I'm Not Rude: I'm Deaf

Every part of my being trembles when faced with bureaucratic tasks. It’s intensely triggering for me.

The very thought of tackling the paperwork and navigating complex procedures is enough to make my heart race and my palms sweat.

Bureaucratic stuff can be so frustrating without a clear set of instruction. Each officer would give some different information or left out something, making me go back and forth before I could get it done.

Giving me countless headache and panic attacks.

So instead of facing these challenges head-on, I’d end up in a cycle of delay and avoidance. I push them aside, hoping they will magically resolve themselves or disappear into thin air.

Of course that would only exacerbate the problem.

Unfinished business looms over me like a dark cloud, its weight heavy on my shoulders.

It eats away at my inner peace. There’s constant reminder of my shortcomings and responsibilities left unattended.

I’m worrying about making mistakes or getting lost in the often messed up procedures. But the uneasiness of the delay, knowing that I have unfinished business, weigh on me just as heavily. Either way, it would trigger the anxiety and panic attacks.

Renewing my handicapped person card became a long journey that lasted over many years, all due to the anxiety that gripped me. My disability is not physical, but rather that I am partially deaf.

Having an invisible handicap or illness often leads to misunderstandings and misconceptions.

The government had upgraded the card many years ago, but my fear of the bureaucratic process held me back from renewing it for as long as possible. It was my own personal issue, not the fault of the government.

I needed my card for my medical treatments at the hospitals. The staff there had reminded me numerous times to renew it, but I continued to procrastinate.

One day, a particularly strict staff member who scolded me, making it clear that I needed to renew the card, or else my handicap privileges would be denied. This meant that I would have to bear the financial burden of my medical treatments.

Overwhelmed, I couldn’t hold back my emotions and started crying right there in the doctor’s office.

It was a flood of concerns and anxiety that surged to the surface, seemingly nonsensical to any neurotypical person. But for me, it was a moment that was completely out of my control — it just happened.

In the aftermath of the breakdown, I had to go through various government departments to obtain the necessary paperwork and undergo another hearing test.

Here, the fault lay with the government, as the previous information had been wiped out during a system update.

The doctor also questioned why I wasn’t using a hearing aid and offered the option of using one, as I had previously received subsidies for them.

I had stopped using the hearing aid because the amplified sounds worsened my anxiety. In a way, I preferred hearing less.

I could no longer rely on reading people’s lips as everyone’s wearing mask in the COVID era, I’m not exactly a lips reader, but it helped me catch bits of conversation.

Usually, I would combine what I heard, what I lipread (not sure what’s the word for this) and the context of the conversation, playing a constant guessing game to comprehend others’ speech.

Please try to understand that I’m not being rude; I’m deaf. Communication is a constant struggle, and being partially deaf adds another layer of complication to my daily life.

Now, I am considering giving the hearing aid another try, although the thought of going through the process of applying for one deters me.

I will also need to update the information on my card to include my bipolar disorder and autism spectrum disorder (ASD). I’m still contemplating doing it.

I often face challenges in variety of situations, and this happened in a recent encounter at a police roadblock on my way home.

As I waited in line, I mentally prepared myself with the usual responses, anticipating the question the police officer would ask: “Where are you going?” My rehearsed answer was ready:

“I’m going home,” followed by the location. But when it was finally our turn, the officer threw me off guard with a different question: “Where are you coming from?”

Caught off balance, I couldn’t react quickly enough and found myself repeating my prepared lines. The officer grew visibly frustrated, and in that moment, I was feeling terrified that I could come across as nervous or suspicious.

Did I unknowingly fit some stereotypical criminal profile?

Will they drag me to the police statement for looking suspicious?

I was accompanied by my partner, and he offered the officer an appropriate response and reassurance.

If only I had my documentation explaining my neurodivergent condition, it would have provided a clearer understanding of my reactions and alleviated any misconceptions that I was a criminal.

Each day I repeat to myself the mantra of “eating that frog,” inspired by Brian Tracy’s book, to tackle the most difficult and challenging things first, rather than procrastinating or avoiding them.

But this particular frog we’re talking about is nothing like the delicacy of frog legs I enjoy, stir-fried with dried chili. No, this frog tastes different altogether.

It’s a bitter taste of anxiety, an unsettling flavor of fear. It’s triggering me.

I know that if I don’t summon the courage to take that first bite, the frog will continue to bite and gnaw at me.

I muster the strength to face those difficult tasks head-on, hoping to find relief and peace once the frog is dead.

Even neurotypical individuals encounter their fair share of frustrations and obstacles when dealing with complicated bureaucratic systems. But for people like us, the impact is magnified many times over. The complexities of paperwork, procedures, and the fear of misunderstanding can be overwhelming.

©Emika Oka

Thank you for reading 🖤

Previously published on From the Corner of My Mind

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