That’s what I am…
I am disabled. When that word is being used, people think about someone with a visible disability. Something you can see, something you can understand.
Something we can prove?
Because that’s the thing. If people can’t see it, I have to prove it. It’s not enough that I say “I have this illness, and this is what it does to me”. No, I have to prove that I really am disabled.
I’m not sure how I am supposed to prove myself to people… And I can’t say I understand why I should have to! Why is it, that people always assume that I am lying? Because, if they didn’t, then why would I have to prove anything?
I am being called a liar. Silly. Stupid. And rude even. I am rude for taking it (whatever ‘it’ is) away from those that really “do have a disability”.
Because my illness, my disability, doesn’t show, I do not get any help (other than from my cardiologist), my GP doesn’t care what I say (I have actually been thrown out from the doctors office at my GP!). I am being called a liar and so many other things. I can’t find a job (a real one), and people can’t understand why I don’t think “spending time with the elderly, to keep them from getting bored” is a real job. I am fully capable of working, of doing my job. I’m a brilliant administrator and receptionist, things just take a little longer at times, and I get more tired/fatigued than others. As soon as someone hear that dreadful word, ‘ disabled’, I’m shut out. I’m ignored. I’m no longer wanted for an interview even. The interview that was on it’s way before “that word”.
For many years, friends have said goodbye. Actually, they didn’t say it, they were just gone one day. Then I found out that most people aren’t very interested in getting to know me after they find out that I am disabled. Because my blood pressure and heart rate is affected by my disability, my illness, people assume that I have some dangerous heart problem. Some people believe that I will fall down and die in front of them. It doesn’t matter what I say, how I explain things, they believe what they want.
Since writing the above part, a… situation… happened.
I wrote the first part on thursday, and then two days ago, Midsummer Eve, I went to Denmark with my mum. Something we do that day every year.
We had a really great day, first at the Danish Museum och Technology and Science (amazing!!). Go there!
Then… we went to Statens Naturhistoriske Museum in Copenhagen, located at the Botanical Garden. And I am so angry with them!
I managed to get up the stairs at the entrance without getting my heart rate too high, so yay on that.
Then we got our tickets, we walked inside, saw an introduction film… (They currently have an exhibition about dinosaurs.) But alas, then it was more stairs! So, so many stairs. There is no way I would be able to walk up all of those without making my heart extremely angry. And you know, getting a heart rate of about 200bpm isn’t all that fun. Not very safe either. And really, fainting and falling down the stairs felt like a bad idea.
We couldn’t find a lift (elevator) anywhere. I went back to the entrance/souvenir shop and I. am. Still. Pissed!
Me: excuse me, where is the lift to the exhibition with the dinosaurs?
Her: Take the stairs.
Me: I need to use the lift, I can’t walk up those stairs because of my health.
Her, a bit annoyed: The lift is only for the handicapped!
Me, kind of angry: I AM handicapped!
I ended up having to tell her, really angrily, 3 times (!) that I am handicapped and I need to use the lift!
I was about to demand our money back so we could leave when she agreed to show where the lift was.
Instead of just showing us to the lift… she went to the one from the outside, that I hadn’t even seen. SHE WENT TO LOOK FOR SOMEONE IN A WHEELCHAIR!!!
I told her again, that it was I, ME, that needed the lift, that I was the one that was disabled (again…). She looked super irritated, but she did show us, and we did get to the dinosaurs.
On the way, I made it very, very, clear to her why the stairs are so bad for me. More than once. Ok, I may have nagged her about it all the way. But let’s be honest, she had it coming!
She never said sorry for her disrespectful behaviour… She did look a tiny bit ashamed, but I don’t know.
Later on, as we went back to the entrance, which was also the souvenir shop, and looked around, she kept her back turned to me at all times, no matter where I was standing, then she hurried out.
So yeah, like I said in the beginning. Invisible, that’s what I am.
Keep looking up ❤
(Please don’t use the word handicapped, I did in Denmark since the rude woman did, I didn’t know the correct word in danish so…)