Visually impaired – Beyond Grief and Loss Therapy

Yesterday a friend of mine asked me to take a look at a website that is being built. When he called it up, the first thing I noticed was all the stuff I couldn’t see well enough to read. The next thing I thought of was that I’d have to highlight what I’d want to read. How often I’ve wished that people would just build it right, and that I wouldn’t need to make negative critiques of things that aren’t accessible.

It isn’t just my visually impaired community that is affected. Dyslexics struggle with reading a site, and so do others. This angers and saddens me. I’m angry because for over sixty years, I’ve needed my community at large to respond to my needs, and been saddened that those with accessibility needs have had to stand up—for the most part without others who should and could advocate for us.

I spent time advocating for this with my friend.

I get that an artist thinks in aesthetic terms when they design a website. An architect thinks about the function of the building, and no one seems to notice that the disabled want access to what most people can easily access.

The conversation went to that ugly word: money. “Well, we’ve spent a great deal on this site already, and we don’t have the funds.” Well now, I’m thinking about the fact that had they started with accessibility in mind, the builder might have done it differently. Now I have to explain what I’ve learned about my community here in Europe. I’m thinking about how many times an LGBT person has to come out—again. The disabled are also in this same boat, despite having been a known or recognized community far longer. I speak as a white female who is disabled and a member of the L portion of the LGBT community.

The conversation with my friend turned to what it takes to make a community function well. This caused us to both think about the hard work that has to go into any group.

One of the graphics on the new site displays a hen done in red. Suddenly, I was feeling like the Little Red Hen: “Who will help me plant the seeds?” “Oh, not I,” said ___, until, finally, the hen pulls the bread out of the oven and asks who wants to eat the bread, and a chorus of “Me!” springs up from the assembled crowd. Well, the little red hen denied them the bread because they had not participated in community building. It’s an old tale that has been modernized. The lesson stands.

We are all world citizens, whether we accept this as a part of ourselves or not. We live in countries, communities, neighborhoods, streets, and homes. Where are the red hens? Sometimes I feel like a red hen trying to be heard to get needed help. I do what I can, and that means writing and helping others.

How well do we know those around us, and how much time do we take to notice each other?

Here’s what I’ve been thinking: What if…?

What if you took the time to notice your neighbor?

What if, in noticing your neighbor, you did a good deed for them?

What if, in being noticed, they felt seen, and in being seen they, too, did something for their neighbor?

What if your street or apartment building then reached out to the nearest street, and slowly the spark were lit, and harmony spread?

What if neighborhoods became places of resources that supported one another?

What if we purchased locally, supported one another in the small business, and what if that small business made it a point to meet the local needs?

This is a huge what if, and yet, this is how world peace needs to begin. It starts in our small communities, and it spreads outward.

What if the little red hen had asked for help, and the response had been a resounding yes!!!

I don’t think any of the above is a fantasy, and I do know that there are voices being raised in communities. People do step up to help, and to create better environments.

I envision a world where we can all gather and feast at the table. As a therapist, I hope that when the work of healing is done, my clients leave wanting to make the world—or their little corner of it—just a wee bit better.

We are all red hens, and at the same time we’re all members of a community that requires us to look around and meet the needs that are present. Ah, one step towards world peace.

This post was originally published on November 26, 2024.

This past week I honored those on the margins. I did a presentation on disability. It was nice to speak my truth, and to have others receive that truth from me.

There are realities that those of us with both vision and hearing loss face. When we step out our front doors, the world can be a hostile place.

My sister, who was more blind than I have been, expressed her issues with appearance this way: “If you cut your hair, I may not recognize you, so identify yourself.” As for me, I need several hours of “face time” with you so that your facial features get imprinted on my brain. Putting it all together for me is difficult because I spent the first year of my life blind.

The first year of development is when our brains learn to recognize and discriminate objects and people. As humans, we need to be able to identify people in all their detail, unlike how we would look at simple chimps or monkeys. We need a highly effective visual discrimination ability, and I have had to learn to do it because visual recognition skills develop during the first year of life. It’s been hard to do, and I’ve done much of it as an adult when I’ve been able to fully understand what I’ve needed to do to learn people’s faces.

Stepping outside of my house also unleashes so much helpfulness in others. Then, suddenly, when I need a helpful soul, they are nowhere to be found. I think this sense of helpfulness is more about people being uncomfortable with the disabled, and needing to relieve their own discomfort. I’m fine with who I am and what I must do—even the difficult things.

Right now, the city I’m in is redoing the main street to create a better bus line. I’m cut off from my universe! The city didn’t ask me how I’d be affected, and once again I’m out in the nowhere, and they’re already two months behind.

“Where’s my village?” is something I ask more frequently now. I think those in the disabled community are asking this just as much as I am these days. With the fact that villages are disappearing, I shouldn’t be shocked that, once again, I’m posting on the cruel nature of what life can look like for those of us who must cope with a less-than-abled body.

I reflect back to being asked if I’d change it all for sight. My answer is still a resounding NO! It is all about who I am and what my disability represents. To be honest, I can’t imagine who I would have become without the disability. As much as I’d like to be able to see like you and hear like you, I wouldn’t be able to deal with it now. It would be as if my brain would struggle to make sense of it all. That really is a gift I would refuse.

Just as much as I love my petite body, I do love who I am in it. So, maybe living on the margins is also about accepting ourselves on the margins.

I have said that disability is an equal opportunity discriminator: it doesn’t discriminate at all. It doesn’t care about gender, race, age, intelligence, financial status, or anything else. If your number comes up, you’ll need to learn to cope with it. So, be kind to me, as someday it could be you needing the same help you want to give me when I may or may not need it.

I was saved the trauma of having to deal with disability later in life. In an odd sort of way, I’ve had it a little easier than my siblings, who had to greet their disabilities in their thirties and forties. I grew up this way. They each had to deal with another type of existence and coming to terms with the losses that disability brings, as well as the belief that they can still do it all.

I step out my front door, walk to the bus, and then a train, and am thankful that they are there for me. I still am dwelling on the margins of society. I’m self-sufficient in a world that prizes ability.

Tag: Visually impaired

The Red Hen Community

Equal Opportunity Discriminator (Revisit)