Ungrateful

The first snow is happening right now. It’s just outside my window. There’s this squirrel who can’t seem to figure out what to do with himself, or his tail. He’s scurrying from post to post on the fence. I’ve always been fond of the first snow. It’s a blanket of new, of hope, whether the white stuff sticks or not. Just like people do with birthday candles, this is when I make my wish. I think about all the good and all the bad and all the eh of this season of my life, and I put forward some sort of manifestation for better moving forward. I don’t think this suits the reality of the situation for that squirrel.

Gratitude season is here. We get together with family and friends, and we reminisce on our triumphs over this past year. We ask one another what we are most thankful for. We nod politely and smile at the answers we are told. We do not tell one another what we should be grateful for. We turn inwards and reflect on what matters most to us, accepting whatever another says matters most to them.

Each day marks gratitude season for people like me. Or at least that’s what we are told it should be. Disabled? Be grateful for the other strengths your circumstances gifted you. Sexual assault survivor? Be grateful you’ve survived and are strong. Abuse survivor? Be grateful you learned your worth, albeit the hard way. Chronically ill? Be grateful for what health you have. Homicide survivor? Be grateful you’re not dead. Different? Express gratitude so I can treat you as an abstract inspiration of strength, expect you to only share your good days, fit you into my comfort zone so I don’t have to adjust to the fact that your truth is a representation of reality. Broken? Tell me that everything happens for a reason so I can reason with the darkest pains in this world.

Gratitude is important. Each morning I wake up and recite my gratitude list in my head. It’s mostly comprised of human beings, and dogs, who have loved me through my experiences, through my status as a chronically ill disabled survivor of abuse, sexual assault, and attempted homicide. Nowhere on the list do I say I am grateful for my status. Nowhere on the list do I say I am grateful for my trauma. Nowhere on the list do I say I am grateful for a single person who told me to be grateful for my circumstances.

I understand why the average person tells me and people like me to be grateful. They want to think that it could be worse. They want to dwell in that space between how they want to see the world and how my reality corrupts that. They want me to say my tragedies turned into my triumphs so they don’t have to think about the tragic parts, so they don’t have to think that those tragedies could reach into their own lives. They want me to reassure them that everything happens for a reason. They want me to tell them I am okay, so they can rest in the idea that everything will always turn out okay. If I can churn out a reason for being a chronically ill disabled survivor of abuse, sexual assault, and attempted homicide, and how those are all actually good, inspiring things, they can flip their own frowns upside down.

I understand. Your comfort zone is warm and snuggly. Evil is a lie, my trauma inspires even me, and Santa is coming down my chimney soon. Nah. Specifically: fuck that. Ready? I will never be grateful for my chronic illnesses. I will never be grateful for my disabilities. I will never be grateful for the abuse I have endured. I will never be grateful for the rapes I have endured. I will never be grateful that I was taken because two men decided that I was going to die. I will never be grateful that I have a traumatic brain injury. I will never be grateful for my trauma. In fact, there is no reason for any of them to have happened in the first place.

That’s right, I said it: not everything happens for a reason. In fact, telling me that everything happens for a reason is the quickest way to offend me. And trust me, plenty of people told me following the attack just that. “There must be some direction greater awaiting you,” and “God must have needed you elsewhere,” and “But look at how strong you are now.” Let’s get some things straight, shall we? I was strong, compassionate, intelligent, self-aware, and all around good. Then the attack happened. See what I did there? I was a whole person. I did not need trauma to learn, to grow, to be better. Nobody does. I’ll say that again: nobody needs trauma to grow. I will not pretend that I am somehow better off in the wake of tragedy because it suits your comfortable sense of reality. My status, how I got here, there’s no reason for it. I’m not better now, I’m just different. And a lot of that difference is lousy.

As your national month of gratitude continues, you’ll be inundated with “heartwarming” videos. They’ll be about disabled people. They’ll be about sick kids. They’ll be about survivors. They’ll be about overcoming pains you do not feel, if only for a moment. Ask yourself, when these come across your screen, why does this make me feel better? Reflect. Then, take that perspective forward. If you understand that these people do not have the same quality of life as you, that they have immense struggles beyond your comprehension, so much so that a moment of joy for them is NEWS, don’t ask them to inspire you. If their truth inspires you, if my truth inspires you, that’s one thing. But, do not ask us to sit down and fold our truths up so they can fit within your comfort zone. Do not ask us to pretend our traumas and tragedies and circumstances bettered us. Do not ask us to be grateful for our pain.

I am grateful to those who have helped wrap my wounds. I am ungrateful for my wounds.