I’m In an Abusive Relationship With the United States

There is a profound loneliness that comes with being a disabled person in the US as we slide further and further into a fascist state. I’ve felt this way for years, but I didn’t know how to express exactly what and why this feeling stayed with me. It finally hit me today while I was taking a shower. Being a disabled person in the current United States resembles being a person experiencing intimate partner violence (IPV). I know this sounds hyperbolic or too intense a comparison to make, but allow me to elaborate.

1. When you complain, lament your circumstances, or just express fear for your safety and well-being, the overwhelming response is to tell you to “just leave.” I will say that I understand much of why I hear this response so often is because a large portion of my community of peers/friends sit at a level of privilege, which has made that a possibility for them, even before things got so bad at home. Sometimes when I say things along the lines of “It’s not that easy for everyone,” and am met with “Well, if you really wanted to, you would find a way.” Kind of like how people will say “Just leave” or “Why didn’t you leave?” to victims of IPV. I’m left to calculate if I want to take the energy to explain all the roadblocks of immigrating to another country as someone in my position.
2. I receive SSDI because of my disability. It’s not as low a monthly payment as SSI, but it’s not even close to the market rate of rent. And even with that, I acknowledge that I am privileged enough to have parents who helped me navigate getting SSDI at 18, and both my and their work credits have been taken into account to calculate my monthly payment amount. But again, it’s not enough to survive on (without supplemental programs like affordable housing, utility assistance, prescription costs assistance, SNAP, and help from my family). And while technically I could probably work part-time, the income cap before being kicked off SSDI is $1,620. If I were to work 20 hrs/week, I would need to make just under $19/hr. Doesn’t sound too bad, right? But with that additional income, I’m not eligible for any of those supplemental programs that make existing manageable. With the cost of everything steadily rising, I’d be making slightly more money, but spending considerably more than I can afford because it’s expensive being disabled. Between doctor visits, gas and tolls to get to them, copays, medications, and other incidentals, it really adds up and would make that $1,620 obsolete. Consider this to be similar to a relationship where you don’t have control over any finances, and you aren’t allowed to work a job that would grant you financial independence. 
3. I can’t even leave my county, let alone my state or the country. I can’t leave my county because the affordable, supportive housing program I’m in only operates in 2 counties. Neither where I truly want to be, but alas. Don’t get me wrong. I’m incredibly thankful to have been accepted into this program because it allows me to pay 30% of my income for rent. This honestly should be the standard for everyone, but I digress. Now, think of the parent who is a victim of IPV at the hands of their child’s other parent. They can’t just up and leave with the child. Especially if they need to cross state lines. They are locked into a geographic location by the nature of custody laws unless they decide to flee without their kids.
4. Other countries with the medical services I need don’t readily accept people with disabilities because we cost more than what we contribute. There are also issues of accessibility. Because America is considerably younger than many other developed countries, we tend to have more accessible spaces as opposed to countries with older infrastructure, because our buildings are either easier to modify or built after the ADA. That’s not to say the US is a haven for those with disabilities, but it’s just reality. Think of how this looks similar to someone trying to leave an IPV situation, but every shelter they try to run to is full, or you don’t meet the criteria. 
5. You slowly but surely become isolated. So many people are leaving, or working to leave, the US. The US doesn’t stop at harming just the disabled. Everyone is feeling its wrath, but not everyone is so intimately connected to it for their survival as many disabled people are. It’s like when victims of IPV slowly but surely become isolated from their friends and family, because the abuse doesn’t stop at just them. 
6. Starting over is fucking hard! I can’t manage my many illnesses and start a new life in a foreign country. If I travel out of the country for more than one week, I am 100% certain to have a meltdown or flare up of my chronic conditions. It happened to me in Colombia. I don’t handle big changes well. Both physically and mentally. It’s not a preference or something I have to try harder to get past. It’s debilitating, terrifying, and unpredictable. I think of the people who stay in abusive relationships because of this reason, too. Especially if they are older or have children. Starting over is just too risky for a lot of people.
7. I blame myself a lot for not being able to “overcome.” It’s difficult not to internalize the messages that you are a burden, too stupid, too lazy, too fragile, or any of the other negative stereotypes that come with being disabled in an ableist society. The messaging from the government is that we are all frauds and liars, and we should be happy they even give us what is a pittance in “benefits” after making us suffer to get them in the first place. If you didn’t know, it’s extremely rare to be approved on the first application and wait times for that initial decision can be 6 months to 1 year. Then, once you are denied, you can appeal, but that can add another 6 months to a year to your wait time. Then there are the hearings, collecting medical evidence, gathering financial records, and dealing with lost paperwork, staffing shortages, and other delays. The approval process averages about 3 years, and you CANNOT work or earn any income during that time. It’s a “humiliation ritual,” as the kids say. When you are wrapped up in this process, your self-worth, self-esteem, and self-image take a huge hit. Much like what happens in IPV scenarios.

I was on the fence about even writing this post because I’m not the “perfect victim.” Sound familiar? I come from an incredibly privileged place, even for all the ways I am marginalized. Despite being disabled, I’ve been able to travel both domestically and abroad. Not as much as I want, but far more than most have ever had the opportunity to. I’m lucky enough to have some friends who will cover the costs for me to see them. I’ve had 2 relatively small legal settlements, and I’ve been lucky enough to be able to work in the past, which has given me a wee bit of padding in my budget. Although that money is pretty much spent all the way down and I’m back to just relying on my disability checks. My parents created a disability trust for me so that upon their passing, I will have my most basic needs taken care of. I have access to programs that others have never heard of because so much of getting into the social service and non-profit industrial complex is knowing the right people. Lucky for me, my mom was one of the board members of a non-profit she helped create, and those connections she made almost 20- 30 years ago are why I am where I am. 

Being disabled in the US is to constantly have to experience how you are not a full human in the eyes of others. You’re always an afterthought, if considered at all. You are the squeaky wheel that doesn’t get the grease. It is to be dehumanized for having the audacity to want to survive. It’s being labeled a burden and fighting to not internalize that message. It’s fear and uncertainty as a default because you never know when your luck will run out. It’s being trapped by a nebulous force of bureaucracy and ableism. It’s to be a victim but be told you should be thankful because others have it worse.