Disability and manhood: Being a burden

At the urging of a few friends, I've decided to expand upon my previous post on this subject. I'm not one to mince words, so I figured I'd stab directly into the dark underbelly and see what oozes from the wound.

Growing up, we're taught that self-reliance is a major milestone in achieving authentic manhood. And then there's someone like me, who has never cooked a single meal or made a cup of tea, ever. The bitter irony of life with a disability (from my perspective, anyway) isn't the list of things you can't do for yourself, it's the time and effort people around you must sacrifice so that you can have something vaguely resembling a normal life.

Aside from regular sustenance, here's a partial list of the things I need help with on a daily basis:

• Bathing
• getting dressed
• using the toilet
• going anywhere that isn't within the confines of my home
• getting onstage at karaoke bars (just kidding, I would only sing under threat of death...perhaps not even then).

To complete each of these, as well as hundreds more infinitely mundane things, someone else has to be actively involved, instead of doing the stuff they'd rather do. Even though my family and friends frequently tell me that they don't mind helping out, being the guy who always needs help results in periods of deep guilt and self-loathing. From there, it's just a short mental hop to "Everyone else's life would be easier if I were dead."

I know it's a gross over-simplification and fortunately, these feelings are offset by doing well in my work or brightening someone's day. What this boils down to, as life so often does, is an ongoing balancing act. I'm just happy I'm able to spend most of my time rightside-up.  

Disability and manhood

What does it mean to be a man? In many ways, I'm a traditionalist; I believe that manhood is defined by how consistently we uphold our personal values and moral codes, regardless of society's fickle whims. As I see it, manhood has very little to do with whether you care about sports or even your sexual orientation.

To truly be considered a man, you must make your own choices and have the strength of character to accept their consequences. If you want respect from others, you have to prove yourself worthy because despite what many in the current generation of young adults seem to believe, it isn't something to which one is automatically entitled, simply for having been born.

At the start of this piece, I called myself a traditionalist, but I'm also a cerebral palsied quadriplegic who needs a lot of help in daily life, even with some of the most basic tasks. So how do I reconcile these two concepts?

I refuse to be a victim or blame others for the circumstances in which I must live. When people with disabilities are featured in the mainstream media, we are still commonly typecast either as tragedies or inspirations. However, what I consider more disturbing is seeing sites with a specific focus on disability running articles in which people drone on about how someone called them an "offensive" word or how the world should change on a fundamental level so that they don't ever feel excluded.

Let me be clear; I believe that every reasonable measure should be taken to make public spaces as accessible as they can be. What people need to realise though is that whether we like it or not, those with disabilities are an abnormality of the human condition and we cannot fairly expect to be catered for at all times.

Perhaps the chief characteristic of manhood is realising that life in our world very seldom treats us as we'd like, and continuing to move forward without collapsing into a puddle of self-pity and resentment.

The tribulation of 2016

This will undoubtedly be the most personal thing I've shared on this blog to date, and it is only through the support of friends and family that I have found the strength to do so.

I should begin by saying that I have almost no experience with women and it's due to a number of reasons; I'm introverted, rather unassertive in social situations and the schools and college I attended were all relatively far from home, making romantic relationships quite unfeasible. If you add the fact that I am a cerebral palsied quadriplegic, it's easy to see why most girls wouldn't consider me a "good catch".

Things began to change in December last year when frequent flirtatious conversation bloomed between me and an extremely witty and attractive older woman with whom I'd briefly worked in the past. (I will not name her or reveal where she lived because firstly, I have no desire to be sued and secondly, this is not an attempt at vengeance; her deeds will bring enough personal suffering of their own, I reckon.) We'd remained in touch via Facebook and I had no reason to think our attraction would ever be more than platonic, but as I said, things changed.

She had long since returned to Cape Town (her native stomping grounds) and as I had just resigned from a job in the emergency service industry with no definite plans for the future, she suggested I go there for a six-week holiday. We spent the next three months in daily contact, usually chatting until the early hours of the morning and during this time, my "holiday" became an indefinite stay and then a permanent relocation.

If I'd been more rational about this, I'd have realised that things were moving too quickly, but as it was, I felt deliriously happy to be the object of desire for a successful, independent woman who had travelled the world and lived like a gypsy.

Nonetheless, I was afraid; never before had I travelled anywhere by myself (let alone flying 1000 kilometres away to start a new life) and once I got there, she would pretty much be my sole point of stability and care. If at this point in the tale, you're wondering what the giddy fuck I was thinking, fear not - I ask myself the same thing every day.

Eventually, the day of my flight came and despite my trepidation, I arrived safe and sound. For a solid month, my life was the best it has ever been; Cape Town is truly a jewel in South Africa's crown and we spent nearly every day exploring the city and writing about our adventures. In short order, she'd also used her impressive network of professional acquaintances to create tangible job prospects for me.

The woman herself was an absolute wonder, it seemed as though we connected on an intellectual level and my disability posed no deterrent whatsoever in regard to sexual attraction. One night though, a housemate walked in on us having sex and suddenly, everything went wrong.

This housemate became furious and accused her of taking advantage of me (frankly, an assumption this person had no right to make). The woman then became convinced that if things ended badly between us, I would charge her with abuse; something I swore I would never do on principle.

Regardless of my assurances, she kicked me out a little over a week later with no notice and wouldn't even be in the same room with me after that, which meant that another housemate and her boyfriend had to help me pack and prepare for a flight back to Durban that same morning. I'm honestly lucky to have made it to the airport on time.

When I got back, we realised that a number of valuable things had been forgotten in the rush. Upon politely asking the woman to return them, she took a truly disturbing degree of joy in refusing and belittling me to the best of her considerable ability.

In an attempt to remove emotion from the situation, my mother called her father, which awoke a rage I did not foresee and drove her to threaten me with sexual assault charges. Suffice it to say I abandoned those possessions and took steps to make any further contact basically impossible.

So here I am, trying to rebuild my life in a world which feels drastically shrunken. It's been a few months now and I've been able to get work and earn money and thanks to a small circle of very dear friends, I am not actively suicidal, Honestly though, I do find myself wishing life would end more often than I like to admit.

Where my journey will go from here, I really can't say. I suppose I'll just have to wait and see, like everyone else.  

 

Ask not for whom the jingle bell tolls... (short story)

The festive season is close at hand; seen as a time of peace and merriment for millions across the globe. However, dear friends, do not be fooled! A deceptively insidious scourge exists which has been allowed to blight an otherwise joyous occasion for far too long.

The astute among you will realise that I am of course referring to that great (yet oddly unacknowledged) symbol of oppression, the candy cane. Those unschooled in the subtle practice of confection-based bigotry might exclaim, "How could you possibly be offended by a candy cane? It's so colourful and sweet." However, therein lies its diabolical genius.

The North Pole is among the world's greatest generators of effective propaganda; consider this, in all the Christmas movies you've watched in your life, have you ever once seen an elf who couldn't walk? I think not!

The horrible truth is that they do exist, but the ironically named Saint Nicholas is actually a monstrous sadist of the first order. He keeps the cripples in a dank, dimly lit basement and the ones who fail to produce toys at twice the normal rate are dragged into the reindeer paddock and left to be gored and kicked to death by that crimson-nosed beast and his merciless herd.

The world at large will never know the unspeakable horrors that go on in that icy hell, but to remind his physically challenged slaves of their wretched lot in life, the red-coated tyrant takes perverse pleasure in ensuring that a symbol of their infirmity is enjoyed by countless hordes of unwitting holidaymakers each year.

Friends, I implore you, do not allow yourselves to be made silent accomplices in this heinous and dastardly mental torture any longer. Forgo the purchase of these sugary demonsticks; or if you do not, stand for what is right and hurl them into the roaring flames over which you shall roast chestnuts! 

Meme with caution

Social media is now part of the fabric of our daily reality, which on the whole, is a positive thing (I wouldn't have much of a social life without it). However, as with all technological advancements, there exists the potential for misuse.

Take the image above; at face value, it sounds good but if we examine the statement critically, it's easy to see that it's simply not true. The human memory, particularly in people who've suffered physical or emotional trauma, is extremely fallible. There's a reason why police and prosecutors build cases on objective evidence instead of relying solely on witness testimony.

This example is rather innocuous and probably won't do much harm, but other memes exists which stand to do real and lasting damage.

This one was no doubt created by some well-intentioned individual who feels that modern society relies too heavily on pharmaceutical medication and wishes to encourage people to find balance in a more natural way.

Here's the problem though, mental illness is very real. For many people, it results from a medically provable chemical imbalance in the brain and in those cases, no amount of frolicking in a forest will restore balance or peace of mind better than responsibly prescribed meds. The proliferation of this meme might very well alienate people from seeking much-needed treatment, and that's no help to anyone.

So, the next time you're about to hit "Share" or "Retweet", take a moment to consider the potential impact of doing so.

A premonition in post-apocalyptic prose (short story)

I have seen a vision of things to come and hold onto your pigtails folks, 'cause we ain't in Kansas no more. (Oops, I mean we won't be.) My temporal exactometer has gone on the blink, so I'm afraid I can't give you a precise date - damn Chinese imports! - but at some point hence, the global zombie apocalypse does indeed hit and it is everything you might have imagined.

Society as we know it breaks down, buildings turn to ruins and the streets become arteries of anarchy and destruction as the rule of law falls by the wayside. The old, the fat and the disabled are first to be devoured. (That was a bitter pill to swallow, let me tell you.)

The survivors flee urban areas, which have become epicentres of death and misery, to seek refuge in what little undeveloped wilderness remains.

For a time, the remnants of humanity live on in relative peace, but then something rather odd begins to happen. A small, but vocal minority rises up, espousing some deeply unsettling views. They brand those who guard village borders against marauding zombie hordes as brutal thugs whose only purpose is to defend and uphold the "humantriarchy" They assert that certain villagers should willingly sacrifice their brains for consumption, in atonement for a transgression called "grey matter privilege", which, inexplicably, some do.

Most astoundingly, the Zombie Justice Warriors, as they've become known, claim that after intensive scientific study, they've discovered that zombies have evolved a gender spectrum and in an effort to respect their individuality, the awestruck researchers coin the pronouns "Zee", "Zim" and "Zer". Now rather zealous in their beliefs, the ZJW's label anyone who refuses to respect these pronouns bigots and zomsogynists. At this stage of my odyssey through time,I began to feel my sanity crack and splinter, so I returned swiftly to the here-and-now, praying all the while that my earthly demise would occur before the arrival of this event horizon.

You should not fear the warlords (poem)

You should not fear the warlords,

Those armed with bombs and guns,

For they at least are honest.

Not the truly scary ones.

The people on your screens,

Those who read the news,

It's them you should beware,

Who seek to shape your views.

Activism's wonderful,

Please do participate.

As long as you don't tell me,

Everything you don't condone should now be considered "hate".

No, you should not fear the warlords,

They'll just shoot you dead,

It's the folks on TV you should doubt,

They'll rewire your head.

The stoic observer (poem)

For the most part, he labours in solitude,

Even when others approach, they seldom pay him notice.

He isn't much to look at, in faded jeans and a worn cotton shirt.

He doesn't mind though, for they don't come to see him, they never have.

And why would they? Most are wholly shrouded in a fog of memory and grief,

Scarcely aware of the world before their eyes.

It has always been thus, whether in Rome, Mesopotamia or London-town.

In each time and place, he assumed inconspicuous form,

Blending in, going peaceably about his task.

Throughout his timeless watch, he has laid countless souls to rest,  

No matter the hue of their skin,

Emperor or serf, chieftain or slave,

All come to equality in motionless silence.

Miscellany of Macabre: Volume 16

I do not claim ownership of any of the following images; I collect them purely out of interest.

Miscellany of Macabre: Volume 15

I claim ownership of none of the following images, I collect them purely out of interest.

White privilege and the lunacy of the "social justice" movement

I was born a white, upper middle class male in South Africa, just before the fall of apartheid. This means that I've never had to worry about having a place to sleep, where my next meal would come from or whether my school fees would be paid. So in a very real way, my race and economic status have afforded me benefits denied to many others.

However, in the eyes of a growing number of people who claim affiliation to a movement which supposedly stands for equality, the unchosen circumstances of my birth render my opinions (and in the most radical circles, my very existence) less valuable than someone of another race. The phrase "white privilege" denotes all the advantages I've listed above; unfortunately, it has also become weaponised for the purpose of silencing anyone who would challenge the current societal leaning toward extreme political correctness. Don't believe me? Take a gander at this meme which happened to pop up in my Facebook newsfeed just a few hours ago.

 
You see, it's becoming increasingly popular - trendy even - to lump white people into a great amorphous hive-mind and then lay the blame for all the world's problems squarely at our feet. In the social justice hierarchy of oppression, my race and gender make me the greatest participant in and beneficiary of oppression.

The notion of privilege is frequently discussed in conspiratorial tones, expressed as an unseen and unfalsifiable network of bigoted white men who help each other out, to the willful and deliberate exclusion of all others. If this is indeed the case, I've never had the pleasure of experiencing it.

Perhaps the reason for this is that I'm the wrong kind of white man (or shitlord, if you prefer) because I am also a cerebral palsied quadriplegic. Adherents of social justice like to classify the disabled as marginalised victims of oppression and following this logic means that I am simultaneously an oppressor and one of the oppressed. Funny old world we live in, isn't it?

Miscellany of Macabre: Volume 14

I claim ownership of none of the following images, I collect them purely out of interest.

Miscellany of Macabre: Volume 13

I claim ownership of none of the following images, I collect them purely out of interest.

Miscellany of Macabre: Volume 12

I do not claim ownership of any of the following images, I collect them purely out of interest.

Creepy Cartoon Cinema

Throughout the medium's long history, animated cartoons have generally been categorised as children's entertainment. However, even in the earliest days, some set a darker tone; featuring activity which ranged from mild abuse to full-blown physical and psychological torture. Below are three such twisted wonders and I'll venture that after you've watched them, cartoons won't seem quite as wholesome or innocent.

Spirit of the Forest (poem)

(For my dearest dryad)

Hark! Hear you that faint rustling sound?

The Spirit of the Forest treads ‘pon this ground.

Pay close watch and you perhaps might see

Her nimble form frolicking in yon tree.

With a dance in her gait

And a gleam in her eye,

She swings from the branches

Ever-so spry.

And when the night falls

And the moon strikes her glade,

Quiet she is

But seldom afraid. 

Miscellany of Macabre: Volume 11

I do not claim ownership of any of the following images, I collect them purely out of interest.