Who am I?
My name is Meagan. By day, I’m a Communications Specialist; by night, a freelance editor. I love cats, dogs, and other cute, fluffy creatures. I’m a bookworm. I love music. I hate waking up early and I hate bugs. I love playing the piano (I’m not very good at it) and correcting other people’s grammar (which they actually pay me to do). I’m a mercurial introvert with a ton of excellent friends who love me anyway, and a wonderful partner who somehow manages to put up with my quirks. I procrastinate like all good writers should; I struggle with insecurities and jealousy and bouts of irrationality; I really, really love chocolate. In other words, I’m pretty normal. … Oh yeah, and I’ve been blind from birth.
You might be thinking, “Wait, what’s that you said about being pretty normal?”
Unless you hang around with blind people a lot, (and if you do, then good for you, we’re a lot of fun), you probably can’t help thinking that there’s a certain otherness that characterizes people with noticeable disabilities like blindness. In some ways that’s true. We definitely lead altered lives. We walk around with long white sticks (or maddeningly cute doggies you’re not allowed to pet), and we bump into stuff. We also tend to possess a lot of things that talk.
That said, we’re just like you. We have the same fears, hopes, aspirations, and ambitions that “normal” people do. We go to college, and work, and have kids, and play sports, and keep house, and hang out with friends, and do all that “normal” stuff.
So, you may ask, and with good reason, “If you’re exactly the same as everyone else, why write a blog about blindness?” For too many years, I believed I had to play up the “normal” bits of myself to the point where I was practically in denial when it came to my disability. I believed that a “good blind person” had to behave as though the blindness was practically nonexistent. If it did exist, it was no inconvenience at all. No big deal, I can function just like everybody else, maybe better. I am capable blind gal, hear me roar!
While it is very healthy not to centre your life around blindness, it’s equally healthy to acknowledge that blindness is really damn annoying sometimes. It’s inconvenient. It makes life harder. It’s not some divine gift that makes me a better person or whatever it is we tell ourselves these days. Yes, I deal with it, and no, it’s not a constant stumbling block, but yeah…it’s really, really inconvenient sometimes. I routinely deal with questions like “Where’s your dog? You should have a dog!” and “How many fingers am I holding up?” and my personal favourite, “How can you possibly have a life? How can you be happy?”
Sometimes I run into doorways and walls and cabinet doors with frightening force. If you see me with a black eye, it was an inanimate object, not my boyfriend, promise. Sometimes I drop things and then crawl around for a dog’s age trying to find them. Sometimes I miss spots when I clean my house. Sometimes I accidentally throw whites in with my coloured laundry. These are the minor things.
Sometimes, it’s really tough to get hired because nobody believes I can work. Sometimes, people treat me like I’m invisible or inhuman, because they perceive me to be fundamentally different and, by extension, inferior. Sometimes, people talk about me like I’m not there. Sometimes, people complain because I’m “a drain on the system”. Sometimes, I feel desperately lonely and misunderstood. Sometimes, I really, really hate being blind. This ain’t a picnic in the sun…sometimes.
Mostly, though, I’m pretty normal, like I said. I’m writing this blog because if I can make one person understand what my life is like, then I’ve succeeded. If I can make one person realize that we’re not so different, inferior, invisible, then my time hasn’t been wasted. I don’t speak for all blind people, but I do know how they often feel, whether they’ll admit it or not.
If you’re still with me, stick around. Who knows? You might learn something; and if you don’t learn anything, I might at least make you laugh.
But wait–where’s my dog?
I don’t have one, … and that’s okay.