The daily reality of non

The daily reality of non-apparent disability On a random weeknight after work, I stood at a pharmacy counter to buy my antidepressant medication. The fluorescent lighting felt harsh overhead as I handed over my prescription, and the pharmacist gave me the total: P79.50 per tablet. I froze. I had my person with disabilities (PWD) ID tucked safely in my bag, fully intending to use it. In that brief, heavy beat between hearing the total and reaching for my wallet, internal stigma rooted me to the spot. I paid full price, took my receipt, and walked away. Under Republic Act No. 7277, or the Magna Carta for Disabled Persons, and its subsequent amendments under RA 9442 and RA 10754, Filipinos with disabilities are entitled to rights and benefits designed to ease their daily burdens. These include a 20-percent discount and exemption from value added tax on medicines, medical services, lodging, and public transport. The Department of Health and the National Council on Disability Affairs recognize 10 distinct categories eligible for these benefits: physical, visual, hearing, speech and language, intellectual, learning, mental, cancer, rare diseases, and psychosocial disability. It is to this last category that I belong. I was diagnosed with moderate clinical depression in February of this year. Because my maintenance medication comes with a steep price tag that accumulates significantly month after month, I applied for a PWD ID to help offset the financial strain. The application process was straightforward enough, though layered in typical bureaucratic steps. I secured a formal medical certification from my psychiatrist, visited the City Health Office for a disability certificate, filled out the application forms, verified my voter status at the Comelec office, obtained a certificate of residency from my barangay, and finally submitted everything to the Persons with Disability Affairs Office. Three weeks later, I received my PWD ID alongside my medicine and grocery booklets. There was a small typo on the card, but because the document was legally valid, I decided to wait for the correction. The financial relief was immediate and genuine. However, carrying a non-apparent disability comes with a unique psychological weight. It makes presenting that piece of plastic outside a pharmacy setting feel like an ordeal. Part of it stems from my own mind: the constant dread of being ridiculed or accused of pretending, of being told, explicitly or implicitly, that I do not have a “true” disability because I carry no visible physical impairment. Living with depression is exhausting on its own; adding the threat of public invalidation often feels like too much to bear. I have also witnessed cases where people sought diagnoses primarily to register as a PWD and claim the perks. Watching others look for an easy shortcut blurred my own perspective and fueled my self-doubt when I registered for my own card. I admit to wrestling with cognitive dissonance. Logically, I know there is nothing wrong with using a benefit I am legally entitled to, but the unspoken judgment in people’s eyes remains difficult to live with. Once, while purchasing my maintenance medication, I drew a queue number for the PWD and senior citizens priority lane. A staff member immediately motioned toward the standard queue, informing me it was on the other side. I did not cause a scene; I simply held up my medicine booklet. She apologized and let me proceed, but the subtle humiliation of that moment still stung. Since that day, I have restricted the use of my PWD ID almost exclusively to buying my medication. I remain hesitant to use it anywhere else, though there are certainly days I wish I had brought it out without fear. There is also an irony in the card itself. My PWD ID carries a five-year expiration date, even though many conditions (whether psychosocial or physical) do not simply end when a card expires. For many of us, these are conditions we must manage for the rest of our lives. I am grateful for the pharmacists and health personnel who serve customers with unconditional regard, never questioning my condition or making me feel unwelcome at the counter. Outside those counters, however, lies a broader public where stigma surrounding invisible disabilities and mental health still runs deep, reinforced by a lack of institutional training and public education. I hope for a future Philippines that learns to see beyond the physical. A non-apparent disability may be invisible to the eye, but the pain, the financial strain, and the daily fight to survive are entirely real. A discount card cannot erase the darkness of clinical depression, nor can it undo the thoughts that urge us to end our lives. But a society that offers dignity instead of scrutiny, one that validates our struggles without demanding a visible wound, might just make living through it a little more bearable. —————- Phoebe Gwynn Francisco, 25, is a psychometrician in profession. She resides in Lapu-Lapu City, Cebu.