The Real Competition -The Suffering Olympics
Welcome to the opening ceremonies of cringe!
“Not every disabled person is bullied, our lives are not tragedies, and we are not your inspiration porn.”
In honor of the Summer Olympics in Paris, I’m sharing an utterly unsubmittable poem I wrote months ago about a real world competition I see every day- The Suffering Olympics. The biggest victim wins. We’re not wanting to even compete. This is not winning.
No one wants to be disabled, but we are. We accept it. We refuse to be defined by it or let it control our lives or excuse any bad behavior. Disabled people are accountable to others, too. Disability is not a get out of the social contract of decency card. It is not a defense mechanism. It’s not an excuse. It’s not a privilege. Disability is not a right to be a “dicktim”- “act like a dick and claim you’re a victim”. Your suffering is not a social media blitzkrieg. It’s your body, or mind, or both, and not an shield to hide behind. It’s your daily life.
As a disabled person, I hate the “who has it worse?” bullshit. The competition of adversity-endured exists in some disabled communities. Pity is the goal. Not every disabled person is bullied, our lives are not tragedies, and we are not your inspiration porn. Do not exploit us, our bodies, our identities, our relationships, our diagnosis ribbons, our anything — as we are individuals just like everyone else. We are human. Treat us like humans. We are no more or less than others.
No special priveleges, just ADA compliance. We’d love to fit better in the world. It’s our shared and only world and it’s a wonderful place!
The Olympics
It opens with the spectacle,
the flags waving proudly,
wearing the assigned colors,
the adopted colors
of where you are competing for,
which varies sometimes.
This is what you are, your day.
Your team parades
under the banners and
a million flags
to piped in anthems and pop melodies.
You’ve trained for this,
Bled, sweated, teared,
pushed yourself to limits,
starved yourself, glutted yourself,
drugged yourself until pre-competition
to break records, to teach idealized goals,
then past them, to represent
the superiority of your proud diagnosis and flag.
You compete,
as if your life depends on it,
because for you, it does.
This competition is your
whole world and is everything,
this is who you are,
and the whole world is watching you.
Your team has a trauma bond
stronger than covalence.
You forgot you chose this.
You wait for the starting gun, the chime,
you’ve warmed up all your life,
your fans holding placards to cheer you on.
When the ultimate martyrs,
takes the podium,
smiling through their agony,
holding the bouquets like pageant queens,
wearing the medals, exceptional,
paragons of fitness, form and sacrifice,
discipline and resilience,
kineseo-taped together,
scarred and damaged
there’s pride and validation
for all the indignities
hardship and pain you selected
when you started on this life path.
You get awards, endorsements
and your face on a cereal box.
It’s the Suffering Olympics
and nothing is ever worse than
not being seen or even placing.
It never ends. Just the televised part ends.
There are other spectacles,
Barely broadcast on news channels,
the rioting, the confrontations, the dicktim attacks ,
the conventions, rallies, the increasing demands, the self-pity parties,
the indignation victimization competition
your diagnosis banners and identity flag held high
waving proudly over the chaos.
You are superlative and good.
You are the biggest victim,
you’ve been hurt the most,
you’ve endured the worst imaginable ever,
You are truly Christ-like just for existing,
you are a winner, you are a champion,
wave that flag, wave at the camera,
carry that banner, chant your catchphrases
and most importantly,
because there are cameras,
you win only if seen,
you’ve practiced it forever,
your feelings are facts
starting each day with the
hollow self-affirmations until
they become your incontrovertible personal truth-
smile smile smile