Being a "Bad Cripple"
Yes, I am one.
The internet, by and large, is kind of awful. Discussion and discourse on the internet is even worse — I’m sure I don’t need to explain. But it’s the internet I have to thank for helping me become more comfortable with my disabled identity.
I was a teenager in the late 2000s: if there was something I wanted to learn about or felt any curiosity towards, I looked it up online. I found what I was looking for on social media, where it wasn’t about research (or lack thereof) or statistics or empty information. It was about real people with disabilities, sharing their unedited experiences, conditions, and bodies with others. I happened upon scammers and liars, but it was nowhere near as prevalent a thing to do before influencer culture took hold of the apps.
A Tumblr poster named Ty (whose username was some version of “cripple-punk”; that place is a fever dream and honestly I can’t remember exactly) blew my mind. One of their most popular posts was on the ethos of cripple punk, which I read over and over again and took to heart. I know to some calling a disabled person crippled is considered offensive, but if it’s a disabled person using that word to describe themselves, then I think the negative connotation isn’t there.
The idea is actually pretty simple: you don’t have to live with your disability in a way that’s inspirational. That’s when I realized I (the real me, not the versions of myself I put on for other people) am a bad disabled person. And pretty fucking punk.
The real me doesn’t force myself to be happy if I’m not. I’m opinionated and mildly annoying. I’m sarcastic and I have a twisted sense of humor. There have been times where my anxiety and fear were debilitating. My body tires more quickly than most and it’s not pretty. There are some things I just cannot physically do. I’m not skinny and some parts of my body are ugly. Unless a highly specific neurosurgery is invented, I’ll never be cured of my disability.
I don’t exist in the world to inspire others: I do my job because I want to, I’m educated because I want to be, I’m independent because I want to be. My presence is only important because I want it to be, not because someone else placed that expectation on me.
Able bodied people expect someone like me to be good all the time, and completely docile. I’m allowed to cry. I’m allowed to curse and be angry. I don’t have to be grateful for not being as disabled as I could be, or less disabled than someone else. I don’t have to be nice to people who don’t deserve it. I don’t have to be quiet if I have something to say. Having tattoos is a way of taking bodily autonomy back. I’m allowed to be a whole human being with my disability, not in spite of it. I’m a good person — and it’s something I take pride in — but I’m not perfect.
People tend to be taken aback when I’m open and honest around them. When I tell them how much pain I’m in every day (FYI, my joints hover around a 3 or 4 out of 10, and my feet are usually always cold). When they realize I’m not literally always happy and positive, that it takes effort, that I’ve wanted to die before. That being disabled (even “mildly”) is harder than I make it look.
This isn’t palatable, it’s not uplifting for people who aren’t disabled. Having pride in my identity is something they can’t wrap their heads around. I do sometimes wonder what it would be like if I hadn’t suffered a brain bleed as a premature newborn, but being disabled is part of who I am. I wouldn’t be the person I am if I was able bodied.
Let me be happy to use my mobility aids and give my body a break. Let me feel all my feelings. Let me speak for myself. Cripple punk says it’s time to stop picking sides and judging disabled people for their choices. Let us be who we are; don’t be so offended.