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I wish that I could say that I don't understand her concerns, but I do. She fears that it would place in the foreground something that most people who come to know me see only as a small part of me. It's never been what defines me, so why run the risk of letting that happen now? I imagine she wants to protect me from being typecast as disabled and likely the recipient of all the associated projections that I've worked for years to dodge.
I've countered that writing about my disability would be empowering, that it'd give me a way to openly claim a part of myself that I've tended to keep at arm's length. I imagine it as a coming-out of sorts, a response to those who have confessed, “I always knew there was something different about you, but was afraid to ask.”
Because my impairment is not stereotypically visible— there's no wheelchair or other mobility aids—the markers of my disability are more subtle and perhaps even perplexing. I have what is considered a mild case of cerebral palsy, the result of brain damage at birth. Cerebral palsy is not a disorder per se but an umbrella term for a group of neuromuscular conditions. There is a spectrum of possible presentations, ranging from severe impairment to minor challenges with balance and coordination. Mine is on the latter end. I am one of the lucky ones, I have been repeatedly told—and I have readily agreed.
As camouflaged as my CP is, I have always been aware that others sense some sort of difference in me. Try as I might to filter it out, I've been painfully attuned to their unspoken curiosity and, at times, their pity. I suppose that I've always known that people don't quite know what box to put me in. So my coming out is probably less of a revelation and more a naming of the proverbial elephant in the room.
My friends and loved ones often insist that I overestimate the visibility of my CP. I've been told that it's “barely noticeable” and stops being “an issue” once people get to know me. As far back as I can remembe