Every week I had a meeting with my school counsellor. My mental health had been bad for quite a few years now and this was a condition of my enrolment. She was wonderful but I felt uncomfortable talking to anyone so quite a large amount of the time we talked about unrelated things.

Late in the year she sat me down and told me she wanted to talk to me about something. I’d been following all of the rules so I didn’t know what she wanted to talk about.

She brought up the Disability Support Pension. This wasn’t even on my radar – sure, I had chronic pain and was struggling greatly with my mental health, but was I actually disabled? She signed the form that said I was and I handed it into Centrelink, doing so only because she wanted me to, not because I thought I was actually disabled. I was approved – did this mean I was disabled?

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I was out to my friends, but not many people. I’d come out by accident, blurting it out over a group dinner when I was accused of wanting someone else’s boyfriend. Once I’d done it, I was still not ready to do it.

I knew a few queer people, but none who I was in a regular contact with. Most were significantly older than me. It meant that my support network was entirely made up of straight friends. 

Australia was debating gay marriage. Not at a political level yet, but at a community level. Lane took me to a protest at the State Library. He was probably one of my closest supports at the time, and helped me with my undiagnosed social anxiety. We stood on the outside and didn’t stay long. I don’t know what was causing me more anxiety – being perceived as gay or the crowd in general. But he stood by me, helping me feel a little more safe. 

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  I would talk about my disability more as a list of symptoms, sharing more as a disclaimer rather than a sense of pride, or even just ease. I’d call myself disabled when speaking to others, because I knew that was how I was perceived, but internally I thought of myself more as chronically ill. I had this idea of what disabled was which was not only inaccurate but also disregarding so many people, including myself.  A large amount of my lack of disability pride was that I thought I wasn’t disabled enough to be worthy of having pride.

Every new development brought up internal conflicts. I knew that even looking at the stereotypes I was disabled as I used a mobility aid. But applying for a disability parking permit brought up so many different contradictions. I wasn’t disabled enough, I didn’t have a car (I was applying so that I could get in cars with others), I just wasn’t trying hard enough.

I was a hypocrite, supporting others while degrading myself. Every time I just thought I wasn’t trying hard enough. I knew that if I saw a double of me that I’d never say this to any of them who were struggling the ways that I did, but every time something new was brought up I couldn’t help but criticise myself. 

I applied for the parking permit and got it.

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  I’d broken my arm. It was a ridiculous story – I’d been handwriting for hours, switching between arms because I’m ambidextrous. The first doctor grabbed my arm, pulled it in different directions and declared it fine. The second doctor did an x-ray and found I’d broken it in two places. The whole event left me with a camouflage cast. 

A friend of mine was in the Melbourne Rainbow Band. I’d been to a few of their concerts – they were incredible. They were marching in Pride and put a callout for people to wave flags for them as they marched. I signed up, thinking they’d be little flags, but when I got there they were absolutely huge. I held the flag awkwardly as we went down Fitzroy Street.

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  Recently, I was in the hospital for a couple of weeks. Don’t worry, this isn’t a trauma porn story. 

When I was packing my mother said, as matter of fact, that we’re bringing the wheelchair and called my dad over to help with loading it into the car. It wasn’t a matter of blame, or an inconvenience on them at all. It was just how things were.

Back when I was admitted I was still trying not to use the wheelchair when I could. But the corridors were long as it was a large ward. Going down to get dinner was painful and exhausting, so I started using the chair to get dinner. I’d use the chair to go outside. To go to the café. To go to the med station. I was in for a few weeks but using the wheelchair meant I wasn’t struggling without my usual physiotherapy sessions. The most powerful thing for me was that sometimes I didn’t use the wheelchair and no one questioned why I was in the chair or why I could walk. It was just how things were.

I’d had negative thoughts about using my chair that I’d never think about anyone else. I’d had contraindicating thoughts about things like this for years, but I started to realise this was more about how I felt about myself rather than actually using the chair. But using the chair opened up a whole new world for me and reduced my pain dramatically. I didn’t need to be throwing streamers or flags to feel joy. It was just how things were. And that was okay. 

About the Author:

Ferris Knight is a queer and disabled writer, producer and advocate from Melbourne, Australia represented by Champion Health Agency. Ferris mainly writes about their lived experiences with mental and physical health conditions, as well as queer politics, poetry and fiction. They have also worked with organisations such as Arts Access Victoria, The Dax Centre and Women with Disabilities Victoria. In 2019 they produced their first Melbourne Fringe Festival show LEtGO of Stigma, walking 80 metres across Lego to talk about living with hidden pain and the resilience of those with mental illnesses. In 2020 they were a part of the anthology Closet Cases: Queers on What We Wear from Et Alia Press, writing about sexual harassment.