I am disabled. There’s no other way to put it, really. No flowery language will erase that truth. In fact, one could go as far as to say I’m profoundly disabled. I have autism, ADHD, OCD, depression, anxiety, PTSD, and mild BPD, as well as severe chronic pain, scoliosis, and blood issues that confine me to a wheelchair on bad days and dictate the use of forearm crutches or a cane even on good ones. Despite all that, though, I still feel disconnected from my disabled peers and like I don’t deserve to be part of the community for one key reason: I directly contribute to the oppression of the disabled community. You see, while most people are opposed to infantilization, I actually enjoy it. Maybe it’s because I genuinely need help, or maybe it’s because due to my trauma I never fully grew up mentally past the age of five to ten, but either way a stranger offering to get the door for me or politely pushing my wheelchair up a hill (after asking consent, of course) is the highlight of my day. Someone reaching a high shelf for me when I can’t makes my whole week, and I can’t help but get so happy I practically bounce in place when someone offers to read to me or help me with electronics I can’t understand. I know it’s wrong of both them to assume I’m lesser for being disabled and of me to find comfort in it, but I can’t help but flap my hands with joy when I’m gently patted on the head and called “sweetheart”, no matter how condescendingly. Of course, I know this just leads them to do the same thing to other disabled people who don’t want or need it, but I can’t find it in myself to call it out because usually I’m too busy wiggling in place and making happy little noises.
So do I