To Convince Dates My Wheelchair Isn’t a Burden, I First Had to Convince Myself

A few months ago, disabled Twitter (yeah, it’s a thing) flooded my timeline with angry quips aimed at Dr. Phil. I don’t watch his show, but it didn’t take much detective work to figure out that the tweets were in response to Phil McGraw’s comments on a recent episode that 100/100 interabled relationships—that is relationships in which one person is abled and the other person is disabled—will fail.

I immediately googled a clip. “You can be his caregiver or you can be his lover, you can’t be both,” McGraw says in one segment of the show. I was stunned. Here was this abled man deciding to speak for not only the couple he was “counseling” but for me—a wheelchair user—and for any person who is now, or might in the future be, in a relationship with a disabled person. So that’s...everyone.

I was absolutely furious.

Ableist comments like this are always frustrating, but this one was a particular trigger for me. I’m single, so my family sometimes scouts potential dates for me. A few years ago I realized that every one of my well-intentioned loved ones, even my dad, seemed to be pointing out exclusively disabled men to me. “You can tell me when you see any hot guy,” I announced one day in my kitchen. “Abled, disabled, or green-skinned, I don’t care as long as he’s hot.” My wheelchair hasn’t stopped me from noticing attractive age-appropriate men, and it shouldn’t stop my family from seeing me with them either. But the truth is, it does. Despite how far we've come in championing people with disabilities, there's still a proverbial interabled line we're not supposed to cross.

When I say "single," I mean I’m chronically single, but it’s not because I don’t think I’m dateable. I realized dating was a possibility I wanted back in middle school; in health class we watched a documentary called Paralyzed and Pregnant about a woman named Michelle who was paralyzed in an accident on vacation, met a guy on a dating site, married him, and had a child. I’m not paralyzed. I have cerebral palsy as a result of a stroke at birth, but this was the first time I’d seen someone who looked even a little bit like me in a romantic relationship. On a quiz about the video, we were asked what we'd learned. While people in my class were ripping their answers straight from the pages of Us Weekly (“Wheelchair users, they’re just like us!”), I was holding back tears as I wrote, “I learned I can fall in love and get married. That can happen for me.”

But there was also an epilogue to Michelle’s story: She and her husband got divorced in part because of the strain her disability put on the relationship. Pregnancy worsened her mobility and it didn’t get better. I wasn’t discouraged. In my adolescent mind there was a simple solution: I just had to learn to be completely independent so no one would ever have to take care of me.

The truth is I have very minimal experience on dating websites. My self-esteem and self-acceptance grow every day, but the thought I had that day in middle school has stuck with me: Needing help from others makes me feel like a burden—that’s not ideal in a relationship. The first time I tried a dating app I was a freshman in college (pre-Tinder, for the record). Away from home and depressed, I thought going on a dating website exclusively for disabled dating would make me feel less alone. I’ll never forget seeing a wheelchair user’s profile, which read, “Able-bodied women preferred,” shortly after joining. I wish Ariana Grande weren't in high school then—it would’ve been so much easier to scroll past and forget if I'd had “Thank U, Next” blasting in my head.

Since the first try, I’ve had a couple of dating profiles on sites like Plenty of Fish and OkCupid. I even attempted EHarmony. Each time the setup is the same: Call a friend to help, get drunk, agonize over where to put the term “wheelchair user” in the bio, and try to find the best picture of myself…then wait.

I always disclose my disability in my profile, because I don’t have time for games or that extra tinge of fear that comes when you are trying to figure out when to reveal your big “secret” to someone. On my most recent try a few years ago, I was messaging with a guy for a few days, probably talking about a TV show. I was a big basketball fan at the time, so the subject came up. “I haven’t played, though,” I said, “I don’t know how to find a wheelchair basketball team.” He made polite conversation with me for the night and then…ghosted.

The most awkward encounter I had started out promising. This guy wrote paragraphs—as a writer, someone who’s eloquent and shows they’ve read my profile is a must. Aside from his ability to form coherent sentences, I wasn’t super into him, but I knew I wanted a real relationship, and to me that means taking time to get to know someone. Then one night he dropped the bomb: “I should tell you I’m a devotee.”

A devotee is someone who fetishizes wheelchairs and disability. Devotees inspire fear in me. I’m not here to fetish-shame anyone, but my disability isn’t who I am—it’s just one part. I knew almost instantly that I wouldn’t be able to handle being in a relationship like that. Still, I was curious. “So, erm, do you want to, like, know what brand my wheelchair is or something?” I asked. He did. Apparently, he was into my answer and asked if I wanted to move our chat off the app. I didn’t. The next day he completely disappeared from the site—perhaps in search of an even sexier wheelchair brand.

I quit online dating after that, choosing to focus on the other things that make me feel fulfilled instead. But I don’t want to be alone forever. Dr. Phil’s comments made me realize that I was internalizing other people’s damaging opinions about disability and dating. Somewhere in a dark corner of my mind, a little voice had been sending me the same message Dr. Phil wrongly promoted on his show. I’ve been seeing my disability as a burden—myself as a burden—and it’s kept me from pursuing the kind of relationship I want. My entire adult life I’ve been coming up with excuses, telling myself that I’m not independent enough to date.

So I decided to write this essay about how I’m ready to try again. This time reminding myself that dating with a disability isn’t about finding someone who’s turned on by my wheelchair or worrying about crossing the proverbial interabled line. Relationships, especially the good ones, aren’t about being completely self-sufficient. Relying on a partner—whether it’s to help you sort out a stressful situation at work, cook a meal, or open a door for you when you can’t—doesn’t make you a burden. But every time I tried to write the ending, the part where I stepped away from my computer and actually made a profile, I kept writing excuses.

Excuses are not an ending. So I called my best friend, allowed myself some wine to quell the fear, and we made me a dating profile. Now it's official: I’m there. I’m on the apps, swiping the faces—more left than right, but hey, it’s a start. Is it easy? No. But I’m proud of myself for doing it anyway. Every other time I'd created a dating profile, there was an ulterior motive behind it—I was lonely or felt pressured to hurry up and find someone to prove that my disability isn’t a burden that disqualifies me from dating. This time I’m entering the dating world for me, because I know I’m worth getting to know.

I have no upcoming coffee dates to report; that might take a while to happen. And when it does, he’s probably going to have to open the door to Starbucks for me—but so freaking what?

Esme Mazzeo is a TV writer at Romper. Follow her at @EsmeMazzeo.

Originally Appeared on Glamour