Morrison’s Space: A DeafBlind Activist

June 21, 2026

By Morrison

When I was younger, I used to sprint home before the sun went down. Not because I was scared of the dark, no dramatic thumping or soundtrack needed, but because once night hit, my sense of space slipped away like someone quietly rearranged the world while I wasn’t looking. Darkness didn’t frighten me as an adult (except when I was a young child). It just… confused me where corners felt shifted, sidewalks felt stretched, and doorways playing hide‑and‑seek. My brain and the environment stopped agreeing on where anything actually was. So I learned to beat the sunset home, racing the shadows as if the demons were out to get me.

But then my eyesight changed, and suddenly, everything flipped. It wasn’t the darkness I was avoiding anymore – as it has consumed me in some ways. This time, I was avoiding the sunlight. The bright light became so overwhelming that it hurt my eyes. The light became too sharp, too loud, too everything where I felt as if everything became washed out. For those of us raised in the time when we printed out pictures we snapped, and some appeared washed out – that’s what it’s like for me.  I found myself gravitating toward the shadows that I once feared, craved for the shade, dim rooms, soft corners. The sun and I were no longer “friends.” Those days in the sun that I once loved were diminished, faded, washed out like those old photos. 

Naturally, this led to the only logical conclusion… (thump thump thump), I must be turning into a vampire. A deafblind vampire, to be exact. The only stark contrast is that, this one here is a blind bat with a sense of humor and zero interest in drinking anything except iced dirty chai latte (with oat milk!), and a ton of water. A ‘dirty vegan’ type of vampire lurks here. I’d tease friends, “If you see me avoiding the sun, don’t worry, I’m not transforming though I may appear very white (as I’ve been told), but I don’t have any fangs. I’m just trying not to fry my retinas.” They’d laugh, and I’d laugh too.

And honestly? Having a sense of humor helps. Humor has a way of turning something heavy and hard into something humane (yea, human-like). Something shareable, survivable, relatable for those who do get it. Because here’s the truth behind the fangs and the fun… losing vision as a deaf person changes how you move through the world. But it doesn’t take away your humane ability to adapt, and to laugh (or cry) in the process of doing it.

I navigate now by touch, memory, intuition, and the occasional dramatic flourish. I thrive in dim places. I’ve learned to trust my other senses, my instincts, and my ability to keep grounded and to keep going even when the world gets blurry or confusing. I have also learned to trust those close to me to be my eyes when I need it the most. That trust takes time to flourish in its own fruition. 

So yes, call me a (deafblind) vampire. With my family, I used to call myself a blind bat. I’m nocturnal‑ish. I’m light‑sensitive. I’m navigating life with a mix of grit and gothic flair (dramatic drumming, ba-ba-ba-boooom). And if you ever see me outside in broad daylight, squinting like I’m facing the wrath of a thousand suns… Just know I’m doing my best not to hiss, growl, or provoke a crackle, and not jump out to spook you. Bleh bleh bleh bleh. 

A deep, pulsing bass rumbling in your chest – vibrates like the heavy thunder. Then boom! Now there’s a dreadful silence…

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Side note: While this piece is written by a DeafBlind person and includes humor drawn from lived experience, it’s important to name a boundary. DeafBlind people often use humor with one another as it’s part of our “being human,” our culture, our resilience, and our way of making sense of the world. But this humor is ours to initiate. It is not appropriate for sighted or hearing people to tease us, mimic our experiences, or make jokes about being DeafBlind. That crosses into disrespect and reinforces harmful power dynamics. If you are not DeafBlind, follow our lead: let us set the tone, and engage with care.

Why this boundary is non‑negotiable

• Power dynamics matter. Humor from nondisabled people often reinforces the very stigma we’re resisting.
• Cultural ownership matters. DeafBlind humor comes from tactile language, shared access struggles, and embodied knowledge.
• Consent matters. If the DeafBlind person doesn’t initiate the humor, it’s not safe or respectful.