was as welcome in that crowd as I am at my beloved wrestling shows, and I hope that I never forget what it was like to find pride without prejudice.

Midweek Cringe-Fest.

So I was digging through some old notebooks that my parents had kept and then brought to my new apartment, and I found these two beauties. Bear in mind I was in the middle of puberty, at the peak of awkwardness…

The children smile,

They don’t discriminate,

Very few decide,

To gawp and gape.

 

I’m not so different,

As you’d like to think,

If I may be blunt,

I’m not thick.

 

Please don’t stare,

What if I stared at you?

I’m in a wheelchair,

Not an animal at the zoo.

 

I’d like to say,

That life is fine,

I’m free of pain,

But that’s a lie.

 

I’m not gonna mope,

Though I’d love to cry,

Is there any hope?

Will M.E say goodbye?

 

Please don’t stare,

What if I stared at you?

I’m in a wheelchair,

Not an animal at the zoo.

 

The children smile,

They don’t discriminate,

Very few decide,

To gawp and gape.

Complete with badly drawn wheelchair:

Wheelchair.png

A couple of months after writing that first one, I wrote this:

A giant hoover came out of the sky,

And sucked all my energy away,

Then came the lead weights tied to my limbs,

I have to pull them night and day.

 

I lie awake in the night to find my sleep stolen,

Right from under my nose by a robber,

Unrefreshed, unhappy, and unrested,

Why should I even bother?

 

It hasn’t got better, it hasn’t got worse,

At least I know where I’m at,

I feel so small, so insignificant,

In the wheelchair in which I’m sat.

 

But at least I’m sure of two things in life,

Two things it has taught me so well,

I know for sure who my true friends are,

And not to take them for granted, even if I’m unwell.

Let’s just say that I think my writing skills have improved since then…

Bisexual and Almost Bipedal.

I’m a bisexual, female, disabled scientist; so nuke me, Trump.

My identity is pretty much an amalgamation of social rights issues, but that doesn’t mean I’m not genuine as some people might presume. It’s a strange phenomenon, but I do know a few people with disabilities who are uncomfortable about coming out as LGBT because they might be deemed fakers, and I honestly can’t decide whether the problem is with the way disability is perceived, or the way the LGBT community is perceived.

There are people out there who assign themselves a long list of labels to do with gender identity and sexuality that don’t actually apply to them, who do so because they want to be perceived as modern and unprejudiced. While the intention of being open about equal opportunities is highly commendable, it leaves those of us who are genuine a little conflicted, because coming out as a member of the LGBT community for most people is simply terrifying.

My sexuality confused me long before I became disabled, but I was afraid to discuss it for fear of disappointing my parents, or being bullied at school any more than I already was. For fear of what being open-minded would make me, I suppressed any feelings I had on the matter, and vehemently denied to myself that I was anything other than heterosexual. This actually got easier when I first fell ill, as I had something else to be concerned about, but as the years went by, no matter how much I stamped down on them, my thoughts would turn towards my sexual orientation time and time again.

Leaving home and heading off to university should have been the time when I started to express my sexuality; I lived alone and away from those who had bullied me at school, but I still couldn’t shake off the fear that engulfed me every time the thought crossed my mind. I kept my mouth shut, as I always had done, and tried to move on.

The thing to finally bring me out of my shell was actually Jarred, who was openly bisexual from the day we met. It sounds ridiculous, but I saw the freedom he had in being able to express himself when a good-looking man appeared on TV, and I wanted that freedom. Jarred helped to strengthen my self-esteem and boost my confidence, and I began to realise that if I did decide to accept my sexuality, no matter what happened upon being honest, there would be at least one person I could rely on to get through it. However, I was so used to being scared of my sexuality, that I was too old to “come out”, and on top of the wheelchair it would simply seem like a plea for attention. Once again, I kept my feelings to myself, but the more I saw Jarreds’ freedom, the more I wanted it myself.

I can’t quite explain it, but one day the desire to have that freedom outweighed the fear of appearing fake, and with the help of a glass of wine, the truth seemed to just fall out of my mouth. After a quiet moment, Jarred said, “I know.” I stared at him dumb-founded, feeling foolish for thinking that I would have been able to hide something of this scale from the one person I allowed close enough to see such a thing.

I would like to be able to tell you that my fears and reservations about being open about my sexuality evaporated in an instant at this point, but that would not be the truth. I gradually began to make my closest friends and family aware of the situation, always a little reticent for fear that they would react badly, but with each positive reaction, my confidence grew, until one last hurdle remained. Now, I had to be open and honest with the rest of the world.

A simple post on Facebook sufficed for those who knew me who I hadn’t already told, and then I started to declare myself as bisexual on job application forms. The freedom it gave me in being able to express myself without a serious fear of being deemed a faker for social reasons was even better than I could have ever imagined. For the first time in my life, I felt like I had an identity that was true to my own form, which encompassed my sexuality, lifestyle, and preferences. In telling the rest of the world who I was, I had managed to find myself.

LGBT

Rolling Rosie.

One of my friends who also suffers from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS) has just started her own blog, and it may interest you. It’s a quick read! Check it out here: https://rollingrosie.wordpress.com/2017/08/01/is-it-acceptable-to-not-be-accessible-spoiler-its-not/

If you haven’t already, why not like @diaryofadisabledperson on Facebook? You can receive a notification every time a new blog post is released, plus additional posts every single day, and can talk to me personally via messenger. I currently boast a 100% response rate!