Reopening Old Wounds

Apparently it’s Blogging Against Disablism Day. I must admit I tend to lose track of which day is supposed to raise awareness of what. There are 365 days, and thousands of causes. Nevertheless, I’ll say a few words.

Earlier today I suffered a mild anxiety attack. When I say mild, I mean it was enough to trigger defensive behaviours (locking doors etc.) but didn’t reduce me to a quivering wreck. I largely have my medication to thank for that. Although my pain relief is woefully inadequate, the beta blocker my doctor prescribed me had an almost instant effect. It has reduced the severity of most incidents, and made a full blown panic attack a relatively rare occurrence.

The trigger for this morning’s mild panic was the presence of police gathering outside of my house. On balance, my experience of police is negative. One incident in particular, involved two disablist police officers (one of them even said, “I think he’s autistic or something”) and was so traumatic that it means I can no longer see police without fear.

Fellow activist types have occasionally asked if I would be willing to write about my experiences. The truth is, I cannot. If the mere sight of a police officer is enough to trigger anxiety, I do not dare to explore that part of my memory. My mind has chosen to lock away the details, and I’d be very happy to throw away the key.

The simple point I’m making is that disablism has consequences. There is no such thing as an isolated incident. When you treat a disabled person or their carer with contempt, you’re not just affecting them in the moment. We are real people, with memories and emotions. When you hurt us, we remember. It affects our self-esteem. It affects our mental health. It may well affect our physical health. If somebody treated you like that, you’d call it bullying. Which is exactly what it is. If you can’t see that, you have some thinking to do.

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