After three
years of avoiding anything even remotely related to love and romance, I decided
to go back to dating scene.
And I did
what every polish lesbian does when in need of meeting new people. I got Tinder
account.
This post
is not about my dating adventures though. It’s about how dating when you’re
disabled looks from the inside.
And it’s not pretty.
After
ditching so many possible candidates who, curiously enough, disappeared among
finding out I’m on a wheelchair, I actually met couple of nice girls. In a mess
of uni finals and me being constantly sick or in the ER, I managed to schedule
a meeting.
And I got
tachycardia syndrome linked to drop od potassium level, and landed in the ER
for the whole day. Hospital Glam aside, I was pretty disappointed, especially
that after that flop our conversations kinda ceased.
I kept
talking to others, and liking one girl in particular (shhhh it’s not a crush!)
I decided to meet. We’re meeting tomorrow. And here’s what I have to say.
Dating me,
and even wanting to be my new friend, you have to realize one thing: you are
also dating my disability. You’re dating my wheelchair. And my illness. It
comes in the packet.
I’ll
probably cancel couple of meeting due to pain being too bad, catching
costochondritis for the 10th time this year, or sudden ER emergency.
If that
sounds bad for you, if you’re gonna make me feel bad for that, here’s the news
for you: you’re an ableist. Surprise!
But it’s
not only that.
To get to
the meeting, I have to beg. I, like
lots of disabled folks, have abusive caretakers. My mum, who cares about me
24/7, is disabled herself, and due to that doesn’t drive. My dad, who drives,
is abusive. Hence, being unable to take a bus myself, not having another
caretaker, I have to beg my father for help. Cue him humiliating me, putting me
down, and sometimes flat out refusing to help.
It happened
today, and I still cringe from some stuff he said. And I’ll have to put up with
him being the worst caretaker in the world.
You may be
curious now, why do I, 21yrs old grown woman, need a caretaker. What does
actually a caretaker do. I’m here to provide an answer: being on a wheelchair
you need someone with you, to help you on pavements, push you up if the road is
steep, handle you things that are too high (like in shops), and so on and so
on. For me, with my hands being affected too, I need constant help because I
can’t wheel myself for a lots of times. I also can’t just stand up when my
chair won’t go through certain terrain. You got me? I need someone to help me
with stuff my body will refuse to do.
But let’s say
I got to the meeting. Caretaker is out, leaving me with my date. If we want to
be actually alone, my date must take the role of caretaker. Even if she’s good
at that, imagine how I feel, with an almost stranger taking care of me in this
intimate fashion? Pretty fucking embarrassed is the word.
As a wlw
(woman loving women) I also have to deal with homophobia that is sure to affect
me, and pretty goddamn scary after last events.
And then
starts the whole “do we match, do we have something to talk about, do we like
each other” stuff.
As usually
on this blog, I Am Bitter. I am already tired before I even went out. Instead
of being excited about the meeting, I am embarrassed, tired, and scared.
Glamorous
life on the wheelchair. Places are inaccessible, people are rude and ableist, I
am in pain.
I usually
have some ideas what to change so the situation would improve, but without
whole societal change here, we can’t reach anything. People’s attitude needs to
change, we need accessibility and more ways to get rid of abuse in families
containing disabled people, because the ways we have aren’t working. Without
that change, all disabled girls, and boys, and nonbinary people, will still
have problems connecting, meeting new people, finding love.
I want to
be that change.
But I also
just want to be 21, love women, enjoy summer and be happy tomorrow.
And while
losing my health, I also lost that.
And this is
so fucking sad.