Accepting Disability

Two years ago, I met a dancer who had just recently become disabled. "You never get over it," he said. He was upset at the time, and I thought it would be most human to acknowledge his pain and sorrow. I didn't want to be all pollyanna about getting by, living around, process, and all that kind of stuff. I made verbally agreeing noises, though I thought that, like the rest of us, he would make some kind of journey towards acceptance. And, rather smugly, I thought that my journey was done.

I was an old hand; I was, at that point, four years in. Now, as I approach the six year anniversary of the most clear point of my disability story, I realize that I am not where I thought I was.

The most difficult part of my experience is not the variabilities of my physicality, but the narrative I must share with my dance colleagues, with my family, with people on the street, with my friends, and most importantly with myself.

When I talk to other people, I often minimize my story, simplify its complexities, and, of course, forget who knows what. I omit the most embarrassing stuff. I don't talk about the nasty stuff. I shrug and move on. I've got a life, after all.

That's allowable, I think, when dealing with others. But when I look at myself, I want to be more honest. I should remind myself that I often don't take my body seriously and that when I don't, disasters happen. I know that I am perfectly capable of doing a weird double think: I don't like my body to dictate what I can and cannot do, so I tell myself to try harder, scold myself for being lazy, refuse to listen to warning signs, and plan as if there were no limits, etc. etc.

Learning to take my limits seriously ought to be a more important part of my journey. But I don't want to do that.

I like to think of myself as a doer. And some of the tales of feats I've accomplished recently make my hair stand on end. What was I thinking? Of course, I wasn't thinking. Because I don't want to think. I don't want to take care. I don't want to accept care. So, I don't consider all the details; I am afraid it will be hard to stop and even harder to start if I calculate all the risks.


I was not a dancer before I became disabled: my dance originates with my disability. And so learning to dance has become part of my journey to disability acceptance. At the same time, however, I fight myself: If I could just stretch a little more, push the line a little more, twist slightly more, sustain the movement better... In other words, I have found a way to push the limits of my body even as I do the thing that makes me whole.

OK. I admit to a feeling of brokenness in there. It's hard to acknowledge, given all I said in my post on the pleasures of my disabled body. Yes, those were and are some of my pleasures. But there is a feeling of brokenness in my body. And six years later, it still hasn't gone away.