Conventional vs. unconventional timers and problems with people in the household

So a big issue with timers is how other people are going to feel about them, especially people you live with. I guess I'm assuming a reader who is making some decisions about how to conduct their life and possibly having to explain some things about their disability to roommates or family members.

If you use a conventional timer (which I guess regular people mostly use for cooking?) then it's confusing to people because you're obviously using it for things that don't have to do with cooking and sometimes it seems like you're not using it for anything at all. Also, it can be a problem because a lot of people find the sound of a timer going off to be really unpleasant and/or stressful and then it's an issue of being considerate to the people you live with.

Actually, even unconventional timers like TV shows and singing are things that you can have to explain. If your family is really fussy about your disability, they might get upset because they perceive watching TV or listening to music as a leisure activity and they think that you should be doing something constructive. Even if you are doing something constructive and you try to explain that TV and music are making it possible for you to do it, they might just think it's an excuse.

Something that I find frustrating is that even if people are not annoyed with me for watching TV a lot, they don't understand my relationship to TV. Sorry that just sounded ridiculous, but what I mean is that people think I'm just really into watching TV shows and I want to sit down and watch TV shows with them. To me structuring my time around watching TV, instead of structuring TV around what I want to get done, is a waste of time, energy, and episodes. It can be fun sometimes just like any waste of time and energy can be fun, but it's a completely different activity from my usual TV watching (TV as timer).

Even if I do sit down and watch TV with someone (which is fine as a leisure activity and sometimes I'm prepared to do leisure activities), I feel tense because I'm not used to just watching TV and doing nothing else, so I like to eat, play games, or be on the computer at the same time. Obviously some people don't like this much so I try to make my secondary activity be eating or drinking because it bothers people less. Also, if I get drunk enough, dealing with being drunk can be the secondary activity.

I guess it's kind of a stupid thing for me to take personally but it can be hard for me to know that other people perceive me as doing leisure activities all the time when I am literally working hard at something right then.

Also there's the fact that people are a bit less likely to put up with something that mildly inconveniences or annoys them if they think you're doing a leisure activity than if they think of it as an actual support that you need. Some disabled people might think it's good if singing in the shower helps a person take showers properly, because it doesn't come off as different from other people. But it is also hard if someone says it's annoying to hear you singing in the shower, and they don't understand that by saying that they are making it hard for you to take care of your hygiene which affects your quality of life.

Iceberg problems

I wrote something like this in a Facebook comment a long time ago and I realized I didn't ever write it up here like I was planning to. I've been thinking about it because it applies to a lot of things other than disability, but I'm sticking to disability in my explanation of it.

So from your (universal disabled person's) point of view, there's the stuff other people notice about you that's different or seems to cause problems. Then there's your actual problems, differences, and/or suffering which is going to be most obvious to you and maybe some people who are close to you.

I don't know if I'm explaining this well but just think of an iceberg, where people notice the tip of the iceberg but most of the reality of what the disabled person experiences is underwater. Here is an example about Clayton, hi there Clayton if you ever read this blog. (Aside from this most of the examples are going to be about autism.)

When people meet Clayton they notice that he walks and moves differently. Sometimes they wonder if his physical disability includes an intellectual disability. They find out that it doesn't, and then they think of his disability as consisting of how he walks. Sometimes they even come to feel that the way he walks isn't that different after all and then they "don't even notice his disability anymore" or "don't think of him as disabled."

They don't see fatigue and physical pain that Clayton suffers due to having CP, and he said that some people actually try to argue with him when he explains that his disability is more than the way he walks. This can happen with people he's been friends with for a long time.

It's obvious that people do this when they don't have experience with disability, but the weird thing is that they also do it when they do. It's a major trope in arguments between disabled adults and parents of disabled children that the parents will tell the disabled adults they're not really disabled or they're not really suffering. I don't think this is something that happens because anyone is an asshole. People just get really upset when they think someone is claiming an experience they don't really have and they see it as an insult to people who really do have the experience.

As far as I can tell, this is how it works: people see the underwater part of their family member's disability, and maybe they don't even see how things look to someone who doesn't see that. They don't see how maybe if a stranger meets their family member in the right context, for a short enough time, they don't notice how the family member moves or that they have trouble talking. They know when their family member is about to flip out from stress, so they don't realize that to most people, the person is going to appear calm until they're actually screaming.

If they notice that their family member is really good-looking or sweet or charismatic, they just see that as a coexisting thing or (depending on their attitude toward disability) maybe something that makes the whole situation even sadder. They don't realize that some people are actually going to be much more unlikely to notice signs of the person's disability, or admit the severity of the disability, because they find the person pleasant to be around.

Or, if they notice all of this, they think it's really awful and unfair that people don't understand that their family member is disabled and they wish people could see beyond the surface.

But at the same time, when these people look at disabled people who aren't their family member, especially people who they are inclined to see as other or as their opponents, they don't imagine there is anything beyond the most superficial and loudly stated markers of disability, and they even argue with those. They don't try to learn about what might be happening underwater to make this person identify so strongly as disabled. They don't just give the person the benefit of the doubt and assume there is probably a lot of stuff going on they don't know about.

(Probably my favorite thing was seeing someone argue that her kid is more severely disabled than other people who are perceived to be equally disabled to him, because she knows that he works really hard to appear the way he does.)

Obviously if the point of this post was to criticize parents who attack disabled people this way, I'm beating a really dead horse and my current one post a month output could be channeled in a more creative direction. Everyone knows it is boring and makes disabled people feel really bad.

However I haven't seen a lot of people acknowledge that disabled people do the same thing to other disabled people who they don't agree with. I can think of a few A/autistic bloggers and writers, who don't always have the same opinions about disability as each other, but who obviously feel that they have different opinions from most Autistic people who talk about disability and most Autistic-run organizations. Whether they talk in vague terms or about specific people, these writers usually seem to feel that everyone they associate with "anti-cure" or "neurodiversity" or "anti-ableism" is a homogenous army and none of us are as genuinely disabled as they are.

This is pretty interesting and I've had some conversations with these people where they try to argue that yes okay, maybe everyone can't immediately tell they are disabled from reading their blog, but they still have the right to call out other people and question their right to an opinion because they couldn't immediately tell they were disabled from reading their blog.

Of course this isn't limited solely to people who tend to chew out individuals and organizations that I like. I am a pretty big perpetrator of it myself. I tend to perceive every disabled person I meet as more skilled and/or better off than me in some way related to disability.

1. They are better at doing stuff than me.

2. They have more normal emotions than me.

3. They have a better work ethic than I do (which I guess is a way of just saying they have better executive function and don't ever want to cut their face off from being scared to the point that it is hard to do anything).

4. If it seems like they really are worse at all this stuff than me I just figure that they're probably dealing with it a lot better than I am so they're morally superior to me.

5. Or maybe they're not pushing themselves as hard as I'm pushing myself, that must be nice.

6. They have a disability that other people are going to recognize as being real, like they are in a wheelchair. Therefore they have it better than me because they don't have to feel bad about themselves and everyone understands what they're going through.

This doesn't make me very good at being compassionate towards other people or making friends with them, but you might be interested to know that occasionally people slip through and we become friends, and all of these things are usually NOT true. Most disabled people I've become friends with suck really hard at everything, push themselves really hard, and have a lot of problems that aren't immediately apparent.

Not to be overly broad but even people without disabilities can have underwater stuff. Depending on what someone's problems are (like if they have to do with belonging to a marginalized group) they might have more or less underwater suffering and work and experience going on. But we all have insides and we do ourselves a disservice when we don't work to recognize that.

(Note: I obviously don't think it is objective or even defensible to say that there are really "invisible" parts of a disability that no one can possibly notice without having them or being extremely close to someone who has them. We don't see a lot of signs of disability because we're taught to assume that no one is disabled. But even though I think it sucks, that is how most people function now.)

1. Irrelevance

(One)

Ability statements are somewhat related to the tradition of the self-narrating zoo exhibit, and I'll explain why. First of all, I think people tend to get told their disability is mild (or something else, but whatever the words are they usually imply it's not a real disability) when they haven't gone into a lot of detail about their disability and how it affects them.

The thing is though that there's no correlation between how much you talk about your disability and whether your disability is real or not. So why do people imagine there is? I think it has to do with the expectation that disabled people who talk about disability will always be talking about their own disability. A writer who self-identifies as disabled, but isn't describing her own disability, produces writing that is inconsistent with what's expected from a disabled writer. Maybe this is why the legitimacy of her disabledness gets called into question.

I think some people who have made ability statements would argue that they weren't telling the disabled person her disability wasn't "real." They were just arguing that as a talking person, the disabled person doesn't understand the experience of people who can't talk (or whatever the ability in question is). But in the context in which ability statements appear, they almost always are jarring in the extent to which they don't follow naturally from the conversation.

"I am disabled, and I think--"

"You can talk."

"I know I can talk, but anyway I'm disabled, and I think--"

"You're less disabled than someone else."

"I know I'm less disabled than someone else, but I was just saying--"

"You can attend college."

"Actually I had to drop out of college for reasons related to my disability, but anyway, I had something to say, and this is kind of offensive."

"Why are you denying that there's a difference between you and people with severe disabilities?"

As a queer person, I can make this comparison, I think: someone who's talking about something "as a queer person" doesn't usually have a lot of straight people clamoring to tell him that he's bisexual rather than gay, or that he's "straight-acting," or that he came out late in life.

Queer is a pretty broad word and so is disabled. If someone is talking about disability as a broader category than some really specific thing like not being able to talk at all, then I don't really see the motivation for needing to pin down a lot of specific facts and--it often seems--put the disabled person in her place by highlighting ways in which she is "less disabled" than someone else.

I don't think it is surprising how much it happens, because the way disabled people are treated is often all about putting them in their place for wielding the term "disability" themselves instead of letting someone else have it (and that has to do with the next thing I'm going to say). But when it happens it is really offensive because it takes a conversation that was often more abstract or general and steers it into being about the details of the disabled person's life.

Ability statements are a personal attack because they are dehumanizing. By throwing them out there when they are irrelevant, you indicate that a disabled person doesn't have the right to just express ideas and feelings like you do. She must be on display.

Ability Statements Are a Personal Attack.

I just figured someone should post a to-the-point explanation of why this is the case. I think some people, especially people without disabilities, will say something that they think is pretty innocuous, like, "You obviously can live on your own." But then they check back on the comment thread and the person they said that to looks like this:


(Realistic Haunter.)

How come?

1. Irrelevance
2. Unevenness and inexplicability
3. Real Life Facts

some disabled staff person fragments and facts

So I’m working at the summer camp I worked at last year, which is a sleepaway camp for teenagers and adults with developmental disabilities, and it’s reasonably progressive and all that. I mean, very, probably, I should be grateful.

But Disabled Staff Person is just hell. Always has been always will be.
2.
I’m crunched for time and if I try to write a really long well-thought-out post about why this is, I’m afraid I might never finish it, so I will try to outline this briefly. I think it’s really weird that heterosexism and cissexism are commonly used words but that there seem to be no equivalents for other kinds of oppression. On the one hand it bugs me when people use words like heterosexism and cissexism about situations that are clearly about hatred of ssa and trans people; I agree that words to describe oppression ending in -phobia are problematic and should probably be replaced, but words like heterosexism imply the problem is about normativity and kind of erase the impact of actual hatred and violence and discomfort and fear.

But normativity also blows, and one of the most frustrating things about it is something that’s also one of the most frustrating things about being disabled in general--the feeling of not just pain but being sure that your pain isn’t really so bad and shouldn’t even count.
3.
So during training for camp, we learn about disabilities obviously, and we sit there and someone goes, “So does anyone know someone who is autistic? What can you tell us about autism?” and someone else goes, “Well, I was an aide for a little girl with autism and they don’t like to be touched, like they really hate it.” This one guy even says, “Well, all the autistic people I know really hate the taste of ground beef.” Both these things are not at all universal and I find that the stereotypes about touch, in particular, can lead to a lot of problems. But even if they were saying perfectly accurate things, this is the most uncomfortable room for me to be in. I learned about autism not because I saw it, but because it was never outside me.

I can’t count how many times I have been subject to this kind of assumption, either in an able-normative group like in the above example or in a comment specifically directed at me--”oh, my daughter is interested in autism just like you are,” or the classic “good for you, it takes a special person to do that kind of work.” Clearly I cannot be interested in autism as something to “get into,” as it’s just always there for me to look at or try to escape; and I’m no more special as a counselor for disabled campers than non-disabled counselors are at a mainstream summer camp. But no one really considers that they might be directing their standard-issue comments at someone for whom what they’re saying doesn’t really make sense.

Sometimes I even get these comments when the person does know I have autism and probably would understand if forced to confront it that what they said is inconsistent. People also perpetuate able-normative environments when they know I have autism (like my professor who asked the class if any of us knew a person with autism who was in college). I guess they keep those two clumps of thoughts, “Amanda is disabled” and “disabled people are Other,” carefully spooned on opposite sides of a plate. The clumps never touch. They don’t change.
4.
I believe you always regret telling. There are exceptions, like Liam and Noah, but definitely no one I have worked with or for. Obviously everyone knows horror stories about people who were suddenly considered unfit for a job simply because their superiors found out they had a stigmatized diagnosis, but being stiff upper lip I’ve never had occasion to experience this. What happens to me is quite small: I work out that someone will be okay, and I tell them, and it seems okay; or I have worked out that someone will be okay and I consider telling them because I feel close to them or I think it would be in some way relevant to something we’ve talked about. Eventually, through the accumulation of offhand comments and reactions I realize that while this person is more okay than most non-disabled people, the chasm between their outlook on disability and a disabled person’s outlook is, well, not massive, but no less galling for that.

If I’m lucky, the first piece of evidence I get is the person’s selective memory. I mention that I have autism and they act all surprised even though I already told them. Or I make a comment that has certain implications when made by a disabled person, and they respond as though it was made by a non-disabled person. This is kind of a cool situation because just as I learn that the person isn’t really so “okay,” they tell me in the same breath that they don’t remember I’m disabled--so I can just slip back under the radar, fuck yeah.

Or if I’m lucky, I still haven’t told them and then I hear them say something about how “fascinating” and “textbook” a camper’s stimming is. (I see your “Aww but she’s in school, that’s just how people act when they’re in school” and raise you a “I’m not saying she’s a bad person but would you want to be around someone who treats the way you move like something on the Discovery Channel?”)

If I’m not lucky, someone knows and I know they remember and accept it as a consistent part of me which is swell, but then I start realizing that they have a certain lack of faith in the capacity of disabled people to perform tasks and come up with their own ideas. One time this happened with someone I worked for, and the chill of knowing that despite their stated anti-ableist beliefs they probably wouldn’t have hired me if they’d known made me sure I never want to tell an employer about it again. After all someday I’ll need a reference.
5.
You probably know this if you know me but for some reason I didn’t put it into words until a few days ago--my most surefire trigger to get in a state (crying, mania, self-injury/being suicidal) is being made to feel that my disability isn’t real, isn’t visible, or isn’t recognized by other people. In fact it’s hard for me to remember if I’ve had any states in the last year that didn’t have that at least as an aspect.

Last week one of my coworkers, who I had until then considered a friend and vice versa, told me that he thought campers who had meltdowns were “brats who needed discipline.” After unwisely plodding through a conversation about this topic, I ended up lying in bed for hours sobbing and thinking about stabbing myself with the scissors in my backpack (which I only didn’t do because I was sharing the cabin with three sleeping disabled kids). At maybe two I wandered outside my cabin and stood next to one of the camp bathrooms and called my best Autistic friend, who had to deal with my speech which was kind of in pieces. I was upset because what this guy had said to me had hit my trigger point, but also because I couldn’t talk to other staff about it. I mean, I did. I’ve contributed to this guy being unpopular by repeating his comments, because I really wanted to say them and have someone else say they were bad--and everyone did, but for other staff it’s not bad on the same personal level, it’s a professional disagreement, and ultimately I’m just one of many apparently non-disabled staff getting into some non-disabled staff drama.

Whereas for me it’s not about disliking him in a general sense, but actually feeling terrified and threatened; and almost getting sick from the distance between how kind and friendly he was to me (someone he thought wasn’t disabled) and how that kindness and gentleness apparently gets lost when he looks at a kid who has meltdowns or wanders or doesn’t listen to him.

Counselors have been met with and given a talk--no more gossiping about each other, and if we criticize each other we should do it directly. We’re supposed to move on from the drama. (Who is the we that is going to move on?)

That’s all for now. Fuck my life.