I think about the beauty of bruises. The bruise of boyhood; the bruises left by slamming doors. The opportunity for a good bruising is never far off when you have a disability, or, more specifically the likelihood of same is increased—medicine pathologizes, colleagues in the workplace impose their unexamined neo-liberal assumptions and a smart bruising is guaranteed. The beauty isn’t moral—I don’t subscribe—“what doesn’t kill you” is just that; “you’re still alive” but not necessarily stronger. But if Ernest Hemingway was right and we are strong at the broken places then we are beautiful bumped and blue.
Don’t let anyone make an example of your bruises. Protect them. Let them speak for themselves.
Planet of the Blind 