A Sense of Normal

As a disabled person, it is always very refreshing to know that you have a significant other, friends, and roommates who know about your specific disability (or disabilities), but don’t actively question it every second of the day.

So many times growing up, I had friends who would physically point at me and my body or my supplies and equipment. They would then go into asking invasive questions that at the time bothered me a great deal and that I wasn’t comfortable with answering.

The comments weren’t any better. Often times, I felt like that I was some alien or a science project that they all wanted to try and figure out; to touch and get information from, fascinated by something so insanely different than them. And the whole thing was always so show-offy; especially with the aspect of my birth relatives showing me off as this “miracle” and this big huge wonderful statistic of living when I should have died at birth. And I hated it.

I started resenting myself, the way I was born, and the disabilities that I had. I hated telling anyone about it, I hated showing anyone what I was born with. At one point I even made sure that whenever I was pursuing a romantic relationship that was the first thing they knew about me. Too many people before had left because they thought it was inconvenient or ‘gross’ and ‘weird’. And for the longest time I had made it my mission to tell that part of me first, to anyone whether it was a dating relationship or friendly. It became an obsession, and it was an unhealthy way of thinking. And I think I hated that even more. Resented myself even harder for who I was or what I had.

Now, it’s not even a passing glance. I don’t have to tell people that part of me right away. Sure, it becomes a thought that maybe I should just so that they know. But that’s the wonderful thing about the now. Now I don’t have to; that’s not my job. In time, yes, they will know and hopefully, it won’t be like all of my past experiences. And you know what? It hasn’t.

My boyfriend of five years is fucking amazing with all of the supplies, the ostomy breaks, the aches and pains, the migraines, the medications, and plethora of doctors appointments left and right. He even helps me out with changing my ostomy or remembering little things that maybe I forgot day to day. My friends and roommates doesn’t poke at me, prod, or get invasive. They don’t treat me like I’m a science project . . . like I’m not normal. One of my roommates made me an ostomy cover last month, and it was as treated as if they were just sewing together a blanket or some other normal item.

Let me repeat that: It was normal. My disability now at age 27 is not seen by anyone I am dating, living with, or talk to on a regular basis as something that is ‘gross,’ ‘weird,’ or ‘unusual.’ It is just there, and it’s a part of me. It’s a normal part of my daily life and it’s a normal part of myself. Just like someone with a cane, a walker, or even asthma.

And to be honest, that’s all I’ve ever really wanted. Now to finally have that sense of, ‘Hey, I’m fucking normal and everyone else sees it, too,’ is refreshing and it always makes me feel whole. It makes me feel real; makes me feel human.