When Disability Doesn't Look Like What You Expect

For most of my life, I’ve not thought of myself as disabled. Even though my vision was so bad that teachers thought I was developmentally disabled before I got my glasses, myopia is rarely treated like a disability within society. Even when my depression led me to drop out of college, I didn’t think of my mental illness as a disability. When my anxieties about driving closed off numerous opportunities to me, I thought it was something I needed to take personal responsibility for.

More than a quarter of the US population is disabled, but many of those disabilities are non-apparent or otherwise not often thought of as disabilities. Myopia, or near-sightedness, for instance, is rarely treated like a disability. People like me wear glasses—which are accessibility aids—and are able to interact with society like most people with a full range of vision. Despite this, when I was very young, I received a treatment that might be familiar to some disabled people. My left eye has significantly less vision than my right, and in an attempt to get my left eye to “catch up,” I had to wear a patch over my right eye for a year.

This achieved nothing—my left eye still needs a much stronger lens than my left. The only “catching up” that my eyes are doing is my right eye getting worse faster as I age. Despite this, I still don’t consider my vision to be a disability, because the accessibility aids are so ubiquitous, so unremarked upon, and so effective that I don’t think that my vision is affected by ableism. 

My mental health is another story altogether. Six percent of Americans have a serious mental illness, defined here as a mental illness that causes significant negative impact on a person’s life. I consider myself as part of that six percent, and have over time come to understand that definition easily constitutes a disability.

I didn’t reject the title of disabled because I thought it was a dirty word. I instead thought that my mental health was a distinct condition, separate from the broader label of disability and not subject to ableism. It wasn’t until I met my girlfriend, who is disabled, and started to become a part of the wider disabled community, that I began to truly understand my place within it.

After I understood that I was disabled, my general understanding of what it meant to be disabled broadened in response. In addition to seeing themes about disability in various media, I began to understand that disabilities were far broader than I had originally believed, and ableism, like disability, is not always apparent and takes many forms. For example, people with invisible disabilities struggle with receiving the assistance they need. Their disabilities are refuted, even to the point that they might begin to doubt their own lived experiences, wondering if they are just exaggerating their symptoms.

In addition to mental illness, other forms of neurodivergence are also disabilities. Even if an autistic person or someone with ADHD is able to integrate smoothly into neurotypical society, they may be masking their disability, which is an inherently stressful act. If society were more accommodating of neurodivergent people, then this would greatly reduce the stress on them, and reduce the pressure to mask in the first place.

Chronic fatigue and pain always makes a person’s day-to-day living more difficult. This leads to them being heavily medicalized, and sometimes they are viewed only via that lens, as a disease to be cured, rather than a part of a person which needs to be accommodated and respected. Even with the consistent drain from chronic fatigue and the recurring aches of chronic pain, the impact of these aspects can be reduced via accommodations. Things like work from home, flexible hours, and reduced physical workload can all help to make work more accessible for people with chronic pain and fatigue, as similar accommodations may be part of their personal life.

Part of the reason that many people with these needs are unable to get these accommodations, though, is that they are often invisible disabilities. Just like with mental illness, people with invisible disabilities can appear able-bodied. Unfortunately, many people struggle to believe that people with non-apparent disabilities are actually disabled, which means that they often fail to provide necessary accommodations. It is important that we remember that all disabilities deserve support, not just the ones that are most apparent.

A person’s race and sexuality cannot change, but it is possible for anyone to become disabled at any time, from accidents like spinal-cord injuries or the natural process of aging.  At any point in our life, we may need support and accommodations. This means that disability connects and impacts us all.

As I entered my thirties, I developed diabetes, which has led to a number of lifestyle changes in order to help me manage my new disability. While some might believe that diabetes does not count as a disability—I was unsure for a while myself—it is legally considered a disability. With medication, I am able to keep my diabetes largely under control, but even with my medication, I have increased fatigue and pain, which makes some activities more difficult.

Reduced senses and mobility are very common as a result of aging. Nearly half of Americans 75 and older have some form of disability. With such high rates of occurrence, it’s clear that these disabilities are a natural part of the aging process. Just because it is natural does not absolve our social responsibility to care for each other. The elderly deserve just as much accommodation as the young, they are still a part of society, still a part of our families, and we must not leave them behind.

Disabled people are in every community, even if those disabilities are invisible. We contribute to making our culture richer and more fulfilling. We work important jobs. We are friends and family. We deserve the care and accommodations needed to participate fully in the world.