«Let's cut to the chase: what happened to your hand?». That was more or less the question one of my university housemates asked me on the very day I moved in. I don't remember the exact words, but I remember the tone. It was as if there were some urgent matter to clear up, even before we'd settled on a cleaning rota.
When you have a visible physical disability, people sometimes take liberties before they've even gotten to know you. Curiosity is understandable, but there are better ways and times to express it. My hand is one of the first things people notice about me, and I don't expect it to go unnoticed. I'd just like to be able to choose when to talk about it. For a long time, I exercised that freedom mostly by avoiding the subject altogether, even with people I cared about.
In my friendships, disability has played a role even when I wasn't the one bringing it up. In middle school, for instance, I had a friend who wasn't exactly a model of diplomacy. One day he got into a fistfight with a boy who had teased me about my hand. I was glad someone had stood up for me, but I also felt deeply embarrassed about what had happened. A few years later, in high school, another friend from my group, also fairly prone to settling things with his fists, assured me he'd deal with anyone who gave me trouble. Looking back, I find it ironic that someone as well-behaved as me managed to be friends with the black sheep of the group.
I appreciated that kind of attention, but I also wondered whether my friends saw me as particularly vulnerable because of my disability. Maybe I was reading more into their intentions than was actually there. Still, the idea of being seen as someone who needed protection bothered me. I wanted to prove I was perfectly capable of handling things on my own.
For many years I tried to present a flawless image of myself: independent, confident, always available. I was the friend who listened, gave advice, and tried to be there in difficult moments. A dear friend of mine, whom I still see today, once told me that when I ask someone how they're doing, I do it because I genuinely want to know the answer. And yet, looking back, I realize I often didn't offer the same honesty to those who asked me that same question.
While I took a genuine interest in other people's problems, I tended to hide my own, afraid of seeming weak or becoming a burden. This difficulty extended to the more practical needs tied to my disability: asking for help with something I couldn't manage on my own could leave me deeply uncomfortable. I preferred to muddle through on my own, even when it would have been far easier to rely on someone else.
The result was a kind of loneliness that's hard to explain. I could spend a pleasant evening laughing and joking with friends, only to go home feeling like I'd left an important part of myself out of the conversation.
Over the years, something has changed. Working on myself, I came to understand that there can be no real friendship without honesty and openness. That realization has allowed me to be more authentic with others, when it comes to my emotions, my needs, and my disability too.
A concrete example of this shift is happening right now, as I plan a trip with some friends. I recently asked them: «Guys, can you help me figure out how I could manage with my suitcase and carry-on?». A seemingly trivial question, one I wouldn't have had the courage to ask a few years ago. I probably would have tried to find a solution on my own, even if it meant making things needlessly complicated for myself, just to avoid letting others know about a difficulty of mine.
For years I've been asked what's wrong with my hand, and I suspect that will keep happening. The difference is that today, when I need it, I'm far less reluctant to ask for a helping hand myself.
See you on November 27 with Beauty.