I’m A Bad Crip

I was born disabled. I don’t know what it’s like to not be disabled. Every second of my life has been “Oh gods, Nora, you’re SO INSPIRING!”

I have nearly died. I don’t know what it’s like to be healthy. And my entire life I have been told I’m lucky. I’m blessed. I’m special.

I’ve been told I’m inspiring. That it’s amazing I graduated high school in the top portion of my class. I’ve been told what an incredible person I am merely for existing.

I am a bad crip.

I think this is bullshit.

I am a bad crip.

I’m not inspirational just for velcroing my shoes or getting a freaking soda from the store.

I am a bad crip.

I hate being told I’m amazing. I’m inspiring. I’m incredible. Don’t be inspired because I’m disabled. Be inspired because I’m a kickass Hufflepuff. Be inspired because I am loyal to a fault. Be inspired because I can still rap all the words to Jesus Freak, thank you very much. Be inspired because I know all the words to One Week by Barenaked Ladies. That my brain is a useless trap of Disney trivia and 90s Christian trivia.

I am a bad crip.

I don’t accept bullcrap excuses for ableism. I don’t let people push me around. When my PCA was treating me like shit and emotionally abusing me, I spoke out instead of just taking it. I document the hell-wringer the company puts me through, instead of doing what the world wants me to do: sitting down and shutting up.

I am a bad crip.

I’m snarky and sarcastic. I don’t take no for an answer. I push back. I don’t let the world walk over me. When I was told that I looked too good to be depressed and I just thought I was depressed, I ditched the doctor instead of believing the bullshit.

I am a bad crip.

And I’m proud of it.

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