what disables me

Hello, reader.  How are you doing?  I’ve been thinking more about what disables me.  My community member friend wrote a long, helpful comment on that recent post.  He said the issue isn’t really capitalism.

deeper

Yes, I agree–there’s something deeper than capitalism itself that disables me.  It drives the dysfunction that’s hurting me and in some ways, hurting everyone.

But right now, capitalism is the guise that the phenomenon is clothed in.  Or capitalism is how it’s manifesting in my life.  Or the yuck parts of capitalism are the hydra head that’s biting me right now.  If I was elsewhere, it might appear in a different way.

Anarchy is my pleasure to fantasize about and create pockets of.  The house, room, car, or random rental that Ming and I share is always a gender anarchy zone, and a free zone.  We’re working to create a world where love is more important than money.

Bunny helps a lot.  If I keep saying it, maybe my dream will come true.

what disables me

Even if I’m not being precise when I say that capitalism is what disables me, I enjoy saying it.  I love the freshness of the idea that it’s not an illness or health condition that’s disabling me. Most people think of disability as a bad health problem, and they might comprehend a few social ramifications. They don’t think of disability as a system problem.

So it’s fun to see that fresh idea knock people a tiny bit off balance, in a productive way. Even if I’m not 100% accurate, it’s valuable to take the onus off me, the disabled person, and point to a system as the one with the issue.  If that’s trickster, yes–I will do that.

needs

Disability isn’t rare, weakness, or a moral failing.  Disability is when my culture doesn’t care for my actual needs.  The standard person at least has a chance of their needs being met.  But there are not very many standard people, really.

People–especially women–are criticized harshly for having expectations.  That’s been done to me, and it hurts.  So I also enjoy the freshness of pointing to a system as having unrealistic expectations, when I say that capitalism has unrealistic expectations of me.  It’s fun to subvert the painful notion, or at least fuck with it.

survival

Forty plus hours a week was never going to work.  Leaving my soul at the door and pushing down my needs in order to be professional?  Doing all the emotional labor plus what’s actually on my job description.  Showing up to have everything about me that’s sacred trampled on.  No.

The primacy of the idea of being valuable for how I make money–it just needs chucking out the window.  I’m on earth for much different things.  I’m fortunate for this freedom and survival.  What disables me is up for debate, but I know love is what heals me.