I think I went away and forgot I have a blog. I think I went away and so-called forgot I have a so-called blog. Of sorts, called, so.
Crap. Dunno what to say about stuff at the moment. Crap. Just crap. It's all crap.
Something big has happened at work that I am not going to go into for the sake of others, privacy, etc. It's just too big. But I'm gonna talk about the D-word. Disability. That word Jeremy Beadle said he didn't like on our podcast. And this week I'm agreeing with him. It's shit. It's a horrible label, it warps what and who you are (because it's such a loaded word, even though it shouldn't be - revisionists unite, etc).
But when something big happens, when you or someone you know has a setback, something that seriously affects their life and lifestyle, well there's nothing good about it, nothing to celebrate, nothing interesting, nothing but hard hard knocks, too much to think about, a mindfuck challenge of extraordinary portions (yes I said 'challenge' cos sometimes it's applicable and not meant patronisingly) ... life can just be fucking hard when medical matters catch up with you and there's NOTHING YOU CAN DO about it.
The D word thing. What can I say.
Yes it's spawned an interesting and worthwhile sub culture and counter culture. No denying it's important and good. But lets not lose sight of why it was spawned in the first place ... not because we love having things wrong with our bodies ... but because, when we eventually get our heads round our lives, know who we are, and feel we want to strike out and hit the world ... it's then that we seek strengths, we want pride, we want dignity, we want respect and equality. But getting to that point isn't something you can achieve with ease, it's not something that all people can understand because events are just too damn harsh and life limiting oftentimes, it's a road not to be sneered at or sniffed at. But with time, support, perspective ... things move on. They do. I've been there several times. And you don't recognise you're moving forward until you look back five years later.
When I became blind ... my erly memories are of shame. I was ashamed of who I was. I was only 13 but I didn't want anyone to see the new me. Thinking back 22 years to that point in my history, I feel anger mostly. Anger that I allowed myself to feel that way and anger that I had no counselling to give me an alternative view. But I did meet others at the time who were blind and stronger than me. I found it astonishingly enlightening ... and it was only then that doors started to slowly creak open. In the meantime ... small comforts.
And talking of such, I'm going to make a cup of tea.