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Roomie and I had a tiff this morning. He's upset because I don't venture out as often as I used to. He doesn't want me to become an "agoraphobic coward."
Thing is, I hate going out. It's not just a matter of just hopping onto a bus and trundling about town; it's an all-day gauntlet of making sure the lift even works, praying the underpaid, badly-trained driver straps me in properly, and avoiding those ass blunts who make it abundantly clear they'd rather I just died or submitted myself for admission to an institution. Then there's the nascent, constant worry that the lift will break before the run is through. When that happens, I'm rewarded with a busload of people who are silently cursing my decision to leave the house because my need for food or social stimuli means they'll be late for work or an appointment. They mutter and stare and bitch--sometimes not very quietly--about "handicappeds" needing their own damn bus. My humanity never enters into the equation, even in their speech. I'm just an aggregate of inconveniences.
It hurts. It's a constant emotional battering that drains you. I don't think you can understand it unless you've experienced it yourself. And forget trying to explain it to those around you. They just offer pep talks and advice to ignore it, but it's hard to ignore the fact that you are barely tolerated, not integrated and certainly not accepted.
Roomie says I used to be more defiant, and he's right. I was, but every human being has their tipping point, their Roberto Duran moment where they simply drop the gloves and say, "No mas," and I've reached that point. I don't want to fight to be recognized, to pretend I don't notice the glares and eye rolls and foot stomps whenever I muster the gumption to see how the world is doing today. I just want to be, without justification and without struggling with the guilty desire to apologize for my existence.
Apologizing makes you tired. Guilt makes you tired. Defending yourself in a society, a country, that claims we're all equal is enough to kill you, or make you kill yourself just to let your soul be quiet. Make no mistake, I've thought about it, quite a bit, in fact, and I've no doubt that I will again. In a world where everyone is compelled to tell you what to do with yourself, that's the final ace in the hole.
And surprise, surprise, it's illegal.
I expect more than a few of you have grown alarmed at this point. There's no need. I'm not turning in my "goodbye, cruel world" card and rolling into traffic. There are still sights I want to see and stories I want to tell, and just between you and me, I'm haunted by the secret fear that the day I took the running leap off this mortal coil would be the day before the cool stuffed happened. So I'm still here.
I just wish I could say I was afraid or tired or pissed off without courting the name of coward. I know it's not glamorous, but too bad. The Wal-Mart was out of fucking She-ra costumes, and dammit, even She-ra got rescued once in a while.
Thing is, I hate going out. It's not just a matter of just hopping onto a bus and trundling about town; it's an all-day gauntlet of making sure the lift even works, praying the underpaid, badly-trained driver straps me in properly, and avoiding those ass blunts who make it abundantly clear they'd rather I just died or submitted myself for admission to an institution. Then there's the nascent, constant worry that the lift will break before the run is through. When that happens, I'm rewarded with a busload of people who are silently cursing my decision to leave the house because my need for food or social stimuli means they'll be late for work or an appointment. They mutter and stare and bitch--sometimes not very quietly--about "handicappeds" needing their own damn bus. My humanity never enters into the equation, even in their speech. I'm just an aggregate of inconveniences.
It hurts. It's a constant emotional battering that drains you. I don't think you can understand it unless you've experienced it yourself. And forget trying to explain it to those around you. They just offer pep talks and advice to ignore it, but it's hard to ignore the fact that you are barely tolerated, not integrated and certainly not accepted.
Roomie says I used to be more defiant, and he's right. I was, but every human being has their tipping point, their Roberto Duran moment where they simply drop the gloves and say, "No mas," and I've reached that point. I don't want to fight to be recognized, to pretend I don't notice the glares and eye rolls and foot stomps whenever I muster the gumption to see how the world is doing today. I just want to be, without justification and without struggling with the guilty desire to apologize for my existence.
Apologizing makes you tired. Guilt makes you tired. Defending yourself in a society, a country, that claims we're all equal is enough to kill you, or make you kill yourself just to let your soul be quiet. Make no mistake, I've thought about it, quite a bit, in fact, and I've no doubt that I will again. In a world where everyone is compelled to tell you what to do with yourself, that's the final ace in the hole.
And surprise, surprise, it's illegal.
I expect more than a few of you have grown alarmed at this point. There's no need. I'm not turning in my "goodbye, cruel world" card and rolling into traffic. There are still sights I want to see and stories I want to tell, and just between you and me, I'm haunted by the secret fear that the day I took the running leap off this mortal coil would be the day before the cool stuffed happened. So I'm still here.
I just wish I could say I was afraid or tired or pissed off without courting the name of coward. I know it's not glamorous, but too bad. The Wal-Mart was out of fucking She-ra costumes, and dammit, even She-ra got rescued once in a while.
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