To date as a queer, disabled individual in a heteronormative world is challenging

What do self-love and intimacy mean for people who've always been told that they're not enough?

Movies, television shows and media have almost always provided us with a well-scripted idea of what love should and shouldn't be, a template that has shaped culture, relationships and dating. Those who do not fit into the mainstream notions of love, desirability and intimacy are often cast aside. Oftentimes, those of us from marginalised genders and abilities have to create our own versions of love. This writer couldn’t fit into the traditional dating stereotypes but as they approach their 25th birthday, it has suddenly dawned that the need to create our own version of love, free from cis, heteronormative, able-bodied milestones of finding someone and settling down. 

An awareness of one’s shortcomings

Growing up, I always thought I would end up dating a cis man because I was born a "woman". Inevitably, I could never reach the able-bodied standards of being a woman because I'm disabled. Thus, every February, having a cis het man as a valentine became a milestone that I felt I had to achieve.

The messy ways in which I take care of myself mean the world to my physically disabled queer body. Last month, for instance, my aunt reprimanded me for not drying my bedsheets on the dryer "correctly". "It's not spread out enough," she said. I fail to carry out most tasks on time; I've never closely inspected the surgery scars on my body or stretch marks until last month. The way I care for myself is too messy, too irregular, too inconsistent for my natal family. How will you ever get well? How will you ever get rid of the 10-plus medicines you take in a day? How will you fix yourself? Thus, I am acutely aware of my mortality. 

This has been ingrained in my memory since I was young: No, that isn't the "right" way to open a chips packet. It should be straighter. No, that isn't the right way to dry clothes. Or open a box. Or write an assignment. Or care for yourself. Or communicate with others. Or be a woman. No, that isn't the right way to live or walk or move or grieve. You're doing it wrong. Do better, do more, fix yourself.

Little do they know, I'm just trying to survive. What does self-love and agency mean when you're just trying to get by everyday? What do self-love and relationships mean for people who've always been told that they're not enough? How do disabled and queer folks navigate relationships and break-ups?

Maneuvering online dating

According to 19-year-old Rhea, who lives with a physical disability, online dating has been a blessing. For someone with a disability, meeting somebody in real life can often be inaccessible. ''I am now in my first online queer polyamorous relationship with a lovely trans woman who accepts me as I am. I no longer let my internalised ableism get the best of me and try to be as honest as possible with my partner and close friends as well.” 

For a lot of people, online dating can bring with it multiple risks and uncertainties. “But as someone who has to think a dozen times before just stepping out of the house and finds texting a lot more comfortable than talking face to face and struggles to find people who truly understand and accept them as they are, online dating seems like a blessing to me and probably a lot of other queer disabled people," says Rhea. 

Neurodivergent queer folks often promote labels that do not exclude other identities, and that was of utmost importance to them since they  view relationships and friendships differently as compared to other socially normative relationships.

“As disabled queer folks, there are little to no scripts on how to navigate the world with our multiple identities. In such cases, our community becomes the main source of information regarding recognition, acknowledgment and affirmation. It allows us to share our thoughts on ableism with abandon. This is unlike when we share information with abled folks who often make us feel like a burden. They either make excuses for their ableist behaviour or beg us to understand things from their perspective,” shares another disabled folk.

The quest to be seen and heard

But not everyone has had pleasant experiences. Some of us are still navigating relationships. Persons with invisible disabilities find it particularly hard to convince their dates that their disability is valid. The pressure that disabled folks face in a world that expects us to not be deserving of identities such as queerness, is immense.

According to Varnika, "Over years, I have tried to understand what intimacy, vulnerability and relationships mean to me. As a person with an ‘invisible disability’ which often is not so invisible, the idea of dependency is centric to my relationships. For the last six years, I have been in and out of  hospitals, always carrying pillboxes in bags."

Having to deal with social anxiety doesn’t make things any easier for Varnika. "The years I have spent understanding my neurodivergence and disability, I have forgotten to exhibit myself as ‘queer’. My social anxiety makes it hard to socialise, especially when I know my queerness is not able-bodied. And according to my dates my ‘disability is not valid’."

Meanwhile, Garvita lives with a neurological condition called Trigeminal Neuralgia. As a result of this condition, the unnatural compression of the nerve causes chronic pain all over the face. She narrates how this plays out during intimate moments with others, and how she is often thankful for the bare minimum. "While making out, I remember giving instructions to my ex-partner–‘Could you not kiss the left ear right now? It hurts.’ He switches to the right. To my surprise, I thanked him right afterwards. I often go back to this moment. Why did I thank someone who was being mindful? Was it the gratification of the bare minimum criteria of being heard in a relationship? Is it because I am uncomfortable with my illness? Is it the acquired disability which makes me crawl in my skin to utter ‘thanks’ to my able-bodied ex-partner?"

Self-love, navigating ableist relationships, intimacy and accepting the bare minimum even though our bodies deserve the world–these are just some experiences of what all of us go through. It is important to practise radical self-love: love that holds space for agency, grief and vulnerability. 

I have learnt to gently caress my disabled body when I'm sick, or lonely. I wonder if any of my former lovers know the nooks of my disabled body, something that I'm still discovering. I'm going slow, but I have love for myself everyday by my side.

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