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A Mind Divided--Supernatural 507--SPOILERS
I'm a person of two minds. The first mind is the mind with which most people are born, the one that understands and processes the world around me, the one that sees cause and effect and that warns me to avoid touching the hot stove or going down on the guy with the suppurating dick. It's the universal brain that comes with every human operating system.
Then, there's the second brain, the one that's uniquely me. In this case, that me-brain is influenced by life with a disability and all the gross indignities, both internal and external, that such a life entails. That me-brain has been shaped and informed by thirty-two years of living in the shallowest, most self-absorbed, health and beauty-obsessed country in the world. This brain has been barraged with the idea that because I have a set of wheels underneath my scrawny ass, I am useless and sexually undesirable and should, therefore, nobly and selflessly kill myself and spare the world the inconvenience of dealing with me and my rude, selfish desire to live.
In other words, I've lived thirty-two years in a world full of Bobby Singers, who feel that life isn't worth living if it can't be lived perfectly and exactly as we wish it. From the time I could understand, I've been conditioned to believe that healthy people, no matter how rotten or callous or egotistical, will always be better than me because at least rotten, sanctimonious dipshits can pull their weight. Their lives can be measured by how much they could earn. Mine can be quantified by how much I will draw from the system because no one will hire me, lest I cost them five dollars for a handrail in the employee bathroom or do something embarrassingly crippled in front of a client, like twitch.
The mind that has lived in that world, consigned to lesser-than status by even normally decent people, wants to punch Bobby Singer in the face for his pity party, to punch him for reinforcing the idea that being disabled is such a sordid, pleasureless misery that we all secretly want to die and hate every second of every day. Its formless little hands itch to throttle him for equating his masculinity, and indeed, his humanity, with his ability to walk. That brain longs to pummel him for his declaration that he should've put a gun in his mouth the day he came home from the hospital rather than be a useless burden.
The universal brain understands that this is a natural reaction from a man accustomed to doing as he pleases, to running and jumping and defending himself and saving others. People who've lived without limits or without the established limits of society have an exceedingly difficult time when faced with sudden, drastic limitations. They chafe and wallow and bridle and bemoan the loss of what was. It's realistic, and the universal brain applauds the writers for not painting Bobby as a suffering martyr nobly resigned to his fate and spouting nauseating piffle about life being what you make of it, naught but a matter of will, mind over matter.
But the me-brain doesn't care. The me-brain is tired by being bombarded by the message that being me is not okay, that I am nothing more than a condition to be pitied, a sad sack who waits for the release of death, a breathing liability who must be granted permission to live by the healthy majority. I love Dean for wanting to cry at Bobby's admission, and I love him more for reminding Bobby that he has value far beyond his ability to fight, but I want to kick the writers in the nuts for trotting out the nasty nugget of ablist wisdom that equates utility and worth to physical health and physical perfection.
P.S. I knew I should've written that fic where Dean had a disabled half-sister who lived with Missouri, and about whom Sam didn't know until Dean charged him with looking out for her when Dean went to hell. Dammit.
Then, there's the second brain, the one that's uniquely me. In this case, that me-brain is influenced by life with a disability and all the gross indignities, both internal and external, that such a life entails. That me-brain has been shaped and informed by thirty-two years of living in the shallowest, most self-absorbed, health and beauty-obsessed country in the world. This brain has been barraged with the idea that because I have a set of wheels underneath my scrawny ass, I am useless and sexually undesirable and should, therefore, nobly and selflessly kill myself and spare the world the inconvenience of dealing with me and my rude, selfish desire to live.
In other words, I've lived thirty-two years in a world full of Bobby Singers, who feel that life isn't worth living if it can't be lived perfectly and exactly as we wish it. From the time I could understand, I've been conditioned to believe that healthy people, no matter how rotten or callous or egotistical, will always be better than me because at least rotten, sanctimonious dipshits can pull their weight. Their lives can be measured by how much they could earn. Mine can be quantified by how much I will draw from the system because no one will hire me, lest I cost them five dollars for a handrail in the employee bathroom or do something embarrassingly crippled in front of a client, like twitch.
The mind that has lived in that world, consigned to lesser-than status by even normally decent people, wants to punch Bobby Singer in the face for his pity party, to punch him for reinforcing the idea that being disabled is such a sordid, pleasureless misery that we all secretly want to die and hate every second of every day. Its formless little hands itch to throttle him for equating his masculinity, and indeed, his humanity, with his ability to walk. That brain longs to pummel him for his declaration that he should've put a gun in his mouth the day he came home from the hospital rather than be a useless burden.
The universal brain understands that this is a natural reaction from a man accustomed to doing as he pleases, to running and jumping and defending himself and saving others. People who've lived without limits or without the established limits of society have an exceedingly difficult time when faced with sudden, drastic limitations. They chafe and wallow and bridle and bemoan the loss of what was. It's realistic, and the universal brain applauds the writers for not painting Bobby as a suffering martyr nobly resigned to his fate and spouting nauseating piffle about life being what you make of it, naught but a matter of will, mind over matter.
But the me-brain doesn't care. The me-brain is tired by being bombarded by the message that being me is not okay, that I am nothing more than a condition to be pitied, a sad sack who waits for the release of death, a breathing liability who must be granted permission to live by the healthy majority. I love Dean for wanting to cry at Bobby's admission, and I love him more for reminding Bobby that he has value far beyond his ability to fight, but I want to kick the writers in the nuts for trotting out the nasty nugget of ablist wisdom that equates utility and worth to physical health and physical perfection.
P.S. I knew I should've written that fic where Dean had a disabled half-sister who lived with Missouri, and about whom Sam didn't know until Dean charged him with looking out for her when Dean went to hell. Dammit.