Awesome Disabled

CW: Y’all. It gets real up in here. Although I don’t get into the actual nitty-gritty around specific causes of generational traumas, I talk about their severe effects on my mental health and my life. Suicidality, mental health hospitalization, and some references to parental abuse/neglect.

I had a terrible sleep last night. It was too hot, and I was tossing and turning, slithering in and out of consciousness. Eventually I smartened up, went pee, turned on my fan, and went back to sleep for real.

In between my slips in and out of sleep, I got hit with an unexpected feeling: anger. Normally, I side-eye anger and try not to let it get a toehold. But in my chaotic half-awakeness, I went with it.

Perhaps it was a recent family trip that I took with my kids. I saw a couple of aunties, and we talked about our family histories. Both sides of my family tree are weird, and my family of origin is extra-weird. Being in a family of weirdos within a family of weirdos was an unusual experience, but the other families tolerated us well enough, and my parents were on their best behavior around the larger group.

The anger came from memories of my time in the psych ward when I was in University. I was there voluntarily, because I had mentioned not wanting to be alive anymore to the uni psychologist. I’d been on-and-off suicidal throughout my teen years and early 20’s, as I was unable to outrun my trauma anymore. I had been operating at max capacity since day one, working tirelessly to keep everyone safe, and to manage my parents’ feelings so that they wouldn’t take it out on my siblings. Plus the autism, of course. I was constantly in a state of sensory overload. By 20, I was exhausted, and ready for a break.

So the hospital wasn’t much of a surprise, really. I was there for two weeks, and it was incredibly unpleasant, but ultimately, it helped. There was still no autism diagnosis, though.

The problem with my medical backstory is that everyone thought I was depressed. I guess I was, because I was exhausted. Part of the reason I’ve had a revolving door of random diagnoses is that I don’t really fit into any of them. Depression, anxiety, combination of depression and anxiety, eating disorder, seasonal affective disorder, dysthymia, OCD. Ultimately, I don’t consider that I “have” any of those, and I don’t think I would fit into the diagnostic criteria of any of them now.

I’ve been reframing my mental health history as one of trauma and sensory overload, and it suddenly makes a ton of sense. Seeing it this way actually makes it MUCH easier to manage my symptoms, and I’ve gone a couple years without a mental health “flare up.” Can’t argue with those results, kids.

Plus, a close family member has been diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, and I have all the hypermobility trademarks, so I’m calling it for myself. (I’m not seeing a point in seeking an official diagnosis at this point, because a) there is no treatment for it, and b) it wouldn’t make a difference to my medical care. Plus I have an army of fabulous care providers who accept EDS as being on my landscape without an official dx. The biggest advantage to having EDS on the landscape is that it helps me make moves toward greater health and mobility. I have a wonderful physiotherapist who is willing to advocate for accommodations with mobility in mind.)

So, back to the hospital. Although my parents knew I was there (because I called them to tell them), they did not visit me. They also never mentioned it afterwards. It was a dirty secret that no one was allowed to mention.

Thinking about it in my lucid dreaming state, I felt anger. And, yes, I know: Boomers and stigma and blah blah blah. But it’s your kid, man. You unpack that shit and show up for your kid when they’re struggling. It’s also not lost on me that the two main factors here (autism/EDS plus yonks of trauma) were directly or indirectly caused by them.

The rage came with indignation: how dare they treat a human being this way? I was left to pay the price for the traumas my parents had been collecting throughout their lives, and never dealt with. Plus, Boomers and stigma… I understand all that. Not to mention that they likely had a fair amount of medical trauma, so they didn’t know where to turn for all the monsters in their closets.

I have some human compassion towards the crap that my parents went through. But honestly, it’s drowned out in rage about the many, many possible offramps that they ignored over the course of decades that could have lead to a different result. As long as we’re alive, there is a way to make a positive change, but they continued to write the same traumatic script over and over again, regardless of the collateral damage paid by their children.

So, yeah, I guess my brain needed to wrap my trauma up in a rage turd before I pass it. (Also, sorry about that! Ewww.)

Once I passed my rage turd, I felt much better, and fell into a deep sleep. I dreamed about a haunted cafe and three fat cats who became possessed by poltergeists. It was a romp. I woke up late to my daughter Cleo sitting at the table drinking chocolate milk. No way are these traumas passing on into this kid’s life, if I have anything to say about it. I think I needed this moment to look back before I look forward to my awesome life.

I can take up space. I deserve to have been treated with care, and the space between how I should have been treated and how I was treated, should not be ignored. My parents have offered flimsy and coded apologies for it (“We’re sorry that we weren’t the parents you needed”) but offered no self-insight to the setting conditions for any of it. And they have not demonstrated any changed behavior or willingness to unpack any of their nonsense belief systems (yeah… they still think gay is a sin– they just don’t say it out loud).

And I can choose to not accept a flaccid apology after decades of abuse. That is my right. I won’t hang on to anger, but I also won’t treat this as dealt with. My kids do have some limited contact with my parents, and my own relationship with my parents floats in and out. Ultimately, that’s where I feel like I need to land. I can give myself grace to not have the answers for this complex situation, and I can leave the door open for a change in relationship, with clear parameters for what I would be looking for.

Anger is usually a protective emotion, and I can see how it’s protecting me here. This righteous anger tells me I should have been treated better, rather than accepting status quo. A couple of years ago, I read Rage Becomes Her by Soraya Chemaly. It felt cathartic to realize that these feelings are common, and there’s nothing wrong with them. It is important for femme folks to allow themselves to feel the full range of emotions.

Anger is also an expensive emotion, and allowing myself to feel it means that I am out of survival mode in my life. In some ways, it feels luxurious to bathe myself in rage, and then to fall asleep and dream of possessed cats. This has been especially healing for me since sleep has been a massive challenge for me.

Alright, so this post has officially gotten completely out of hand, and I am getting hungry for breakfast. I will have a bowl of granola and blueberries, then hit the gym. I don’t let my anger take away my spoons for living a good life– I got awesome stuff to do. So, thanks, anger, for letting me know that I didn’t deserve this, and I will take it from here.