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Modern Love: I'm looking for a lover, not a nurse

2023-05-08T12:16:21.519Z

Highlights: The disability should not make a person undesirable or impractical as a romantic partner. "I use an electric wheelchair and suffer from spinal muscular atrophy, a disease that causes severe muscle weakness" "I had my first date at age 24 with someone who didn't know this, despite clear photographs of my wheelchair on my dating app profile" "Almost everyone I know has a serious relationship, only sharpens the distinction of my sharpens" "Some friends accuse me of being fussy, which I have only three friends, but I have no problem with that"


The disability should not make a person undesirable or impractical as a romantic partner.


My therapist asked me if I was pessimistic about love, and I said:

"No, I'm a realist."

As a disabled woman, I have to be.

I use an electric wheelchair and suffer from spinal muscular atrophy, a disease that causes severe muscle weakness.

I had my first date at age 24 with someone who didn't know this, despite clear photographs of my wheelchair on my dating app profile.

Since then I have had many such encounters.

Maybe men don't look closely enough, although I find a wheelchair weighing almost 150 kilos hard to miss, or maybe they're not used to seeing disabled people dating.

I breathed a sigh of relief when my doctor asked me questions about my sex life and reproductive plans.

Too many medical professionals take it for granted that disabled people are asexual and cannot have children.

There's a reason Gem Turner, an outspoken disability activist, wrote about going out for the first time at age 28 as if it were a confession.

For some reason, when I read Rebekah Taussig's love story in her memoir, "Sitting Pretty: The View from My Ordinary Resilient Disabled Body," I clung to it like a prayer.


Disabled people often live by apologizing.

I am sorry that my needs are an inconvenience.

I regret not being able to attend that inaccessible event.

I am also sorry to be a person looking for love.

Before I read Rebekah's memoir, I didn't see disabled people having romantic relationships, and now I see them everywhere:

They date, get engaged, divorce and remarry everything and baby, just like anyone else.

However, disabled people face unique challenges in this area.

When I started dating, I refused to let my disability be an obstacle.

It was just an automatic filter that assured me of open-minded, socially conscious men.

In February, I started dating Ben, who was curious and friendly, and even enthusiastic about my shiny wheelchair and its USB port ("Can you connect speakers to it?").

At that point, I not only had a full-length photo of my wheelchair, but also a video of me speeding down a hallway with everything and a series of lights.

We spent hours sending each other incoherent voicemails and joking about our accents.

We played Wordle until it introduced me to the Sedecordle death spiral.

Before our first appointment, I asked her if she was concerned that I was in a wheelchair and needed help.

"The only thing that worries me is that I can't guarantee that I'm always going to be around," he told me.

I paused, not knowing what to say.

He then added:

"But could you have a helper?"

I was glad.

Until then, I had never directly asked myself if my disability made me undesirable or impractical as a romantic partner.

I began to think I had a realistic chance for love.

But I must have been pessimistic, because shortly after that conversation, the messages stopped coming.

On Monday, Ben apologized.

Although it didn't lead to a relationship, this experience encouraged me.

I downloaded Bumble, put up some pictures, and had meaningless conversations.

But a year after subscribing to dating apps, I had nothing but funny anecdotes.

Then I met Josh, who briefly pulled me out of an impending spiral.

We flirted at Hinge, had a video call.

He texted me later and the next day.

I loved his sunburn and the fact that he rang his church bells.

Then he left me planted.

My mother's first question:

"Did you know you're disabled?"

Considering how much she told me she was pretty in the pictures, I can't believe I didn't know.

But some form of my mother's question has always been on my mind.

I am a lawyer in London by training and trade, and they teach us about the real causes.

Here's how they work:

If it weren't for my disability, would men see me as a potential romantic partner?

With nothing to stop my fall after Josh, I was faced with the question I had been putting aside.

Almost everyone I know has a serious relationship, which only sharpens the distinction of my singleness.

Some friends accuse me of being fussy, but I only have three non-negotiable requirements: that he and I are in the same city and have cultural and religious compatibility.

I have no problem with height (my wheelchair is adjustable) and I am not looking for a man who shares all my interests.

Even so, it is preferable to be considered demanding than to be considered undesirable.

I soon met Julie, who suffers from the same disease as me and had just moved from France to London, where she immediately subscribed to Hinge.

As we exchanged stories, he told me:

"I've always thought that more polite kids would be more respectful and open-minded, but that's not really the case."

That reflects my experience.

Cambridge, my university town, was full of educated men.

A good part of my current social circle are London lawyers.

Some of that group I liked a bit;

I liked others a lot.

None of them have reciprocated me or, at least, none have dared to admit that they are in love with the disabled girl.

When Julie said that, I laughed.

It turns out that the men of Cambridge and those of the French business schools are the same: charming ad nauseam, delighted to be our friends (sometimes suggesting something else), but never crossing the line.

The part of me that proudly posts its disability on Instagram says that my disability doesn't make me any less attractive or any less worthy of being loved.

But since I've never met anyone who falls in love with me, it's easy to take pessimism as realism.

My experiences have left me with the nagging feeling that most men are only vaguely aware that I am a woman:

Enough to be soft and comforting, but not enough to be desired.

Of course, I've never been told directly; It would be rude.

Once my suspicions were so strong as to ask if a friend had feelings for me, and I was very wrong.

At first I was glad, because all he wanted was clarity, and I assumed we were close enough for him to know he didn't like me.

But lately I have reflected on its unquestionable clarity.

I am not so conceited as to believe that all men will be seduced by my triumphant personality, but I am afraid that those who allow themselves to be seduced have already dismissed attraction as impossible:

How can a disabled person be the object of desire?

People seem to have two main concerns when dating a disabled person.

Firstly, whether we can have sex and, secondly, whether our partners should become our caretakers.

For me, the answer to the first question is easy ("Yes, but not with you").

The second, however, is more complicated.

Although it's safe to say that while disabled people want many things from love (a best friend, a partner, a lover, an Instagram photographer), none of those roles are that of nurse.

These questions arise from a fear rooted in ableism.

Stories of disabled people are not popular or considered sexy, let alone love stories of disabled people, and it is easy to be afraid of the unknown.

I have hidden my disabled reality from my friends, oscillating between the desire to trust them with my whole being and the fear that they will see me as a burden.

But when I have opened up, in streaks, I have received love.

The result has been a mixture of understanding:

One friend helps me with my water bottle, while another suggests accessible places instead of leaving it to me.

Sometimes, feeling the weight of their care, I have wondered what a romantic relationship could be like in this context.

But what worries me is internalized ableism.

People take care of each other every day:

They serve water to everyone at the table, help a clumsy friend, make sure a vegan colleague has food.

Why is this care normalized while mine is a dreaded dependency?

Disabled people are often considered to be only capable of receiving care and, as such, cannot be equal couples.

However, love and care manifest themselves in many ways.

I have helped loved ones solve problems, fight for worthwhile causes, provide comfort at the end of a long day, know someone's vulnerabilities, and embrace them with love.

I am willing to take all my experience in the complexities of caregiving and turn it into a romantic relationship.

But for too long I have endured the ableism and assumptions of society, which have hindered my efforts.

I'm sick of this being my only problem.

I'm sick of looking for a man who embraces me as fully and selflessly as if my disability were a peanut allergy.

Love is not a lonely journey, and it should not always be my responsibility to be open, willing and comforting in the face of a society that does not recognize my desires and my desirability.

Although it is not my responsibility to educate, I will remain hopeful of finding someone who is not afraid to learn how extraordinary we could be in our ordinary shared life.

c.2023 The New York Times Company

See also

Modern Love: Couples therapist, heal yourself

Modern Love: Sometimes it's not you or math

Source: clarin

All news articles on 2023-05-08

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