You would be forgiven for reading one of Ryan O’Connell’s essays and thinking he’s your best friend. In his early confessional blog posts and 2015 memoir, I’m Special: And Other Lies We Tell Ourselves, he is refreshingly candid and funny as hell, taking readers into his confidence like we go way back and he just has fresh tea to spill. His new Netflix series Special, out April 12, traverses terrain most everyone will recognize — like struggling to feel comfortable in your own skin, being honest with yourself, and finding love, or at least a really good one-night stand.
O’Connell’s character just so happens to be doing all that while gay and disabled, and his show breaks new ground for queer, disabled representation on TV. The writer and first-time actor, who has what he describes as a relatively mild case of cerebral palsy, plays a fictionalized version of himself in the eight-episode series, produced by Jim Parsons. Among other aspects of his experience, Special recounts what happened when O’Connell was hit by a car and decided to let others believe it was the reason for his physical differences. (His character on the show takes a small tumble; in real life, the accident was far more serious.) Coming out as gay was easy for O’Connell; breaking through the closet of his disability was another story.
We spoke to O’Connell about what went into creating such a personal series, his wry and riotous sense of humor, and how Special may help people realize we’re more similar than we think.
Special skewers the trend of confessional blogging in such a hilarious way, pointing to how absurdly exploitative it can be. What function has writing served for you?
Writing has always been this safe space for me — whenever I was struggling with something and couldn't figure it out, it’s always helped me work through it. When I was in my 20s and addicted to drugs and hadn't had a dick in my ass in 10 years, writing was my constant companion. I was mining my personal life for viral hits, which often felt hollow and exploitative, but it was incredibly healing for me. Especially at that age, when I felt very alone in the things I was going through. The community back then on the internet was very supportive; it was a lot of people saying, ‘I relate to this and you're not alone.’
What is it like to play yourself and act out a version of your own life on TV?
It was definitely strange days, honey. No one could really prepare me for what a mindfuck it would be to play a more insecure, more damaged version of myself. As a 32 year old, I was so far away from those experiences, but having to act them out again, I felt myself kind of regressing and backsliding into old patterns of thought and behavior. It was really hard for me to separate where I ended and Ryan the character began. It became very “Blurred Lines,” Robin Thicke. I wasn't good at detaching. So what I'm saying is, I was an absolute riot on set! But in a lot of ways, it was cathartic for me to revisit this past self. I just had to remind myself that I am not this person anymore. This is an old version of me, and I'm paying respect to that version.
You’ve said that giving people permission to laugh through their discomfort may be the only way to normalize disability. It’s evident from the very first scene of Special, when Ryan explains his CP to a little kid who runs off screaming.
Basically a version of that has happened to me throughout my whole life.
How do you use humor in your own life?
I feel like I have to keep the vegetables covered in sugar. I like to say things that are honest and often uncomfortable, but if I do it through the lens of a joke, people don't even really process what it is that I'm saying. They just know they’re laughing, and then the truth can sneak in through the back door and imprint on their brain. Humor has been a very, very powerful tool for me to confront things that would otherwise make people feel uncomfortable. It's a total secret weapon. It disarms people and it makes them feel at ease. As a gay disabled person, it's in my DN-Gay to be like, ‘Oh, how can I make this person feel at ease about the package that I come in? How do I make them feel not threatened or awkward around me?’
How did you find the balance between landing laughs in the series and addressing some of the tough realities of living with CP?
I have to give a lot of credit to my producers for that, because when I first started writing the script my go-to was always humor. That's my reflex, where's the joke? As honest and vulnerable as I can get my writing, I think there is still a little bit of a shield. The note [from my producer and director Anna Dokuza] was always, ‘This is so funny, but how can we get to a deeper place?’ It was a process, and now I'm really proud because it does get really emotional, especially toward the end of the show, which I didn't expect. I’m like, ‘Wow, okay girl, she’s becoming a little bit of a dramedy!’ I feel one tone doesn't betray the other. Hopefully they work in harmony.
Did you have certain things you wanted to address about CP that you made sure to incorporate?
The blind-deaf date episode for sure was something I always wanted to tackle; I really wanted to say the words ‘internalized ableism’ on a streamer like Netflix and introduce people outside of the disabled community to the term. A version of it happened to me in high school. This hot deaf kid in my grade asked me out on Myspace — pause for laugh, I'm really dating myself — and I remember feeling so disgusted. I was like, ‘Oh my god, who does he think he is? He’s deaf!’ Honestly, not even realizing that as I’m saying that I'm like, drooling all over myself and limping all over the place and I have cerebral palsy, I am also disabled. I was not even cognizant of the absurdity of that reaction and how fucked up it was. That happens with gay guys with internalized homophobia, like you'll meet another gay guy and think he’s too queeny, which is so damaging and fucked up. But I think it happens in every community, when you're taught to hate yourself by society.
The series tackles what it’s like to be disabled within the context of hypersexualized gay culture. What about that experience do you want audiences to understand?
Disabled people are not really discussed, and if we are it’s always through a lens of pity or infantilization. No one ever thinks of us as just being human with our own sexual wants. I write from a place of truth, and the truth is I’m a horny gay person who wants to fuck and I happen to be disabled. My desires are the same as yours. I also will go into a Grindr blackout fuege and come to two hours later like, ‘How did I end up on this person’s Instagram? How do I find my way home?’
The sex worker scene was also really important to me, that you see a gay disabled person have their sexual needs met and that the experience doesn't end in tears or rejection or humiliation. It lets you know that disabled people are entitled to positive sexual experiences.
You’ve also said that of course you shouldn't have to be gay or disabled to relate to the show, and I was thinking of a line near the end when your character says, ‘I don't make sense to anyone, anywhere.’ You can imagine anyone feeling that way.
It’s just a chronic sense of not feeling like you're enough and [looking for] belonging — I think everyone can relate to that, no matter what package they come in. These are really universal feelings. Yes, there are experiences that are unique to being disabled or gay, but at the end of the day we all want the same thing. We're all living in the same society with the same expectations and fears and anxieties. For me, it was really important that this play like a mainstream top 40 song. On one hand, the life of a gay disabled person can look different from an able-bodied straight person. But boil us down and we’re all kind of the same.
Interview has been condensed and edited for clarity.
Get the best of what's queer. Sign up for our weekly newsletter here.
