Where's my Disability gone?

It's very strange...I feel the same...I look the same...I hurt the same. But they tell me I'm not the same. "Who told you that?" I hear you say. I say "strangers told me that. Strangers all over the world tell me that."

It's hard to accept that I'm now public property and subject to the intense scrutiny that other social groups would never accept. Celebrities insist that unless they are on film or stage then their lives are not public property. The very rich insist that they had a right to evade paying taxes and the country owes it to their super-richness not to ask them to pay a fairer tax rate. Pensioners are declared 'off limits' from anything as intrusive as means testing by successive governments. But disabled benefit claimants...we have no value and rate the same on the social scale as the homeless and travellers.

Take a 'walk' in my shoes. Imagine that every morning you are awakened by a soft voice that says "Good morning, Liar" and then that voice follows you throughout the day and politely addresses you as "Liar" all day. Imagine that once a fortnight you are paid a small amount of money and then told, "We have to give you this but since we don't believe anyone can be this ill we will do all in our power to remove this payment from you as soon as we can find an excuse that will hold up in the light of public opinion." Imagine that you have to allow a stranger into your home at a time of their choosing, to scrutinize your bank statements and has the right to ask any questions regarding your expenses, bills and how you disperse this small sum of money. And No, you cannot refuse him entry or refuse to answer such intrusiveness; he's already made it clear that your benefits will cease immediately should you do so.

Now imagine that public opinion has been swayed into believing that you are a cheat and a liar. Then imagine, if you will, that they also believe that you are greedy, selfish, lazy, lacking in pride, using more than your fair share of the country's resources; thoughtlessly and callously taking without giving.

Now try going out.

No, you can't go out in disguise. You can't pretend to be someone else. The wheelchair/crutches/walking stick gives you away; especially as it's 11 am on a weekday. How do you feel?

The person who's stood on the other side of the shop/street/bank looking at you; do they know what it cost to be where you are? Do they have the right to judge you? Were they there when you were awake in the middle of the night, longing for dawn because the pain wouldn't let you sleep? Did they see you struggle out of bed, because your legs were so apinful despite the 'rest', that you had to hold on to the bedrail in order to stand? Did they watch as the morning carer helped you into the shower and to dress; did they see her make your morning tea because no one feels you're safe with a kettle anymore? Do they know that the only reason you are in the bank with just a stick is because the disabled badge has allowed you to park right outside? Do they understand that otherwise you would have to wait for Monday because that's the day a carer comes to take you shopping in your wheelchair? Will that person judging you know that once you get home, your pain will have reached it's height and you'll still have an hour to wait before you can take more painkillers? Will that stranger be there to help you get your lunch because you are worn out with effort and pain, or will you go without a meal again?

Now, you will sit in the afternoon watching the wind ruffle the trees. Will you wish that you could, once more, walk across the Yorkshire moors, ride the breakers onto a Cornish beach, climb Scafell Pike, ride a horse around Lake Windermere or explore Cheddar Gorge? Maybe. But you will content yourself with watching the wind, the sparrows at the bird table and listening to the chattering, walking bus of primary school children en route to their swimming lesson.

So, evening has come. Will your pain be controlled enough for you to get dinner ready? Nothing fancy, just a portion of a casserole that someone helped you to prepare at the beginning of the week or a ready meal. Or will it be a bowl of cereal because you haven't the strength to hang around in the kitchen waiting for it to heat? When the carer has helped you to undress and made you your second cuppa of the day, how will you wind down? A book [if you can hold it tonight] or a TV programme? Or will your last few minutes before sleep be spent in fear and anxiety about your future?

Always, when we talk about these things to others, anything they want to say about the disabled is always qualified to our faces... "Of course, we know YOU are really disabled, but..." It constantly reminds me of the racism of the past when people used to say "I have nothing against black people, but..." That 'but'. It tells us how you really feel.

So now I have to disappear. My disability is not what should define me. I am more. Some good, some bad. I am a survivor of domestic abuse. I am a mother. I am ill. I am a grandmother. I am of working age. I am blonde. I am all of these and none of these.

I am an individual.

I know if I am capable of working or not.

Where's my disability gone...? Oh, here it is, right inside me. Forever.

A thought that came on another painfilled night. When fishermen fish for tuna, the law says a 'dolphin-friendly net' must be used. Does anyone have a 'genuinely-disabled net' handy?