Contributor: Brianna

Brianna

Finding My Identity in Stories

Brianna smiles in front of white bookshelves filled with colored books.

I can’t remember when I realized that, more than anything, I wanted to be a writer. Like most things, it dawned slowly. As a child, I loved stories. My dad and I spent hours in an oversized, weathered rocker, with dark blue fabric that felt somewhat like a cross between velvet and corduroy. We lost entire days to reading about different people and different worlds.

I now know that stories were a refuge to my eight-year-old self. She found something in stories that she couldn’t find in the real world. First, it was the sprawling hills of a childhood favorite. Then it was the adventure and thrill of finding a long-lost repository of gold and knowledge. Then it was the wonder of space.

The psychoanalyst in me realizes that, as a young, disabled girl, part of me was yearning for another life. A different one, with a body that worked right, a body that wasn’t constantly trying to sabotage itself. But the counselor in me knows that, really, it wasn’t that I wanted to escape my reality.

It was that I wanted to see myself in theirs.

I was a writer in a world that denied me my own existence. There were no disabled girls in my Saturday morning cartoons. There were no disabled girls on the big screen, fighting the bad guys for the greater good. There were no disabled girls in the background of adventure movies and cult classics. There were no disabled girls in princess movies, even when media executives went out of their way to show that, look, anyone can be a princess! Yes, even you!

“It’s hard to find your passion in a world that tries to erase you. It’s hard to find your passion when, most of the time, disabled people are relegated to hospitals and living rooms.”

We don’t go to prom. The Force isn’t with us. And we certainly don’t steal significant historical documents.

But that’s a narrative. And a false one at that. Disabled girls are everywhere. We go to concerts and poetry readings and midnight premieres. We climb mountains and write papers and sometimes, if we’re really, really lucky, we find someone who will take our wild dreams in stride—even the ones that have to do with significant historical documents. We fall in love. We have families. We stare at the sky and feel, for one blinding moment, that we, too, are made of stardust. We rage and cry and, at the end of the day, we pick ourselves up and do it all over again.

“The world tries to convince us that, no matter how loud we scream, our stories are swallowed by the void. But that’s a narrative. And a false one at that.”

Someone is listening. Someone needs your poem, or your app, or even just your laugh. The real challenge is convincing yourself that, just like everyone else, you deserve the world, and whatever lies beyond.

From one disabled girl to another? You do.

Brianna

Filling the Gaps and
Building a Community

Brianna

Hunger, Desire and
Learning to Be Alive

It took me years to realize that I struggled with mental health.

Looking back, I feel like it should’ve been obvious. There’s anxiety, and then there’s gasping for breath in a waiting room because your doctor mentioned surgery and you’re having trauma flashbacks of anesthesia and bloodwork and life-threatening operations. There’s depression, and then there’s sleeping till 4 p.m., playing video games till 7 a.m., losing entire years to the black pit in your brain.

“There are bad days, and then there’s living with a disability.”

Things changed for the better when I realized, quite suddenly, that I wasn’t just nervous, or sad, going through a tough time. I was anxious. I was depressed. I spent the first 15 years of my life waiting to die. When that didn’t happen, I didn’t know how to live. I didn’t know how to be a disabled person in a world that values the perfect body, with healthy lungs and straight teeth and a correctly shaped skull.

No wonder I was confused. No wonder I felt alone.

In my experience, things start to change when you acknowledge the truth of your situation. Sometimes, most times, the truth is ugly. Many of us are dependent, and lonely, and frustrated with our lives. We want more for ourselves, but we have been conditioned by society to ask for things we know we can get, like pity or discrimination. We don’t dare ask for the big, scary, marvelous things, like dreams or miracles.

Things start to change when you look the truth of yourself in the eye. You are an animal with hunger and desire. You want things—love, and recognition, and chocolate, maybe, if you’re anything like me. You want the world, and your want makes you human.

Humanity is hard to acknowledge. Especially when you grow up in a world that tells you through subliminal messaging and targeted ads that disabled bodies aren’t pretty, disabled people aren’t worthy, disabled _____ aren’t _____. (Fill in the blank. You might be surprised by what comes to mind.) Standing in front of this wide, wondrous world and asking for more, demanding it.

“I don’t blame you for shying away. But I am here to tell you that everything you’ve ever wanted is yours to have. You just need the courage to ask for it.”

People will turn you down. It’s inevitable. And, inevitably, their rejection will sting. But that is part of being human. That is part of being alive.

I could talk for hours about mental health. Meditation (try it), or acceptance and commitment therapy (my counseling framework of choice), or support groups (you never know until you show up). But I know from experience that, once I acknowledged all of the things I’d spent years pretending I didn’t want, life got better. Not because a magical switch was flipped, but because I allowed myself to be, for the first time in a long while, human, with hunger and desire.

I let myself be present.

Brianna

Finding and Loving
My Voice

I was a self-conscious middle schooler when my English teacher asked me to read a short story I’d written at a school event.

I realized halfway through the reading that my audience was comprised of blank faces. No one understood what I had said. The story — something about siblings and ghosts and a tragic car accident — was lost in the glare of the spotlight.

It took me years to get over that incident. I found that, when people talked to me, I no longer had the words, so I stopped talking. I tripped and fell into silence.

But then I went to therapy and worked with a counselor to address my depression. And, perhaps the scariest of all, I told my story. Again, and again, until the memory grew blunt edges.

“With time, I grew to love my voice. There are days of silence and uncertainty and wishing my voice was different — but then I wake up and start again.”

If you’re struggling to find and accept your voice, here’s what I suggest:

  1. Explain your situation
    Nothing changed until I found people who were willing to listen.You might have to repeat yourself a few times, but don’t give up. People might surprise you.
  2. Troubleshoot
    I recently invested in a portable speaker with a microphone that attaches to my wheelchair.It helps to know I don’t have to shout.
  3. Push through the discomfort
    Will you be anxious? Without a doubt!Will people understand you? Maybe! Will it be awkward and uncomfortable? Probably!
“Will you survive anyway? Yes.”