For those of you who have faithfully read my columns, you know that I rarely write about contentious political issues. There are many reasons why I choose not to do this, but the primary one is that the most prominent political issues are also the most divisive. And considering that one of my most fallible traits is avoiding conflict, at all costs, in addition to being a people pleaser, I tend to avoid writing about my opinions on matters about which my readers might not agree.
I’m incredibly conscious of the image of myself that I’ve constructed in my dear readers’ eyes, and the last thing I would ever want is to tarnish that. But I’ve been mustering up the courage to write this specific column for a while now, and I realized it would be fitting for this column to appear in June — the one-year anniversary of the Supreme Court’s overturning Roe v. Wade.
And I’m sure since I’ve raised the subject, many of you will be able to guess the direction I’m going in.
Before I go any further, I want to say that if any of you who are reading this think you’re going to vehemently disagree with anything I’m about to say, just please hear me out. In the over two years that my ramblings have been gracing your papers, I don’t think I have led any of you astray, and I certainly don’t intend to let that be the case now.
When the announcement came last year on June 24, 2022, it marked a day that would go down in history for myriad reasons — the least significant of them being that it was also coincidentally my 23rd birthday. I still remember how my stomach dropped as I watched the news come in on my Twitter feed. As an early 20-something, I had already “survived” a global pandemic, and now the U.S. government was asserting its control over my reproductive organs. If that doesn’t scream birthday celebration, I don’t know what does.
But the unfortunate truth of the matter is it wasn’t the first time I’ve felt the painful reminder that my body isn’t entirely mine, and I highly doubt it will be the last. This was just the first instance that this country has reminded me.
The idea that my body isn’t entirely mine is something on which I’ve ruminated a lot in recent years. It might be a confusing concept for those of you who identify as able-bodied because of course my body is mine; it’s the one that I was born into, after all. But allow me to explain.
I had my first surgery when I was 2½ years old. I started watching my body get progressively weaker when I was 15, and it has been placed in the hands of more medical professionals and caregivers than I can even count. And as I’ve discussed in previous columns, with the degree of physical care that I require comes the necessary evil of trusting strangers with the safety of my physical well-being, which can be an emotionally damaging premise — to know that my caregivers have seen more of my body than I have.
But it also comes with an overwhelming loss of control over my life, over my own body. Because I have to tailor my schedule every day to accommodate the people around who are able to care for me, it can often feel as though those who care for me have more control over my body than I do. And that sense of control can be quickly manipulated.
It is a fact that people with disabilities are three times more likely to be physically abused or assaulted. According to a study done by the University of Michigan, it’s estimated that as many as 40% of women with disabilities experience sexual assault or physical violence in their lifetimes.
Because of this possibility, always looming, and the inherent level of vulnerability that comes with having caregivers, I made the conscious decision as a child to have only female caregivers. It was a decision I had to make. Because the unfortunate truth of the matter is that many of these assaults do happen at the hands of caregivers.
Another factor affecting disabled women is that many have high-risk pregnancies because their bodies cannot handle all of the normal complications of pregnancy. For instance, if I were to be pregnant one day — of my own choosing — and experience morning sickness, there is a strong chance I could choke on my vomit and get pneumonia or worse. And if that were the case, I would be fortunate to live in a state in which I would have access to the lifesaving care I needed.
I’m sure in more conservative states, disabled women are facing pregnancy complications that inflict irrevocable damage onto them. And that idea just makes my blood boil because it is far from fair. Because it wasn’t their choice to be in this situation; it was a byproduct of a horrific violation that happened to them.
At the end of the day, no woman should be made to feel they don’t have a choice or control over their own body. No woman should be played as a pawn in someone else’s game.
Gazette columnist Joanna Buoniconti is a freelance writer and an editorial intern at Includas Publishing. She can be reached at columnist@gazettenet.com.