I Am Not Sorry

Anyone who knows me might notice that I have a bit of a habit of over apologizing. I wheel a little too close to you in the hallway, "I'm sorry." It takes me a little while to get out of an elevator, "I'm sorry." You aren't looking where you're going and stumble over me because you're not paying attention, "I'm sorry." The words come out of my mouth without a second thought. I'm sure sometimes my apologetic nature seems disingenuous to people, but it's not. I spent a lot of my life being sorry. Really, genuinely sorry, just not for the things that you'd think.

I spent most of my life being sorry that I existed. I spent most of my life being sorry that I made things more "complicated" for people. I spent most of my life feeling the need to apologize for things that weren't my fault. I apologized for things totally outside of my control. I apologized for things that didn't even warrant an apology. Worst of all, I apologized when I was the one who deserved the apology.

I apologized because I believed the societal message that I was the problem. I apologized because I felt bad that my parents got stuck with me. After all, I was sure they would have rather had a non-disabled child. That's what everyone tells you. I was sure they would have rather ended up with anyone but me. That's the message I got every time somebody told them they didn't know how they did it. That's what I felt every time somebody said to my mom, "you are so brave, I don't know what I would do if I was in your situation. I just don't think I could handle it." With every sigh, every frustrated eye roll from some random stranger when the "normal" way of doing things didn't work for me, I was embarrassed and I was sorry.

Sorry became shame, shame became hatred, and hatred boiled over into an overwhelming sense of inadequacy, that plagued my every decision. I couldn't make a mistake. I could never mess up. I always had to be the best. If I was the best, I wouldn't be a problem. If I was the best, I wouldn't be a charity case whose friends were praised for just hanging out with her.

Nobody ever really understood this feeling. Sure, everybody knew I had a tendency to be a bit of a perfectionist, but nobody ever knew why. Nobody ever realized that I was trying to prove to the world, and to myself that if my parents got to pick their kids, they would choose me all over again. Nobody ever realized how afraid I was to rock the boat, because I just wanted people to like me. I just didn't want to be a problem.

When I talked about this with my mom once, she was shocked. Where in the world would I get the idea that they would love me more if I wasn't disabled? Sure, sometimes disability makes for some interesting situations, but that doesn't mean they ever loved me any less. I tried to explain, that it wasn't her, that I knew my parents loved me, but I also knew there were lots of people who couldn't understand why.

This is the problem. Not me. Not my disability. The problem is this idea that a non-disabled life is somehow better than a disabled one. The problem is that instead of rightfully condemning the numerous acts of violence committed against disabled people, society holds people who show me even the most basic human courtesies up as heroes. The problem is that instead of thinking that I deserve the same basic level of respect and love from my family as my brother and sister, people praise my parents for putting up with me. The problem is that even though disabled people keep being the victims of brutal crimes such as murders, the violence is never condemned, but rather excused by a society who sees us as the problem.

The problem is that I spent the majority of my life, saying sorry for my own existence. The problem is that I spent the majority of my life believing that the only way I was deserving of love was if I attained some superhuman level of perfection. The problem is that I believed them for way too long. I bought into the lie that I was the problem, and my family and friends somehow got gypped out of what they deserved by getting me. That is the problem. That has always been the problem. Not me. Not my body. Not my disability. Not my existence.

I am not sorry. I am not sorry I exist. I am not sorry my existence challenges the status quo. I am not sorry that I bring attention to accessibility and access problems. I refuse to apologize for breathing, for living. I never should have.

I am not perfect. I am not a superhero. I make mistakes, and I have bad days, sometimes really bad days. I will not apologize for that. I can't do everything on my own. I can't act like nothing fazes me, and I can handle any situation without a problem. I can't do it all, and I shouldn't have to.

I'm a human being. I am perfectly fine the way I am. I will not apologize for my body, because it is not something that warrants an apology. I will not apologize for my imperfections, because nobody is perfect. I refuse to be seen as demanding or dramatic when I try to assert my rights to the most basic human dignities.

I will not apologize for who I am, because I'm finally starting to realize that who I am is nothing to be sorry for.