Ohana Means Family

— May 24, 1913 / Franz Kafka diaries

all your stuffed animals love you. they're not sad if they're in a box, or on the floor, or not held/played with as much. they understand. they know that you might need another stuffie more, or that you don't have enough space. they're just happy to be with you, and if you ever give them away, they'll be happy there too. stuffies are for comfort. they understand. they love you too. it's okay.

“Why should rich people pay more” because fuck ‘em

“So you are okay for paying more when you have money” I am not excluded from ‘fuck ‘em’ when relevant

People underestimate how much it fucks you up to be subtly excluded as a kid. I would try to talk to my classmates and be met with disinterest or annoyance. The one friend I had, who I clung to and nodded along to his every word, had other friends he liked just as much or more. And his other friends didn’t care for me at all.

I look back at pictures from the time and see how separated I was from them. I remember knowing I was different. I remember posing questions about the world to the girls playing next to me and realizing that they had never asked the same ones to themselves. That the ways we thought couldn’t be more different.

I kept myself amused with my own fanatical stories and musings in my head. I would wander the playground on a circular path, imagining a friend and being sorely disappointed when it didn’t feel as real as I’d hoped.

There was a bubble separating me from everyone else, thin, and nearly invisible, but with a pearly sheen you could catch under the right conditions. I knew it was there, they knew it was there, and it changed me

Confessions of a burnt out disabled human:

I’ve been disabled since one random day when I was two years old. That’s when the fates decided, El would have paralysis and brain issues.

I didn’t know I was different until I was 5 years old and figured out that I looked different compared to everyone else. I had two friends throughout elementary school who didn’t give a shit that I was different. But everyone else cared. From fellow classmates that bullied me, to teachers that compared me to my older brother… and not in a good way.

I got my IEP revoked because my kindergarten grades were good, only to get it reinstated in second grade because the admins started to realize their vital mistake when my math grade started slipping.

In middle school, my math teacher convinced my tutor I was faking my math processing issues. The tutor stopped meeting with me, even after my parents’ protest. I got a C in math at the end of that year, when I was getting high Bs and low As while I was meeting with my tutor. My middle school admins gave me the wrong English standardized test and they decided to rectify it on the math standardized test day. They made up for it with a measly Starbucks Frappuccino.

I was purposefully put in a dance class meant for 8-11 year olds when I was a sophomore. I was the oldest one there. I came home crying every night, but I was too loyal to quit. A year later I auditioned for my city’s little production of the Cinderella ballet. At the time, I had 10 years of experience. They gave me, a 16 year old, a role with 35-50 year olds. I signed up to audition for my church’s youth band when I was a junior in high school. The band managers swore up and down to me that they’d reach out to me to set up an audition. They never did (hindsight, I’m glad they never did. But my point still stands). No one takes me seriously.

I graduated from high school with a 4.29 gpa (dual credit). My high school didn’t acknowledge this as legitimate and wouldn’t consider me an honor grad because my unweighted GPA was 3.29. I needed a 3.3 unweighted. My high school purposefully kept my ACT scores in a vault for two weeks before sending them off, getting me and my family in hot water with ACT because they thought we were cheating. I got a 14 on the math… so… hah, no cheating. I got into college on a technicality because of COVID restrictions. I feel like a fraud. I constantly have to tell myself I deserve to be there. I constantly panic when professors ask me, “Kayla, what do you want to do with your life? When are you graduating?” Finding work as a disabled person is incredibly difficult. Do they really think I know? I’m just hoping I’ll figure out how to get by.

I started trying to date in the summer of 2021. And do you know what I have to show for it? Abandonment trauma and a fuckton of content for depressing disabled gay poetry. I’m losing hope. I shouldn’t have to disclose my disability. I shouldn’t have to worry what people might think. I want that picture perfect happy ending. I deserve it as much as my able bodied counterparts. I don’t want to be a bitter spinster. But, yet, so many people see being disabled as an immediate no. So hell only knows if love is in the cards for me.

It’s hard having disability pride. Its hard to be proud of what makes you stand out in ways you didn’t choose. I’m tired. I’m burnt out. I’m exhausted.

Paperbacks should be $1 and hardcovers should be $2

😂😂 explains my whole life...

My typical visit to an Art Store.

I’m out of canvas boards. I think to myself. 

Then follows a long, elaborate planning process. If I leave work by 6, I can rush to the art store on the way back, and still be home on time. The entire day is spent in a jittery excitement of getting my hands on those damn canvases.

It’s 6:05. I’m at the art store. Soaking in the beauty of my surroundings. I look at the canvases, and if someone observed closely, they would see me drooling. I resist picking up the largest one available, and modestly pick up what I had come for. Eight by tens. Yup, those are the ones I need. How many, you ask? As many as they’ve got in the store.

And then as I casually walk towards the billing counter, I can’t help but notice (because I’m seeking it out) the paint aisle. Didn’t I use up all my white paint!? I don’t recollect, but decide that I have, and pick up a tube. What about texture white? Yup, picked a jar. Oooh would you look at that beautiful turquoise? In the shopping basket.

As I decide that it’s time to leave, I remember that there are only a few blank pages in my travel sketchbook. Walking towards the sketchbook aisle is like opening a can of worms. I know what’s gonna happen, and yet I can’t resist it. Gotta pick up a tiny sketchbook that can fit into all of my purses. So, what do I do? I pick up an A3 watercolour block. Perfect. Oh would you look at that charcoal!? I think to myself, having never used charcoal successfully. I will now. Of course I will.

Three brushes, a painting palette and a set of pastels later, there I am, standing at the billing counter. My eyes glace at a beautiful display of writing pencils. These would be a perfect addition to the seven hundred pencils I already have. Forty five minutes later, I walk out with my bags heavier, my wallet lighter, and I’m smiling. Perfect.

I refuse to make things that are “too pretty to be used.” If I make you something, it’s because I want you to use it! The worst thing you could do to me is say “oh this blanket/scarf/hat you made me is too pretty to use, I’m gonna fold it up and look at it and never ever touch it again.” No!!! I made that to be be used and touched and cuddled and snuggled and, yes, worn out!! I want you to use it so much it falls apart!! It’s like I went to give you a hug and you were like “Ooh, thanks! Go sit on that shelf so I can look at your outstretched arms forever!” No!!! Hug the thing I made for you to hug!!!

I want to be a writer; to translate my pain into flowery words. I want to be a writer—a good one, able to bloom petals in her wounds.