V. H. King's Ink

The pandemic has revealed a lot of things for me, in the way of access needs. Yes, it is 2024, and yes, there is still a pandemic. There are also worse things going on in the world, and even more terribly, what is happening now has been happening throughout pretty much all of history. 

It’s not pretty. It makes it hard to breathe, actually. But then I remember the power found in embracing my loved ones, indulging in silliness and joy, and remembering that it’s a form of resistance to the narratives that to be Black, to be Disabled, to be Queer, is to know trauma and suffering above all else. (Not true! We have some damn good times.)

What does that have to do with internet shopping? Well, with lockdown firmly in place, I started ordering my groceries through an app. I preferred scheduling the pickup time for 3 to 5 days out, because there was always something I’d need to add at the last minute and it would save me an extra trip. Plus, it helped me budget my (nonexistent) energy. I could rest before and after such a huge errand–because yes, just going to get my pre-paid groceries was exhausting.

The specifics of how hauling in grocery bags and putting away cereal boxes sapped me a week’s worth of my energy isn’t the point though. So what is? Imagine you live in a city with no family or close friends nearby. All your energy to socialize is used in the office with coworkers; your compassion is poured out in the students you work with; your problem-solving skills are at the forefront of processing forms and chairing a committee. (That’s me–I’m in this picture.)

Living in isolated vacuums, unaware of what’s happening in the world at large, is pretty hard these days. I don’t know how my coworkers dealt with things, or how they managed to keep up with “business as usual”. I know I poured all the energy of my anger into my work, logging long hours off the clock to keep my mind from my fear of getting shot in my sleep. And when I wasn’t working, I tried to paint or write out the fury and frustration of flinging myself against wall after wall after wall of getting nowhere in life. 

Mind you, I was already disabled when I started working full time. I’ve been disabled since undergrad, maybe even high school. I have a long history of feeling like shit and finding ways to carry on. The last few years, I found myself shopping. A lot. Online, of course. You’ve probably heard of retail therapy, and there are literal memes about the dopamine effect of getting that package on your doorstep.

It’s not the buying that raised my spirits. In fact, I was consciously working on my anxiety about spending money. With the world in flames, why was I clutching my coins so tightly? I knew the answer, of course. I had internalized the idea that I was a burden on any kind of resource, and it all led back to money. Time was money, education was money, little joys were money, everything was money. 

For several years, I’ve been trying to untangle myself from that mentality. How could I reframe my relationship with finances in a way that didn’t demand punishment or penitence for spending money on things I wanted or needed?

Shopping for clothes became my litmus test. I rarely stay the same size, and depending on where I’ve moved and what season it is, I probably need new clothes. I had a decent idea of a few brands’ fits and sizes (as arbitrary as those things are) which made ordering online easier. I became quite adept at reading through the product materials and guestimating size and texture. If all else failed, I could use the clothes to paint in without worrying I was ruining something.

Speaking of painting? I started to buy more art supplies too. It started out with a CBT-like tactic. ”If I spent the money on it, then I’d have to use it.” But what if I didn’t like it? What if I couldn’t sell prints? What if I invested in my art and writing and wasn’t able to make a profit?” That was a separate existential meltdown. 

What I found out was that by allowing myself to splurge on certain purchases, I discovered styles and materials I liked. Feeling good, feeling comfortable, feeling confident in those things went a long way in helping me focus on the good I was doing. Yes, I’m talking about bright coral leggings and 40 bottles of paint. 

I’m talking about meeting angry students and parents with grace and patience, listening to their frustration and confusion, and finding words that make sense to them. I’m talking about 120 markers spilled across the carpet and three different sketchbooks spread out in front of my, colors and pages coming to life while Lianne La Havas and Nothing But Thieves fill the air and I remember how to pull the thread of my feelings to fuel my characters and their dreams. 

Maybe that’s all too abstract for some people. What was it about a good outfit that could change your attitude? Well, I started off this post talking about access needs–which, in my opinion, includes anything that makes one’s mental and physical environment not only bearable, but enjoyable. How does it feel when you really have to go to the bathroom but you’re stuck in traffic? Hard to focus on much else, let alone “be nice” and let people merge in front of you. 

Now, in that situation, would you rather go to the bathroom at the nearest gas station or do you want to get home first? The gas station might be closer, but there are other hazards–like surprise smells, a line because two out of three toilets aren’t working, thimble-sized squirts of soap, and asthmatic air dryers that don’t quite get the job done. On the other hand, what awaits you at home? Questions about your day or if you remembered to go to the store? Yet another appliance on the fritz that you don’t quite have the budget to replace? 

When all options are bad, actually, it helps me to think of which allows for comfort. My skin is extremely sensitive to different materials and textures. My body also does not like to regulate its own temperature. And while I know I do good work, it doesn’t take away from the fact that going to the office (or even sitting up in my office chair at home) was going to wear me out. The right clothes and sketch breaks went a long way when it came to how well I could engage with others. Stretch breaks helped too, because goodness my neck muscles get wound up tighter than a jar lid.  

I can write about this with humor now, but I’ve had countless days over the years when life felt impossible and death was imminent. My future would always be working one job or another, exhausting myself to meet deadlines regardless of how much I enjoyed the work, until one day I just couldn’t show up anymore. And depending on what happened to me, and where, and how, and when–would anyone even know I was dead? How long would it take for anyone to worry? And who would have the misfortune of finding me?

All those years, I didn’t know I had a brain tumor. I could still feel my health slipping away–a little here and there, and then whole pieces and pillars until I was a pile of rubble. A creaky weather-beaten cabin, poorly disguised as a historic ski resort. Shopping distracted me from my despair long enough to get me through the day. New kinds of markers in my cart, waiting for me to decide if I wanted the 24 or the 48 pack, and which color palette to get. Bright cardstock and slick glossy paper to use. Poems to bring to life through abstraction and surrealism. 

I didn’t buy everything right away. Impulse shopping is still strange territory for me. But if I put it in my cart, if I add it to my wish-list, if I spend my scarce spare time dreaming of stories and art someone might connect with? I could buy it. I could work towards it. And, unbeknownst to me, I would survive. The bleak and barren outlook others pitied me for enduring became the fertilizer for learning my own unshakeable values.