The choice to choose
Sweta Mantrii
I think I may have evolved a tad bit ever since I wrote about this thing called companionship. Or, maybe, I am simply soaking in the feeling of experiencing liberation after getting my heart broken in a way I thought would never happen. Nevertheless, I am still confused about how I feel about myself as an almost-35-year-old single (happy?) disabled woman. Apparently, it’s a norm for someone with a disability to live alone and die alone, and there’s no surprise there. Nobody flinches, no eyebrows raised, no questions asked.
When I wake up, I do what everybody else does. I scroll on my phone. I woke up to a post by an influencer who’d shared his wedding vlog. I watched the entire video. It was sweet and gave me some fuzzy feelings. However, on days that I don’t consume cheesy content on Instagram, I invariably turn into Alia Bhatt from Dear Zindagi who wants to dhopto every couple that forgets the entire world when they’re basking in the glory of each other’s love.
I remember having a conversation with someone in the recent past where they said, “My fiancé is my home! I feel safe and cherished with him.” I was happy that she felt that way, and so, I didn’t want her to experience an existential crisis by asking her a question that popped in my head instantly — “Would he have been your home had you not fit into the prescribed beauty standards set for women?” I didn’t ask her the question, of course, but it’s a thought that hasn’t left me ever since.
The ableist world that we live in has such skewed notions of what a desirable and ideal partner should be like. Apart from getting people to fit into conventional and ableist standards of ‘beauty’ and ‘desirability’, the value of a person is reduced to their physical productivity, and this holds true for women and men alike. So, in a scenario like this, what happens to men and women with disabilities? They are constantly subjected to the narrative that they are not adequate, and as if that wasn’t enough, they’re also frowned upon for not meeting ableist standards. Who decides what is adequate, anyway? And why does my adequate have to match someone else’s adequate? Why can’t everyone be their own version of adequate and shine on?
In an ableist world, disabled men are constantly doubted for how much money they’re going to be able to make or how well they can perform during sex, and disabled women are constantly judged for how fast they can make a cup of chai or make rotis in the kitchen. And just because some of us have sex differently, or make chai and rotis in ways different from our non-disabled counterparts, we’re deemed inadequate and unfit for marriage? The irony of it all is that I’ve also been ‘rejected’ by parents of disabled boys who wanted someone more adequate for their ‘raja beta.’ What happened to being kind, loving, funny, and emotionally mature? No, isn’t that adequate enough to be eligible for marriage? One can navigate logistical concerns, or earn money by working from home, but how can one compensate for a lack of character?
I often wonder how non-disabled people must feel to know that they will definitely end up with a life partner someday if they want to. And I’m not implying — just by choice, but by the virtue of physical ability. It must feel good? I definitely won’t know the answer, in this lifetime, at least, because I’m not considered eligible for marriage, and I’m disqualified from ‘playing this game.’ I live, eat and sleep on Instagram, and I’ve definitely stumbled upon photos and reels by a particular ‘influencer’ who has made an Instagram career by making content out of her marriage, or shall I say, wedding. And all thanks to the pandemic, the fiasco went on for two years and has (most probably) just ended with the couple throwing a third reception for their friends and family — with the Instagram posts still coming in. I don’t want to sound resentful here, but it is frustrating how experiencing partnership is an organic phenomenon for a non-disabled girl that she gets to celebrate luxuriously if she wants to, but, experiencing the same partnership phenomenon is an absolute luxury for someone with a disability.
I’ve only recently started opening up about what I feel about not having a boyfriend or a partner at an age where most of my peers are married with kids. And that’s because my patriarchal and ableist conditioning tells me that I shouldn’t talk about my desire to be loved, especially as a woman with a disability. Maybe, I am really not cut out for a fulfilling relationship? All of this is overwhelming, and the feeling has amplified for me, ever since I moved out of my parents’ home.
I won’t say that I don’t feel envious when I see girls younger than me spending every free moment of their lives with their boyfriends, because I may be a tad envious. I won’t say that I’m not happy when I see girls younger than me getting married or having baby showers, because I am sincerely happy for them. I won’t say that all of this is easy because it is exhausting as hell. I am also not going to ‘be strong’ and endure everything with a smile on my face because why should I? Why is wanting to experience romantic love a crime for someone who is disabled?
It’s taken me a while to come through and tell myself that it’s okay to feel bad about not experiencing love and partnership like non-disabled people. And I’m going to give myself the space to grieve and not let anyone tell me to be positive when all I want to do is cry out loud and not be ashamed of it. I’m not ashamed of writing this. I’ve had people tell me that being in a relationship is not easy. They say that it is complex and can get messy from time to time. They tell me that I am better off being single than being in something that’s layered and complex. Hell, no! I am not better off being single because the opportunity to choose between companionship and singledom was never a choice that was accessible to me — as it was for my non-disabled peers. Hell, yes, I want to be able to choose, make mistakes, and get into something that’s messy regardless of how my body looks and functions.
So, until that happens, I am going to continue scrolling on Instagram and double tap on cringe wedding content by influencers, and then, also go on to dhopto-ing couples who engage in unnecessary PDA in front of me, in real life. I’m just going to be me.
In addition to being a full-time awesome person, Sweta Mantrii is an MBA turned writer and disability inclusion enabler. She stumbled upon comedy quite accidentally; just like the other things that she stumbles upon while walking.
Through her endeavors, Sweta aims to address the understanding of disability and disability of understanding to construct accessibility and initiate inclusion in people’s buildings, minds, and lives.
