I recently moved house, and it was an extremely confronting process. Emotionally, I’d expected it to be draining. But as someone who lives with cerebral palsy, there was the added layer of physical challenges, too.
I tried to pick up a box or two and ended up feeling weak and shaky. I couldn’t help my uncle as he lifted my fridge, nor my support worker as she loaded her car with boxes of books and the accumulated paraphernalia of my life. I could only watch and thank them profusely. I couldn’t fold clothes as quickly or as neatly as my aunts, who are marvellous whirlwinds of organisation and emotional support.
What I could do, instead, was buy everyone dinner and promise to keep myself safe, because that, they assured me, was all they really wanted.
Often, as someone with a mental illness and a physical disability, I can feel like I’m the one asking for help rather than the one giving it. This contradicts everything I want to believe about myself – and it leaves me feeling like there’s a power imbalance in my relationships. On difficult days, I catch myself thinking: I am the one who takes the most and gives the least.
This has never been more apparent than the past few months, when my mental state and life circumstances have been in flux. But in a time when I’ve needed my friends and family the most, I’ve also been reminded that I am deeply loved.
It’s not just the instance of moving house.
Recently, a filmmaker friend called to speak about her creative process. She sent through her script and asked for feedback. What she was saying, in asking my opinion, was that my input mattered, that I could help by offering my perspective.
Then there are the sprawling conversations with my aunt who, like me, is a verbal processor. We talk for hours about what we’re thinking and feeling, examining and analysing the details of our experiences. I often lament the fact that I cannot repay her for all the practical help she gives me. But my aunt reminds me that listening is a skill and a gift, too, and that together we create an emotionally safe space that only exists with and because of me.
These are loved ones who are great at reminding me of the way that I give.
On days when I do need help, my friends are ready and willing to show up. Last year, one of my friends drove an hour and a half to meet me after I called her in tears before Christmas. We did rapid antigen tests before we met, sat outside and wore masks, because even though my friend isn’t as COVID cautious as I am, she respects my choices and prioritises my wellbeing.
Even if I didn’t believe that my company was enough, I had to trust that she did
We reminisced about our high school years and speculated about our future. We chatted and laughed and I cried. The next day, I transferred her money for her lunch and travel, but she insisted on sending it back. She pointed out that she had chosen to meet me. By paying her for something she was glad to do, I’d undermined her agency. Even if I didn’t believe that my company was enough, I had to trust that she did.
This was not the first time I’d tried to offer financial compensation for my perceived inadequacies. I do it in subtle ways: paying for coffee or food, for whatever I can, whenever I can. “I may not be the most entertaining company,” I reason, “but I can be the most generous.” Generosity alone is not a flaw, nor is it something I want to change about myself. But I am also learning to be generous to myself and with my intention: to pay within reason, as a means of giving to my friends rather than minimising myself.
At the end of the day, I’m the only one who can do the work to pick myself up, and my friends trust me to do that, too. One of my friends helped me recognise a time I’d failed to acknowledge my racial privilege. They trusted me to hear them with humility and to rectify my mistake, and I did my best.
Still, this is an ongoing process. I remind myself each day that friendships aren’t transactional; I don’t have to repay my friends for every kind thing they do. I am worthy of their time and respect and love precisely because of – not in spite of – my mental illness and physical disability.
I might not be able to give as much physically or in the same ways they do, but my importance – as a friend or a human – isn’t diminished by this.
I can show up in my own way. I can listen and read and hold space for the people I love, and that’s more than enough.
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