When Someone Finally Listened
When she learned I was writing a book about getting sick, a close lifelong friend of my family reached out.
She was one of the first to truly hear my side of the story.
The conversation was emotional.
She said she had witnessed abuse and neglect toward me from infancy.
She saw my father carrying me—unbuckled—in a car seat and watched me fall headfirst onto the pavement. He didn’t pause. He didn’t check if I was okay. He just rushed off to church like nothing had happened.
She told me my brother was made to sleep in a linen closet.
She remembered someone finding me squished under a heavy wooden dresser. They picked me up and brushed me off, with a, “You’re okay.”
I don’t remember any of it—I was too young.
But she said ALS is linked to head injuries, and her concern felt pointed. I believe her.
She told me she was sorry. Sorry she hadn’t protected me.
She promised she would now.
Family Violence Doesn’t Always Look Like Violence
The abuse from the people who were supposed to love and support me has been lifelong.
And this morning, I saw how that abuse continues—just wrapped in different words.
This comment appeared on my post about Medical Assistance in Dying (MAiD):
The fact that the people who claim to love and support me would either write or associate with someone who would write something so dangerously ableist and disgusting says more about my experience getting sick than anything I’ve ever said to hold them accountable for that ableism.
That’s what they think I deserve.
Not care. Not repair. Not dignity.
They see me as inconvenient. Angry. Disobedient. And because I won’t stay quiet, they think I should disappear.
How Family Violence Against Disabled People Gets Justified
This is how family violence against disabled people works:
It begins with neglect.
It thrives in silence.
And it ends with someone, somewhere, calling our death a kindness.
Saying “no one would stop you” isn’t compassion.
It’s cruelty.
Especially when it comes from someone who claims to love you.
Especially when it sounds just like the ones who didn’t.
This Isn’t Personal—It’s Systemic
This didn’t happen because my family is uniquely cruel. It happened because society taught them to be.
When the world constantly describes disabled people as burdens, tragedies, or lives not worth living, families start to believe it. They stop trying. They stop listening. They stop seeing us as human.
This isn’t rare—it’s statistical.
Four in ten (39%) violent crimes in Canada involved a victim with a disability, according to national survey data on sexual assault, robbery, and physical assault.
Close to one-third (30%) of violent incidents involving a disabled victim happened inside their own home, compared to 17% for non-disabled victims.
Among victims of violent crime, women with a disability were almost twice as likely as women without one to be victimized more than once in a single year (36% vs. 20%).
Six in ten (61%) victims of violent crime who turned to formal support services had a disability—and women with disabilities were more likely than men to seek help.
The violence continues beyond the home: 46% of Canadian women and 37% of men who’ve experienced homelessness live with a disability.
Sources:
Statistics Canada, 2014 General Social Survey – Victimization
Women and Gender Equality Canada – Disability and Housing
Family. Caregivers. Partners. The very people society expects to protect us. The people trying to love and support us.
When society teaches that disabled lives are disposable, don’t act surprised when our families start treating us that way.
The violence done to me may look different — but it was still violence.
My family regularly threatened me with homelessness.
I was told to obey without question. If I thought for myself, I was called names, dismissed, or punished. Yes, withdrawing love is punishment.
And when I finally disobeyed, they locked me out of my home—without access to my clothes, hygiene products, or basic belongings—for nearly a week.
This is family violence.
And it includes:
- Coercive control — using threats, manipulation, or punishment to force compliance
- Psychological abuse — name-calling, gaslighting, and emotional degradation
- Neglect — denying access to basic needs like shelter and personal care
- Financial abuse — leveraging housing or material support as a weapon
- Ableism — punishing someone for being disabled, outspoken, or noncompliant
They didn’t just hurt me emotionally. My survival was conditional.
And society taught them that was acceptable.
Final Question
Do I enjoy torturing the people who are supposed to love and support me?
No.
But I do love holding them accountable.