A Disabled Person Reviews: Sickness & Lies (BBC)

Screenshot of BBC's title, Sickness and Lies, but above it I added text so it now reads "A Disabled Person Reviews: Sickness & Lies"

Note: this documentary is not good, and if you’re disabled you might find it very upsetting. You might also find this review upsetting as a result, so feel free to skip it if you need to.


It has taken me a week to watch a 25-minute video.
Obviously, some of the reason for that is the cognitive fog that comes of holding an alphabet soup of mental health diagnoses, and that I’m supposed to be writing a dissertation. But most of the reason it took me a while is because, friends, this one hurt.
The disabled community is not unfamiliar with being mocked and/or dissected in mainstream media, having their diagnoses doubted and generally being treated like shit, within documentaries and outside of them. I was expecting this to be bad, so it’s not that I was disappointed. It was an extremely angry kind of hurt.
The first thing I saw about this documentary was Jessica Kellgren-Fozard’s Tweet about it, stating that she firmly declined to take part in the project because she disagreed with the premise. I’ve followed Jessica’s career for a number of years now and I respect and trust her as a content creator, meaning that I also trust that what she has said is true. So yes, I started from an angry place in watching this doc, but only because I knew that footage of Jessica Kellgren-Fozard had been used without her permission. I hoped, though, that this little sprinkle of unethical journalism would be an exception, not the rule.
The premise of this documentary, apparently, is to investigate the recent phenomenon of “Munchausen’s by Internet” (which, I would like to note, was invented by a white man). Essentially, Munchausen’s by Internet is a factitious disorder linked to and driven by online interactions with other people, and I personally (as someone with, admittedly, zero qualifications on the matter) don’t think it’s a real thing. It’s my opinion that yes, some factitious disorders are probably made worse by unregulated internet access, but the vast, vast majority of these people are legitimately disabled, enjoying community and acceptance for possibly the first time and eager to share in a space where that’s welcomed. Regardless, the documentary also looks at people trying to diagnose others with MBI or otherwise trying to prove that they are not, in fact, disabled.
Sounds like fun, right?
Infuriatingly, the documentary provides no numbers about most of these things. We’re informed that “many of the accusers are people with chronic illnesses themselves,” but there’s no clarification as to an exact number or proportion. They have no stats on how often people are malingering (which, I should note, then also makes them ill as someone suffering from a factitious disorder or similar), nor on how often disabled people are harassed about it. They don’t present any data about disabled people’s internet usage or about their wellbeing as it relates to internet usage; it’s all interviews and broad statements. One statement that was absent of numbers but caught my attention was when the online chronic illness community was described as having “spiralled” in recent years. Not “grown”, not “exploded”, but “spiralled”, because obviously the expansion of our community is a negative. They also draw attention to the fact that the number of chronically ill people is growing, especially among young women, to which I say two things: 1. Your data only shows you the growing number of diagnoses, which could be due to a huge range of factors including more comprehensive healthcare access, changes in the diagnostic criteria of certain disorders, etc., etc., and 2. Young women are one of the most thoroughly silenced groups out there. If the number of diagnosed-disabled young women is growing, could it be possible that it’s because cultural shifts have allowed them to be diagnosed? And could it also be possible that a supportive and informative online community is helping with that? Of course, they don’t dwell on any of this, because they’re too busy panicking about how many disabled Instagram users there are nowadays.
I tried to draw hope from the fact that the presenter of the program is also disabled, but a cynical voice kept asking me whether, perhaps, the BBC had chosen a disabled presenter to mitigate the obvious yuckiness of the program’s premise. She expressed that she began making the program as a result of falling down an online “rabbit hole” about chronically ill people, and the people who accuse them of faking.
Allow me to stop everything right there. I’m doing a Linguistics MA. I spend a lot of time investigating the way people frame things, what they bring to the foreground and what they do not. I noticed almost immediately that, wherever possible, the term “chronically ill” was being used instead of “disabled”. I’m not sure why, but I have two theories: the optimistic one is that this is because the BBC knew that not everyone identifies with or wants to use the label “disabled”; the cynical one is that they didn’t want to emphasise disability, because disabled people are, in the UK, a minority group protected by law (specifically, the 2010 Equality Act) and even if this documentary doesn’t constitute a hate crime, acknowledging that you’re closely dissecting the disabled community might make you sound like more of a prick than if you say “chronically ill”. (This documentary does a lot of work to avoid seeming prickish. None of it is successful.)
Then there’s the online bit. Yes, these are predominantly online communities that are being examined, both of ill people and of their doubters, but there was no discussion of disabled people forming community IRL, and, more annoyingly still, the discussion about backlash and suspicion was almost entirely focused on Reddit. A lot of people who watch this documentary might be inclined to think, “Ah, yeah, but Reddit is full of know-it-alls, argumentative bastards and people who are just generally cunts, so I don’t imagine this happens anywhere else online, and ill people can just click away from Reddit if they’re upset,” which wouldn’t be unreasonable. Unfortunately, this kind of thing happens on every platform I’ve ever used – Tumblr, YouTube, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram… they all have some lurkers who are hoping you’ll “disprove” your own disability. This behaviour is oppressive and inescapable, it is directed at members of our community within our own online community spaces, and, as even the documentary highlights, it can lead to real-life harm.
The trouble is that the documentary suggests that the harm that comes to ill people most often is self-inflicted as a result of trying to “prove” the existence of one’s disabilities; it shows interviewees recounting their experiences with coordinated harassment and doxxing, but then immediately returns to the topic of people intentionally making their symptoms worse or inventing new ones. One influencer makes reference to people who “list off every single diagnosis, or sometimes even their medications” (emphasis mine), her tone suggesting that this is a psychologically unhealthy behaviour that is driven by a need to disprove Redditors and their ableist friends. It’s my experience that when people list their conditions and/or medications, at least part of their reasoning is that someone else with that same condition, or using that same medication, can spot that someone is willing to talk about those things and can ask questions, compare experiences and receive encouragement. Again, yes, I do imagine that there are some people with actual factitious disorders who should maybe avoid that kind of content for their own sake, but I also imagine that they’re a very, very small minority.
This was another bit of framing that frustrated me. Consistently, throughout this doc, behaviours like posting symptom lists, lists of diagnoses, photos related to medical care, etc., have all been treated as though they are done solely for the purposes of proving yourself to be ill. They did mention, sort of, that the disabled community can be quite supportive and caring, but they didn’t consider for a moment that the things disabled people post are for the sake of other disabled people, rather than for the abled audience trying to expose them as liars. There was no use of the word “destigmatise” even though that seems like a pretty high priority for many disabled people, especially people with more “gross” disabilities like those related to digestion, or diagnoses which make you behave differently from your neurotypical peers. Wanting to destigmatise the specifics of disability, one’s healthcare journey, bodies that look different from what’s typical and the difficulties associated with being disabled is certainly the reason I post about mine, and it seems to me to be the main reason people share this information, for a disabled audience, an abled audience or both.
Lots of things, actually, that could look like signs of Munchausen’s By Internet to an outsider are actually very typical parts of being disabled. Someone mentioned illnesses “piling up” as though that ought to raise suspicion, when in reality, 1. Lots of conditions are comorbid with one another, so plenty of people have multiple and/or changing diagnoses and 2. Once you’re under the care of a certain healthcare team or similar and you’ve been diagnosed with one thing, it’s way more likely you’ll be tested for or could raise concerns about other things. Dr. Dickhead, who coined the term Munchausen’s By Internet, also lists “miraculous recoveries” as a sign of MBI, which frustrates me since “miraculous” can be so subjective, and sometimes bodies really do just glitch badly and then figure themselves out. Moreover, it highlights “clones” who apparently imitate disabled people so closely that “they get the same chair, the same colour service dog”, but listen. Wheelchairs are very expensive, and I personally wouldn’t want to choose one without checking out the opinions of people who already own one. Service dogs, whilst being very very good boys and girls, do not come in a huge range of colours to begin with, so statistically you’re pretty likely to see two people with a service dog of the same colour (you tit). The whole documentary feels like, regardless of its host, it has been put through a very particular lens that just cannot capture the nuances of being disabled, let alone being disabled online, because that diverts from the bit where disabled people are naughty lazy fakers. (It also feels like this should have been an hour long, partly for this reason and partly just based on the choppiness and the half-arsed interviews that answered like two questions.)
The investigation into the actual twats doxxing people for being disabled wrong was, in my view, less prominent than the discussion on faking/MBI itself, but it was also very “both-sidesy”, interviewing a moderator for one of the subs where doubters cluster together to try and find signs of faking, and finding that she considered it “a failed experiment” rather than something that could cause actual harm. Quite tellingly, she also said, “Sometimes we forgot we were dealing with human beings,” and acknowledged that “there is a line” but neglected to define where it might be. It seems like parts of the documentary are defending others’ right to scepticism, which, y’know, whatever, but that also means they’re implicitly defending behaviours that make others’ scepticism the problem of disabled people. Public internet forums debating whether or not you’re actually ill will always be hurtful, and sometimes dangerous (I convince myself I’m not disabled on a near-daily basis anyway; I don’t need any encouragement to stop taking my antipsychotics).
The thing is, this documentary does not exist in a vacuum. It exists in a world where we know that chronic conditions are underdiagnosed, especially among minority groups like women, POC, LGBT+ people etc., and it will be viewed by the people who have the power to provide or withhold these diagnoses and the treatment one could subsequently receive. It will be viewed by nosy and ableist next-door neighbours who will make you feel unsafe claiming benefits in your own home in case they glimpsed you in the garden last week. It exists in a world where the disbelieving of disabled people is already causing suffering and deaths, so maybe it’s clear why I’m angry about this documentary, which suggests that disabled people should be disbelieved.
I’m angry that they used Jessica’s image without her permission. I’m angry that they then said that “big-name influencers” like her had declined to be part of the documentary “because they’re afraid of being targets”, when Jessica states clearly on her Twitter that her motivation for declining was the ethical implications of the premise, and I suspect that was the case for many of these “big-name influencers”. Mostly, though, I’m angry that this exists. I’m angry that this was made and aired, and that whoever made those decisions either didn’t care, or didn’t care to learn, how it might affect IRL disabled people. I feel betrayed that the host was disabled but didn’t seem to bring any nuance to the table regarding disability, and was clearly there to portray “both sides”, not to advocate for other disabled people. I’m angry that it was weirdly short, so it gave only a very brief overview of campaigns of organised harassment, which are both fascinating to me as a linguist and terrifying to me as a disabled queer. I’m angry that most of the people featured in this doc were white, and that the focus was so heavily on physical disability, and a whole bunch of other things. And I’m hurt, because I feel like actual humans chose views and ratings over my actual wellbeing.
The documentary did a couple of things I didn’t hate, though! The host used they/them pronouns for a nonbinary interviewee, instead of misgendering them or carefully avoiding using any pronouns at all. She also did acknowledge that disabilities and medical interventions affect everyone differently, and what might hold true for her is not necessarily true for others. I liked some of the cool projection effects they used.
…that’s about it.
So, should you watch this wildly irresponsible and/or directly malicious documentary? Honestly, if you’re disabled, I wouldn’t recommend it – you won’t learn anything new, you’ll just be reminded how many people think you’re a liar and just how unsafe disabled people are in the world. If you’re not disabled, it might be worth watching just to know what discourse is floating around about disabled people, so that you’re positioned to be a better ally and advocate… but really, it’s not even terribly interesting, so maybe you’re better off reading reviews of it (like this one! But read multiple! I don’t represent every single disabled person!) and not giving the BBC the views. I can only really recommend it to people who, like me, sometimes want or need to get recreationally angry at the TV and who can’t find anything more infuriating on iPlayer.
I’m not here to tell you what to do, but if you want to complain about any aspect of this documentary, you can get in touch with the BBC by clicking here. If you want to support your local angry disabled person, you can buy me a coffee through Ko-Fi here. If you’d like to see some calming pictures of kittens, click here.

Erotic Asphyxiation and Helplessness

When I saw that the current Kink of the Week prompt was erotic asphyxiation, my heart leapt. I made a note of it in the Google Doc I use to brainstorm ideas. It seemed like the perfect topic for me to write about, especially at this point in my life.

I’m doing a lot of grown-up things at the moment. I’ve just been accepted onto my Master’s course, for one thing, which feels huge and daunting and exciting all at once. Just over a week ago, I collected the key to my new flat and moved all my stuff into it. And, between the key-collection and the stuff-moving, I bought hosting for my blog, moved everything from my WordPress site to my own shiny new site, and spent multiple days stressing about the fact that I couldn’t get hyperlinks to show up in Merriweather because changing fonts in CSS is an absolute fucker. In so many ways, I’ve been an entire adult, doing adult things.

So, naturally, I’ve been even more inclined towards erotic asphyxiation than usual.

A huge number of my kinks are rooted in a desire to be helpless in a controlled setting. There’s two parts to the appeal of helplessness for me. The first is that, when I’m helpless, I’m also not responsible. Of course I don’t have to worry about my blog – I should be worrying about the fact that there’s no air reaching my lungs! I like the fogginess associated with erotic asphyxiation, even when there’s no oxygen deprivation happening. It’s a combination of subspace making me pliable and vacant, and survival instinct silencing all thoughts that aren’t related to getting some fucking air into my body. Sometimes, when my Daddy takes his hand off my throat, I’ll say, “I’m stupid,” to indicate that I’ve lost the capacity for rational thought in the most pleasant way possible.

The second lovely thing about being helpless is that, in this context, it’s finite. I’ve spent a lot of time recently feeling helpless and overwhelmed about “real life” – I couldn’t figure out how to solve the confusion over WiFi in my new flat, or how to make my Twitter widget display properly on my new site. That kind of helplessness is finite too, but it depends on me doing things to solve the problem at hand. By contrast, the helplessness I feel when someone’s hand wraps around my throat will end without me doing anything. I just have to lean into the sensations of fogginess and mild panic until I’m allowed to breathe again. It’s also a kind of helplessness that puts everything else into perspective, because even when it’s practised as safely as possible, erotic asphyxiation is a matter of life and death. I’m literally putting my life into someone else’s hands, along with my throat.

I specifically like hands around my throat because it makes me feel small, and trapped. There’s no way for me to wriggle out of it, unlike with smothering – my jaw hyperextends, so I can always manage to suck some air in through my mouth when someone’s trying to smother me, unless they’re using a pillow and are exceptionally thorough. When someone puts their hand on my throat, though, they don’t even need to try and blood-choke me or close off my air supply; I’ll just hold my breath in a Pavlovian display of obedience. Even when the asphyxiation itself isn’t rendering me helpless, my own desire to please rules my brain and my lungs.

Obviously, erotic asphyxiation is considered edge play because it’s super high-risk. Its edginess is part of its appeal to me, though, because letting somebody control my oxygen intake feels like the ultimate act of devotion. Staring vacantly into a partner’s face with black spots of oxygen deprivation floating in the edges of my vision makes me feel connected to them and possessed by them. Erotic asphyxiation is part of so many of my scenes with my Daddy, including rope ones and ones with fuckin’, because it’s shorthand for, “I trust you. Do what you will with me. My body and soul are yours.”

Even writing about the fuzziness I experience when engaging with breath play has relaxed me. Knowing that, no matter what’s stressing me out, I can get the sense choked out of me is deeply comforting, and the thought of it alone has cheered me up after a couple of very challenging weeks – so I’d like to thank Molly for the prompt, and encourage my readers to go and look at the other Kink of the Week posts inspired by it!

A red lipstick kiss mark, which contains a link to the Kink of the Week page, where you can find others' posts on erotic asphyxiation

Pride: A Complicated Experience

Stock photo of glitter laid out in stripes to form a rainbow. Glitter is present at a lot of Pride events, in case you didn't know ;)

I haven’t been to a tonne of Pride events.

I came out to myself as bi when I was about 13, and as nonbinary when I was about 17. Unusually, I think, I didn’t feel any internalised shame about my queer identity in the traditional sense. When I realised I was bisexual, I was excited about it: excited about my newfound connection to the LGBTQ+ community, excited about the possibility of kissing girls and excited that I’d found a label that fit me, after a year or two of worrying that I was simply a lesbian who was very bad at lesbianing.

When I came out to myself as nonbinary, I felt a degree of anxiety that I wasn’t not-cis enough (I didn’t experience all the dysphoria that mainstream media promised me, and I’d only put the pieces together as a young adult), but mostly I was, again, excited to find a word that fit my experience of gender. I understood, in theory, that a lot of people needed the Pride movement to allay their feelings of internalised shame, fear and grossness about being anything other than cishet, but whether it was the autism or my mum’s accepting and loving influence, I never felt bad about being queer.

This didn’t mean that I was uninterested in Pride events, but I didn’t feel any desperate pull towards them. I could experience the joy of being part of the LGBTQ+ community online, in the comfort of my own home, and that felt like enough for me. The first time I went to Pride, it was for an unconventional reason: I was deeply, deeply depressed, and it was a reason to leave the house.

My hometown’s Pride event was, and still is, mercifully grassroots in nature, held in a spacious park and never too crowded. But this didn’t stop me from feeling overwhelmed, especially when I found that there was nowhere for me to sit down and rest my disabled little legs, and nothing was signposted, leading to me getting turned around and confused at least twice an hour. I loved spotting other people’s flags, starting conversations with people about their dogs or their outfits, and talking to the people who ran stalls relevant to my interests, but I left the event exhausted and overstimulated and had to spend at least a couple of days in bed or otherwise in my pajamas, recharging my limited energy.

Bigger Pride events, as you can imagine, intimidate me. I went to one in my university city and found it so challenging that I slipped away on more than one occasion to the outskirts of the event, taking deep breaths and chewing on free sweets obtained from various stalls and booths. I know lots of other people find Pride inaccessible, and this year, I stuck to my hometown’s event – but still needed to be babysat by my girlfriends and metamour, reminded to eat, and encouraged to leave earlier than most people might because I was ready to lie down on the grass and give up.

This is why I feel conflicted about Pride. I already felt like it might not be for me, since I didn’t experience the internalised shame that so many LGBTQ+ people talked about, and after having found so many Pride events to be lacking in the accessibility department, I felt that even more strongly. Couple that with a police presence which makes my autistic nerves run higher than the volume on the main stage’s speakers and the ongoing online discussions about who “belongs” at Pride, I’ve often wondered what Pride does have to offer me.

The thing is, Pride as a concept is great. I enjoy rainbow paraphernalia and I even enjoy watching corporations desperately try to cater to me (only to drop the facade on the 1st of July) and then watching other LGBTQ+ people mock them for it. Pride month is fun, it reminds me of the importance of community and visibility, and it gives me an excuse to respond melodramatically to every minor inconvenience (“It’s raining? During this, Pride Month?”). But I’m starting to acknowledge that I pressure myself into attending events that I don’t really need to be at. I already know my community exists, I have created safe spaces of my own to be queer in, and I don’t feel gross or ashamed or anything other than pleased about my queer identity.

I know Pride does a lot for a lot of people. I love seeing people at Pride events blossoming with confidence they might not feel anywhere else, and I appreciate that there exists a space where everyone can just… be their authentic selves, without fear of repercussion. But with gatekeeping, corporate involvement, inaccessibility and the rest of it, it’s a movement and a series of events that I feel somewhat disconnected from.

I will continue to defend my LGBTQ+ siblings’ right to attend Pride events, obviously. I want to speak up in defense of asexual and aromantic people’s place at Pride and about the ways that a police presence can make POC and neurodivergent people feel deeply uncomfortable, but I might not need to push myself into events to achieve that. I suppose it’s a result of internalised ableism, something I do experience a lot of, that I feel like I need to do what my abled friends are doing whether I actually want to or not. And I suppose it’s important for me as an activist to confront my internalised ableism, and that might mean staying home from crowded, noisy, police-infested Pride events when I need to.

I’m still going to buy shit with rainbows on it, though. I’m always going to buy shit with rainbows on.