It has taken me months to try and write this piece. It has sat in my to do list since August, “Write cripple anger piece.” Every time I’ve tried to start, though, every time I think I’ve found the words to begin, I’m set back. I’m pushed away from the issue I want to write about by the grief of my situation. I am reset into this factory-preset of, “I’ll be fine! You don’t have to worry about me,” and add in that fake, plastered smile at the end.

This piece was due in August 2021. I am writing it at the end of January, and it likely won’t be published until February or even March. This piece was pitched as a piece about anger and righteousness, but anger and rage are slippery feelings, difficult when grief is the more dominant emotion. Rage and anger are pushed away in favor of being seen as “better than” we truly feel, as more put-together, to be seen as someone who is happy with their lot in life.

I am not. 

And still—even still—my rage and anger and turbulence are hard to hold, difficult to feel because I have spent years telling myself I am not allowed to feel those feelings in relation to my disability. I should be so angry about the way my disability has shadowed and cast my life, but I can’t. I can’t. 

There is not enough room for me to be as angry as I deserve to be about my disability.

As a disabled person, I have been expected to be “tough” about my disability, to suck it up and to smile at the end of the day and quote the world’s worst sentiment, “Someone has it worse.” I have been told that I will never be able to use my arm again, and I have smiled at friends and family and told them, “At least I’m still walking.” 

Rage is unseemly on a disabled person. To be angry about your disability means that you are unhappy with the things you cannot control, and therefore you are a negative and pessimistic person. To be disappointed with your circumstances related to your illnesses means that you are ungrateful for what you have been given and can only focus on what you have not been given. To be upset, generally, on any given day when it is in conjunction with your chronic illness is seen as rudeness, as misplaced emotions, as “major emotional issues.” 

Anger is not a good look when you’re chronically ill. 

And yet, I need to be angry. I have to be angry. If I am not angry, then I am lying to myself when I say that it doesn’t hurt that bad on the inside. If I am not screaming sometimes, I am deceiving those around me into thinking that I am always positive, always happy about being disabled.

If you were given a chocolate ice cream cone after you asked for vanilla, wouldn’t you be upset too? Even just a little? Even just for a moment? Even if you like chocolate, if you’re fine with it most of the time? 

Then why, when it comes to disability, a thing someone else genetically or circumstantially chose for you, are you not allowed to be upset that your first choice was not respected? 

My arm was broken in September 2021. That phrasing means something. My arm was broken—but did you picture something I did to myself, or something someone did to me?

In this case, it was something someone did to me. I was yanked and dragged during a theatre rehearsal, despite earlier warnings to be careful with people you didn’t know that well. I was yanked, dragged, and I subsequently had several parts of my upper body dislocated. Immediately, even though I was screaming, I consoled them. I assured them that I had screamed out of pain, but that it was probably fine, these things just happen, I’m fragile and breakable.

It was up to me to put myself and them back together simultaneously. 

I had to continuously accept apologies of, “I’m so sorry I hurt you, this is hurting me so much!” because they felt immense guilt over what had happened. They were afraid of the consequences but not for my life.

I was not allowed to be angry with them because they were so guilty already; I felt obligated to forgive and move on and stuff down my anger deep inside of me. 

Now, those who were there that night have tensions and divisions running through them and between them because I have been seen as “hostile” for the way I reacted to the assault. I will be getting major surgery that may result in loss of limb at age 20, and yet, I am seen as aggressive and unfriendly because I was angry my arm was damaged. I was angry, even though I tried so hard not to be.

I am angry but it doesn’t feel like I’m allowed to be. It feels frowned upon, a taboo, a “weird” reaction to what feels entirely logical. I am angry that I am hurt. I am angry that I will be spending thousands of dollars to fix their mistake. I am angry that I will be losing out on major milestones of my college life because of what they did to me.

I am angry that I am not allowed to be angry.

This is a unique instance, but it is reflective of so many others. When I had nasal surgery over my winter break, I was so mad that my entire winter break was taken up by recovery. At the same time, I was extremely grateful that I had that time to recover and heal and that I didn’t have to dip into my semester time in order to do this procedure. I have broken both of my ankles a total of a dozen times, both of my knees half a dozen times collectively, and I’ve had a total of 15 surgeries in five years. I am so mad that this is my life. That these are the cards I am dealt. 

At the same time, I am happy that I don’t have it worse. That I do have time at college, with friends. I am grateful that my immunocompromised state isn’t so severe that it would bar me from leaving the house completely. I am grateful and relieved I am able to walk on a regular basis (even if it hurts). I am happy that I am alive enough to write this piece, even if I felt like I was dying two weeks ago when I got the news about my arm. 

I swing like a pendulum between grief, rage, anger and then all of the relieved feelings of happiness, gratitude, mild amounts of hope. 

This cognitive dissonance is hurting me so much—all because we, as disabled people, have been told that it is right for us to feel happy and relieved that our situations aren’t worse, and strong and resilient about the situations that we do have. We are always expected to be “on” when it comes, to be disability advocates and warriors, always stopping those who speak badly about the disabled life.

We are not allowed to be angry or hurt that this is our life, because we’re afraid it might tell non-disabled people they can feel the same. 

Disability rights are already so thin and fragile, that we must be the wide-eyed kid begging at a candy store for them. Disability recognition is barely there, to the point where we must celebrate whatever we get (within reason). 

If I am angry that I am disabled, then it might give others the right to be angry that I’m disabled, too.

It’s better if I keep that anger to myself.