The Crippled Cryptid.

Drafting survival in the margins.

One day at a time.

By

SkylaNarissa

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Welcome to Pride Month (From a Queer Disabled Cryptid with a Cane)

Hey, I’m Sky- writer, cryptid, garden gremlin, disabled disaster, and the haunted soul behind The Crippled Cryptid.

If you’re new here, welcome to my spooky little corner of the internet where we talk about all things chronic illness, service dog life, garden goblining, folklore, writing, identity, and the messy magic of trying to exist authentically- even when the world makes that hard.

And hey, if you’re queer? You belong here. If you’re disabled and queer? Especially you. Even if you’re not, and you’re just spooky, welcome to the family.

Let’s Talk Pride

It’s June, which means rainbow capitalism is going wild, big corporations are dusting off last year’s Pride graphics, and those of us actually living this experience are… feeling a little complicated.

So, here’s what I want to say to you, right up front: Pride should never cost you your safety.

Whether that safety is physical, mental, emotional, or some impossible combo of all three- your peace is worth protecting. You are valid if you don’t feel safe going to Pride events. You are still valid if you need to stay home. If your chronic pain is flaring, your mobility is limited, your mental health is in the gutter, or you’re worried about the very real threats out there right now- you do not owe anyone a performance of Pride to prove you belong.

Your identity is still yours. Even in silence. Even in the shadows. Even if you’ve had to unlearn shame or fear to find your way back to it.

I know what that’s like.

Queer, Chronically Ill, and Closeted in a Small Town

I didn’t grow up in a particularly kind place. I was the weird tall girl in kindergarten, the awkward kid in first grade, and the bullied (and often sick, weird, and misunderstood) one all the way through school. It started young, and it didn’t let up. I didn’t know back then that I had ADHD, undiagnosed autism, depression, PTSD, generalized and social anxiety- a whole alphabet soup of acronyms that shaped how I interacted with the world. All I knew was that I didn’t fit in, and the entire world made sure I knew it.

So, when I first realized I wasn’t straight, I kept my damn mouth shut.

Why would I give them one more thing to use against me?

The slurs came anyway. I was already being targeted by boys who didn’t understand what they were saying, parroting hate they’d learned at home or on the playground. Boys who, years later, I found out had traumas of their own- ones that never justified the damage they did but explained it. I was their punching bag, their outlet, their scapegoat. And I learned to hide. To survive.

That internalized homophobia stuck with me. I didn’t know what to call it yet, but I felt it like a weight in my chest. A shame I couldn’t name.

Everyone said bisexual girls were “sluts.” That anyone who didn’t pick a side was just confused, or greedy. I didn’t want to be “confused.” I didn’t want to be a target. I didn’t want to be seen.

One boy, who I know doesn’t read this, went around calling me “Goth” our entire time in the sixth and seventh grade. Wrong? No. But, that’s not a reason to call someone outside of their name- your words, if you ever do happen to see this, are the reason why teachers pulled me aside for those two years and made me pull up my shirt sleeves to make sure I wasn’t hurting myself. Think on that the next time you call someone outside of their name, you were telling people I had bricks in my bag, or knives in my bag- I had books from the school library, or Borders- if anyone is old enough to remember that bookstore- because I liked to read, and once my work was done the teachers did not give a damn if I sat quietly and read my books. I still flinch every time someone asks me “do you have bricks in here?” because of you.

So, I got quiet. Even around people who probably would have loved me anyway.

Finding My Voice (and My Queerness) in Vampires and Violence

I left public school due to bullying, chronic illness, and trauma (we’ll get into that in another post.) I dove headfirst into books. One of the first that changed me was the Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter series by Laurell K. Hamilton. It might seem like an odd choice, but I was a spooky teen who loved vampires, and it was the first time I saw a main character evolve beyond the boxes other people tried to shove her into.

Anita starts the series straight, monogamous, and vanilla. She doesn’t stay that way.

Neither did I.

That series taught me it was okay to explore. To change. To want different things. That identity is complicated, fluid, and personal. It helped me work through a lot of my own trauma around sexuality- even though the series comes with a grocery list of trigger warnings I’ll unpack in future reviews.

But most importantly, it reminded me that honesty starts with yourself.

The Wounds and the Wonder

I’ve dated men. One of them was my best friend growing up- that one just didn’t work out. Others? Hurt me in ways I’ll never write about publicly, only whisper on long car rides when the ghosts of Bull Valley get too loud.

There was one who hated it when I wore eyeliner. Who didn’t want me to dye my hair purple. Who tore down my confidence until I didn’t recognize myself. Who punished me for loving my animals and my independence. Who taught me how easily their version of love could become a leash.

But then… there’s her.

My partner. My garden gnome. The bubblegum to my black lace.

We met in middle school- I hated her at first. But when the bullies turned on her, that’s when I found my voice. I defended her before I even liked her. And that’s the thing: sometimes love grows in unexpected places, like wildflowers in the cracks of a broken sidewalk.

She’s not perfect. Neither am I.

But she’s held my hand through loss, laughed with me through pain, and supported me when my body was falling apart. She’s been here for every version of me- even the broken ones. In spite of the broken ones- especially those ones.

She doesn’t take Instagram-perfect pictures. She doesn’t perform our relationship online. But she loves me in quiet, steady, real-life ways that matter.

And that’s enough.

So, This Pride Month…

I’m here. I’m queer. I’m disabled. And I’m done apologizing for any of it.

Whether you’re shouting your truth from the rooftops or holding it close like a flickering candle, I see you. You are not alone. You are not “too much” or “too broken” or “too complicated.”

Your love is sacred. Your survival is resistance. Your joy is a rebellion.

Take care of yourself this Pride Month. Celebrate however you can. And if all you can do is breathe and be- that’s still something to be proud of.

-Sky, The Crippled Cryptid

🌈 LGBTQIA+ Support & Crisis Resources

📞 24/7 Crisis Hotlines

🏳️‍🌈 Community-Based Support

  • Brave Space Alliance (Chicago, IL)
    A Black- and trans-led LGBTQ+ center offering resources like food, housing, and support groups.
    Website: bravespacealliance.org
  • PFLAG
    Provides support for LGBTQ+ individuals and their families.
    Website: pflag.org
  • Human Rights Campaign (HRC)
    Offers mental health resources and advocacy for LGBTQ+ rights.
    Website: hrc.org/resources/mental-health-resources-in-the-lgbtq-community
  • GLAAD Resource List
    A comprehensive list of LGBTQ+ organizations and support services.
    Website: glaad.org/resourcelist

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The Crippled Cryptid

Where ghost stories linger, tea stays warm, and the weird is always welcome.
Chronic illness, Luna, and life as it really is.

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