Being disabled doesn’t just impact the one with the disability, but also those around them. Family, friends, and colleagues have to adapt quickly to accommodate someone’s needs, which can be a daunting and problematic task at the best of times. As a young adult, no one has felt the effects more than my other half, Jarred.
I was already disabled when I met Jarred at a bands and beer night hosted by the university. Barely anyone showed up to the event, which started late, and as we were among the first to arrive we got talking. Then I kept bumping into him when eating my evening meal at the refectory, where he appeared every night at 5 pm without fail, which apparently was no coincidence. Over the next few months we got to know each other, usually spending a couple of hours together a day, and sometimes heading out to pubs and bars on an evening. Three months into this routine he asked me out, and the rest is, as they say, history.
Well over a year later, Jarred confided in me that one of the most irritating things about dating someone who was disabled was the way he was treated because of it. When we are out together people will treat him as if he were God, giving him looks of admiration for daring to defy society by putting up with the disabled girl and making her happy. Truth be told I’m a natural blonde who’s naturally busty, likes rock music, Star Wars, comic book movies, and wrestling, and apparently I have a good personality too. Jarred becomes extremely frustrated that no one seems to understand that he’s not dating me because he feels sorry for me, or because he wants to be politically correct. He’s dating me because he likes me, and the wheelchair doesn’t even come into it.
Not only is this an insult to Jarred, this is insulting to me. It suggests that due to my backside being parked in a wheelchair, I can’t have a personality or intelligence, and my boobs instantly become unattractive. It suggests that the only reason someone would ever want to spend time with me is to become credible to others, and raise their charitable profile. It suggests that taking me on dates is only done out of political-correctness and sympathy.
Jarred is my “Mr Right”, and I have never been so sure of anything in my life. He’s “Mr Right” for the right reasons; he cares about me, he makes me laugh (usually at his expense), he looks out for me, he respects me, he treats me equally and as an intelligent individual, and he has done all of these things from the day we met. We have fun together, and enjoy each other’s company. He’s not “Mr Right” for the wrong reasons, but neither of us seem to be able to escape the concept. Discrimination is not always directed at me, or even intended, but it still exists in the sympathetic and hero-worshipping stares of strangers, including those around me right now, as we sit together writing in a coffee shop.