At the end of this essay I’m going to say something I’ll probably regret, something that could get me into trouble, something that could make you very angry. But sometimes the only way out is through, and I find myself in a very dark, tight, suffocating tunnel I can no longer abide. I have a mouth, and I must scream.

But first, let’s talk Trek. 

In the late 1980s America was the site of a big messy fight about disabilities, when physically and mentally disabled people fought for empathy and dignity (and protection under the law) through such memory etching actions as crawling up the steps of the Capitol in Washington, D.C. These protests and other direct actions led to the passing of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) on July 26,1990. Despite this enormous achievement, the big messy fight was not over, and on December 31, 1990, not quite six months after the ADA passed, Star Trek: The Next Generation released a big messy episode about disability.

Season four episode ten, The Loss features ship’s counselor Deanna Troi inexplicably losing her lifelong telepathic and empathic abilities granted by her (half) Betazed biology. What started as a vague sense of unease and disconnection explodes into fear and anger, before finally settling into an emotion disabled people like me are all too acquainted with: resentment.

If I had to guess, I’d say the writers were probably trying, in the grandest tradition of Trek, to provide representation for marginalized folks, specifically invisibly disabled people like me. I don’t know if they succeeded, but I do know that viewers attribute words like “whiny” and “entitled” to Troi’s behavior in this episode. This, to me, is a clear indicator of how much work we still have to do to bring mentally disabled people the dignity they deserve, nearly 40 years after the ratification of the ADA.

As Trek fans, we tend to have a decent understanding of what disability really means. We don’t look at people using wheelchairs and think “lazy”. We don’t look at people with insulin pumps and think “entitled”. We don’t look at people wearing glasses and think “asshole”. But we are frequently still quite capable of judging people with mental disabilities. Sometimes we even expect them to apologize for being disabled.

Irritability Is A Common Symptom
It doesn't feel like 
irritability, though,
at all. It feels like...

being on your knees
in Times Square begging for help
and being told
calmly, quietly

                  No.

Unlike Counselor Troi, my disabilities (Bipolar II disorder and Alcohol Use Disorder) are lifelong. Like Counselor Troi, the whole thing makes me sick, dizzy, pulsing with resentment until it simply cannot be contained and must be released in a long, toxic sludge of psychic damage. 

Like this:

I resent my first thought in the morning: my father hates me and wants me dead. I resent my second thought in the morning: today may be the day I oblige him. I resent that my abuser will never face as many consequences for his abuse as I have for speaking out against it. I resent my mother for not medicating me in the 90s, when all this shit started. I resent that I’ll never be as close to my brother and sister as they are to each other. I resent my protectors, who resented my need for protection. I resent God for making me beg him to let my grandmother die.

I resent that I started shaving in fourth grade. I resent the teachers who told me to “act like an adult” when I was nine (and had a man’s body), and who rolled their eyes and said “you think you’re soooo smart” when I tried. I resent the kids, teachers, and parents who called me a faggot and a retard before I even knew I was queer and disabled.

I resent that with literally three exceptions my closest friends have been my most vicious bullies. I resent that the man who calls himself my best friend tried to kill me, and I’m the asshole for being mad about it. I resent that he stranded me at a bar in Austin for six hours when I was just a few months sober. I resent that he forced me to lie to his girlfriend about his complete lack of fidelity. I resent that he does hard drugs in front of me, and thinks I’ll carry his casket when he ODs. I resent that two weeks ago I didn’t punch him in the fucking face when I had the chance. 

I resent how much easier it was to hang out with my friends when I was just fucking drinking. I resent that being sober means I’ll never feel normal again. I resent that alcohol is still the only thing that ever made me feel normal. I resent people who compare my sobriety to their Duolingo streak. 

I resent myself for not being able to drink like a normal person. I resent myself for not being able to feel like a normal person. I resent myself for not being able to live, work, talk, look, move, stand in myself like a normal person.

I resent that anger is the emotion I feel most often. I resent that anger is the emotion with which the world most often meets me. I resent that I’ll never be normal, and that I hate myself for that more than you ever could. I resent having to start over so many times. I resent having so many more start overs ahead of me.

I resent wondering what the fuck is wrong with me. I resent knowing. I resent feeling like a failure no matter how hard I succeed.

I resent that my symptoms read like character flaws. 

This is a haiku about how no matter how many times you told me to "grow up" or "calm down" or "nobody asked you" or "someday you'll learn to shut your mouth" or "it isn't THAT funny" or "it isn't THAT sad" or "snap out of it" or "get over yourself," it turns out, as a matter of fact, you can't treat Bipolar Disorder with Shame. It takes:

Lamotrigine and
quetiapine fumarate
and propranolol.

I resent how much time I spend trying to slow my brain down so the rest of you can catch up, only to be told to hurry by people slower than me. I resent no one recognizing how hard I’m trying, and I resent that I’ll never try hard enough. I resent you for not understanding, I resent you doubly for not wanting to understand, for not even believing there is something to understand. I resent that you’ll read this and think “Damn, Sam needs to act on his resentment.” I resent that you’re right.

I resent all this resentment. I resent what I’m about to say, and resent that I have to say it. After hearing it, you will probably, and quite correctly, resent me too, but it’s a simple short fact:

I’d rather be in a wheelchair.