#disbility

[raineofthedragons]

"Autism is always an invisible disability"

Just say you don't support Level 2 & 3 Autistics and leave.

[icryalotandiamnotproductive]

I had a massive meltdown in public this morning, happy days

[tara-maclays-gf]

disabled people arent allowed to feel “ugly” emotions about their disabilities because it makes abled people feel bad and like they might have to do something to accommodate disabled people

[nwarrior777]

ma dudes!

making cool oc. and he is paralized!

any advice how to write/draw paralized characters (from paralyzed people)? more specifically: my idea is that he got paralyzed after car incident, and he broke some cervical vertebrae (google translator said it's the word, never heard it before but like, i mean.... spine bones... but, like, in the neck... englosh hard) so he feels nothing that is lower than his chest. so, feel free to give advices, i will listen carefully! if you paralyzed, tell pls, what kind of character and what kind of details you want to see in content with him. maybe even some fun (yeah, disabled people have fun things in their lives, what a concept!) things, like then i drew Disabled!Reigen au and you guys gave me so much material for cool fun comics

and yeah, that character will not be "i am a character with x feature and this feature is my entire personality" i will make him cool and interesting, and i know how to make other parts, but, as i am not paralyzed, i need a little help!

waiting for your comments or tags <3 <3 <3

p.s. he is from that setting with my previous new ocs, who lives in 8 people queer communna. Here are a picture of one of that ocs, so people who see my blog first time can have a idea about what kind of a character that paralyzed guy will be

[justanotherstardrop]

i am NOT sorry i cannon hide my autism and other disabilities

[theofficialdailyplanet]

saw somebody say babs should be batgirl again cos the way she became disabled was awful and like?? disability isnt genetic or from birth, it can come on tragically, thats a reality, like my chronic migraines are from being lynched as a baby, terrible shit resulting in disability happens all the time, thats life

just bc how she became paralysed was atrocious doesnt mean she cant like live and thrive and adapt to it? idk how to explain it but like the infantilisation of disability to where it always has to be palatable and approachable to able bodied ppl is fucking stupid

[normalbirb]

honestly, as the one labeled as the stupid kid growing up, its a bit insulting watching the gifted kids complain over how worthless they feel for not being labeled as gifted anymore. im not gatekeeping trauma cus i understand your situation comes with it too, but its not the end of the world if you arent gifted. i should know, i never was.

[returntothewilderness]

i listened in on an online sermon this shabbat and resonated with the idea that it’s not on one person singularly to enter a community. the community needs to be receptive and welcoming to foster new connections, to care for people beyond immediate networks. to be like abraham & sarah, inviting the hungry into their home for dinner, never once considering it an interruption to their prayers.

but then, i was disappointed with the end of the sermon. after all this talk about fostering welcoming environments and reaching out to do the work to make people feel part of the community, they took an ableist turn. they said that there’s a magic to being together in person that cannot be replaced by screens and that if you can’t make it that’s fine, But that’s not where the magic of connection happens.

i was glad to see *some* people masked in the livestream, but is that where the work of being welcoming ends? why would someone so focused on discussing community and how the shul could be better about it turn around and be so cold to disabled, chronically ill, and immunocompromised people who cannot be “in the magic”? can you even call it magic at that point? the magic of connection, in religious and secular environments, cannot fully exist until everyone is included in that definition. if people joining through zoom aren’t experiencing the full impact, why is that? how can you incorporate that into your overall goal of being welcome? why is this concept of magic so limited in scope? how can we collectively push past abelist ideas of what creates a spiritual space and connection?

most people live by these abelist ideas that make full accessibility seem like “too much work” or “ruining the spirit of togetherness” (think: companies wanting employees in office for “morale” when there’s a pandemic). i wish these self-proclaimed progressive people and spaces would stop and consider how much magic they’re lacking by not opening their minds and expanding their idea of what community looks like. how much more liberating, caring, and compassionate torah could exist if we abided by our alleged morals. how can someone invoke the act of sarah and abraham stopping their dinner prayers to let someone they didn’t know join them for dinner because they were hungry, when they themselves turn away those who don’t show up in a way ideal to them? are you as righteous and kind as sarah and abraham if your disabled congregants aren’t Able to be present at your dinner table? hungry for connection, exhausted from living in a world made without them in mind, looking for a spiritual home to feel seen and included in everything they are embodying? absolutely not. you’re not even close to the basic act of human dignity the ancestors showed to their guest.

would sarah and abraham have shut the door if the hungry man couldn’t walk, see, hear, eat certain foods, talk, or communicate in ways they were used to? i like to think that would have made no difference. that man would have always been present at the table. so why are you shutting the door on disabled congregants? we need to move beyond inspirational words and do more tangible work to make this full table, full of magic and accessibility, actually happen.

[caffeinatedopossum]

"Life begins at conception!!"

Me, who is 19 and still doesn't have a life:

[chiyohlecter]

devestating news i've just been told that hongjoong does not say "take me please out of the dirt" in take me home but in fact "take me please out of the dark" please be patient with me after this revelation, i will never stop saying dirt, but please be patient and thank you for understanding <3

[impybutt]

Garden of Bones 02 || Rex and Bonesy bonding, plus background lore

Bonesy’s bedroom is vaguely furnished and kept mostly dark, to ease the strain on their sensitive eyes. The bed is a roundish nest of blankets and pillows, cluttered on the periphery with various clothes, half-finished projects, and crafting supplies. Bones is laying on their back against a comfortable pile of stuff with Rex pressed softly against their side, propped up on one arm.

“Obviously it’s yes,” Rex murmurs, idly tracing the seams of Bones’s ventral plates with the pad of his forefinger. When he’s calm and lucid, his voice is a pleasantly deep croon; a combination of training and general shyness. “I’m just curious… why me, specifically, and not the others. Bron, for instance. She’d be very gentle.”

“You’re gentle,” Bones replies flatly. Rex’s weight against their side fills the barrel of their chest with comforting flutters. “Anyway, it–” words get trapped in their neck. They decide to make the attempt at tactful doublespeak, weaving the point around the weight of everyone’s shared trauma – the one Brontide dug up by accident, trying to help Weaver stop dissociating during sex; that Bones invented specific ways to avoid, including teeth and buttons where there otherwise wouldn’t be.

The lag in conversation is significant and, like always, Rex waits it out. Gently caressing Bones’s torso, occasionally eliciting a tickle of light from under their chitin, while they drag out the silence at their own pace.

“It has to be you,” they finally admit. “It’ll probably just be you, if… if it goes well. If I like it. At least to start with.” Their gaze sweeps over Rex’s soft little body, mentally contrasting it with his physical strength and restraint; with the kind of monstrosities he’s been, caused, in the past, and now vehemently rejects. “You’re a man. You’re the bloke. Y’know…” they shrug up against sentiment, instinctively cringing from it, “... Man of the house. My patriarch. I picked you for that, after how you stepped up.”

Rex makes bashful eye contact, briefly, and offers a wobbly half-smile. A little white flower pops up spontaneously next to his broken horn; a star jasmine. Bones’s namesake. The very same flower which reappeared with a blanket of fragrant green moss, to comfort them when they screamed down the pipes, as the weretree was violently electrocuting everybody. 

After Puck, the original heartwood keeping the lightning (poorly) contained, finally splintered for the last time, and Brontide – then going by Oberon – couldn’t reconcile his pieces. They were too far gone, too irreparably damaged, nothing left of the original but tarnished memories. Oberon held on to whatever and whoever she could, clawing the walls of a sisyphean death spiral that she and everyone else was hopelessly sliding into.

There’s a void in the guts of the weretree, deep beneath Knoppegarten’s safe clover beds, where time and space mean nothing. The force of the spiral was too much; everyone had already died, too quick, for just long enough. 

Weaver found itself in a piece of cold obsidian, the last recognisable jewel of a familiar volcano, and fell in love with the quietness of the Nothing. It reminded her of the peace she felt with Puck and Oberon, when they meditated atop that very volcano - the one made of Puck’s final body - before everything went down the shitter.

Oberon lost track of her own name and face so many times that she became an empty vessel for unwelcome ghosts, until a new name was offered to her, and she chose Brontide: the sound of approaching thunder. A singer who listens for signs, catches the bodies, and records the fallout of the storms. 

Bones was pulled screaming from the petrified jet, burdened with thirty years of core formative memory that got scattered across four separate lives. Burdened with visions of lightning, and the thing that killed the first Rex, the first time, when the weretree was just a sapling; that killed him uncounted times, until he forgot it all, including himself, and stayed dead until the tree was already fully grown.

Then thirty-ish years later, the lightning surged out of control and killed the whole tree - for just long enough. 

And the ‘he’ that came back looked nothing like Puck, or Rex. But it had their heads, among many others, and the lightning had fresh terrors to spin panic out of pain and back again, into more and more strikes, day or night. Terrors that bound Brontide screaming to her bed; that chased Bones out of their own body, and made an offensive puppet of the empty carcass; that fought Weaver for Worst Nightmare, until the Sphynx won that battle by becoming as cold and ruthless as the void that seduced their adult mind.

Resolution came violently, and it took two pieces of what used to be Puck: Warren, a young jackalope, the oldest caretaker of his animal siblings; and Grimm, the eternally mutating ghost of a long-dead father figure. The empty, sloughing bones of the Rex that held on for thirty years, when every other part of him failed; the first consciousness, in the form of a terminal mission. In their last desperate attempt to recover the weretree, spurred to madness by Bones’s primal howling, they broke the two-way mirror separating the trunk from the roots; the garden from the graveyard. 

The immediate consequence was an unstable fusion, powered and eventually subsumed by the dirtiest secret ever collectively buried: Servitor_Rex, the servant king, a berserker so named by Bones themself, in case that emergency protocol was ever tripped. The first sprout of the tree, directly from the taproot, made in patriarchal violence and ordered to shut up and sit still. The one who died youngest, and went dormant. His first act on being fully awakened was a response to Bones’s panic, when he ate an entire human aggressor alive; his second was to go backwards into his own dreams and rip off Puck’s wings, grounding him forever, rather than risk the heartwood shattering from the weight of delusion again.

The regret and resentment he felt when he saw his own footprint on Puck’s back; saw the disappointment on a face he regarded as belonging to his child, started a ripple that bent Rex in two directions, six ways. Back and forth; up and down; left and right, outside of time or space. A terminally shape-changing monster, being and doing whatever he could to provide for Knoppegarten, and reconcile with his own violence. He took on the mantle of the Puck that was, but in his desperation to spare his family more pain, ate more lightning than he could stomach. The loving scholar he aspired towards got viciously interrupted, when the timeline of his life unfolded before him in the throes of a terrible spasm. He inherited Puck’s madness in the form of manic dissociations, triggered by the electricity still pulsing the core of the tree.

The earliest living memory he could recover was the sound of a yelping dog, twisted by thirty years of pain and confusion into a bite that wouldn’t let go. So it was that Servitor Rex became irrevocably shaped like a fox terrier, whatever other features emerged, and positioned himself as the guarding Cerberus of Knoppegarten. The culmination of every Rex before him, including the one called Puck, from whom he learned how to patiently cultivate a thriving garden, and nourish the weretree from the bottom up.

It took a while for Rex to feel worthy of Bones’s affections, given the circumstances of his awakening. Even now, the second-hand pride his Labradorite picks up from the other heartstones feels undeserved. “That’s the nature of depression,” Weaver would explain, while it played its cool fingers through his hair after he recovered from a fit. “It eats away at you. Part and parcel with everything else, I’m afraid. Cause plus effect. We’re all very disabled, darling; the tree's fucked.”

Bones eyes the little jasmine blossom and allows themself a reserved smile. “I’m really happy to see you growing flowers again,” one of their many ancillary hands delicately touches a petal, then lets itself play across the fracture lines of Rex’s broken horn. “Your reincarnation was pretty rough. Lots of… folding in on yourself. I spotted a Lucifer complex for a minute, there.”

Rex snorts a laugh. “And now you want to give me your V card,” he jokes softly, leaning into Bones’s hand. All four Fae have mutable gonads; the rare few times Bones has bottomed, usually for Bron, it hasn’t involved their vagina. Up to this point, they’ve had that particular door inarguably sealed.

“Yeah. ‘Give.’ You offered me a living name: Lucky Jasmine.”

“You didn’t even think twice about accepting it,” Rex whispers, still a bit floored.

A look of profundity creases Bonesy’s brow, and they brush their knuckles across Rex’s temple ridge. “I remember everything you did for us. When Bron went down and all I could do was scream… You weren’t anything but the flowers, and you still managed to carry us to the waterfall so she could puke her guts out. Do you even remember how?”

Rex shrugs; shakes his head a little. “I just remember… feeling like I knew how to help. Didn't even realise I was still dead.”

“I felt you. I felt that it was you. All over my back, like a jacket. You took over the limbs and all the pain just… stopped.” Bones searches his face. “Your pain tolerance is really fucking scary.”

Rex shrugs again, trying not to be dismissive. Bones is rarely this sentimental. “I suppose that explains all the mystery bruises. And for some reason you’re certain I can be gentle with you.” Trepidation crosses his face; concern that a badly timed seizure will knock him out of his rational mind.

“Yeah because all prior evidence points to that being your top priority, especially when you aren’t recognisably you. Rex, babe… I’ve seen you resort to violent self-harm rather than risk any of us the way Puck did. I don’t ever want to see it again. You broke off your own horns to terminate that Lucifer complex, it… I don’t want to see that again.”

“... I don’t even know what shape they’re trying to be,” Rex whispers, and lowers his eyes, ashamed. “I refuse to be him again. He was nothing but a fistful of bad copes. He let go.”

Bones pulls Rex into a full embrace; nuzzles his fringe; breathes in the combined fragrances of his hair, and the happy little blossom now being joined by various friends: pea flower, blue dendrobium orchid, nightshade.

“He was cooked, honey. There was nothing left of him to hold on with. I’m just… I’m just real fuckin’ glad you caught the rock.” They lift his face, rubbing their thumbs across both freckled cheeks. The red light in their pupils reflects back up as Rex concedes intimate eye contact. “Just let yourself change shape if it happens. Horns, wings, extra heads, whatever – you’ve never had a problem with my bonus gobs.” A cheeky set of teeth punctuates that point from somewhere near Bones’s groin; Rex hoots an involuntary giggle.

“Not when they’re so clever!” He laughs, squirming as Bones plays his arousal like a familiar game. Under their thumbs, his cheeks warm up to a pleasant rosy pink, and his pupils dilate just enough to take the edge off his perpetually alarmed, cold blue eyes.

Another smile pulls at Bones’s lips. “There you are,” they murmur. A tea rose the same pastel pink has joined the bouquet, blooming coquettishly under Rex’s curls. He feels a sympathetic thrum in his Labradorite heartstone, coming from the Fire Opal under Bones’s chitin - of jealous possession – tempered with protective affection. “My flowers,” Bones whispers, and their expression shows something new in response to the latent blossom: like the sting of absence finally soothed by the target of its longing. They hold Rex’s gaze for a powerfully long time, many seconds, drinking in the way he openly adores the green in their eyes.

“My Lucky Jasmine,” he responds with a subtle, knowing cock of his eyebrow, and any semblance of control is immediately lost. 

Bones stammers out some clumsy fricatives, futzes “shut the fuck up,” and pulls Rex into a passionate kiss.

[atypi-cals]

Idk as much as I hate people asking uninvited questions about my disability, it was kinds comforting when the old guy who asked listened to my answer, nodded, and said "back when I was younger you'd get a lot of people with polio going through something like that."

[digitalcanvascove]

(via "Determination Defined, The Wheelchair Warrior" Mouse Pad for Sale by callypainter)

[diabetesnscoliosis]

Why are "radfems" having KJK as their hill to die on. She's on the far right. That's who she represents, that's who she gives voices to.

[disabledopossum]

Did my best to remain in bed, but my hip kept giving me issues - so here I am, sitting at my desk.

Why am I like this?

[gender0bender]

Image description: A halftone black and white design depicting a snarling white dog with text next to it in all caps reading “Enough awareness enough acceptance I’m angry and I want to kill the CEO of Autism Speaks”.

Another halftone black and white design depicting a chuerub statue with black eyes and texts next to it that reads “ One day I’ll stim so hard I break the light barrier become an angel of raw fire and every colour in the multiverse and then I’ll use my godly powers to pull the limbs off everyone who called me a retard like a hurt child torturing flies and then you’ll be sorry then you’ll be sorry “ the phrase “you’ll be sorry” repeats until the border of the design.

Another halftone black and white design depicting a knife with text around it in all caps reading “When will we take revenge for disbled victims of infanticide?” End description.

It’s the last day of April and the last day of Autism “Awareness” month, but (un)fortunately for me every other month of the year is Autism Rage-At-Ableist-Oppression month! You can get these as stickers on my Redbubble