On December 22, 1995, I was diagnosed with Type 1 (aka juvenile) diabetes. I was 12 years old.
But today, I don’t want to talk about how I’m diabetic.
I want to talk about how I’m disabled.
Until now, I have never identified that way. Even though I’ve always known that I am legally disabled (according to the federal government), I never claimed disability as an identity.
Despite the endless hardships and limitations (and brushes with sudden death), I didn’t feel “entitled” to it: I’m not “really” disabled, I told myself—not like someone who uses a mobility aid, or who is blind or deaf.