On parking in disabled bays: An open letter to the man who shouted, ‘It’s probably not even her badge.’
An open letter to the man who shouted, ‘It’s probably not
even her badge,’ across a road earlier today –
Firstly:
It is, and if you’d had the nerve to shout such snide
comments before I’d hauled myself
into my car and belted myself in, then I would have shown you the picture of my face on my blue badge, not that it’s any of your business.
Secondly:
Thank you for validating many of the rants, raves, and other
expressions of disappointment that I often voice about people and their general
ignorance towards individuals with invisible illnesses. While I can’t help but
think even now, hours later, that your actions were those of a total pillock, I
have to say that in many ways it’s nice that my cynicism has been proved right –
again. So, there’s that silver lining to take away from this afternoon, if
nothing else.
The full story:
After starting work at home at around 6:45am, I decided that
I could afford a lunchtime stroll into town. By this point in the day my forearms
were hypersensitive (or burning, to put it bluntly) from having rested against
my desk for so long, so I thought some sunshine and a step outside would be the
tonic I needed. Walking wasn’t too bad, despite the occasional pain, and even
though I was more tired than I had been at the start of this jaunt out, it
still felt worth having done it.
When I got back to my car – parked in a disabled bay, with my
blue badge on show – I noticed that I’d attracted an audience. Now, I’ll pause
here and be frank with you, dear reader, because this sort of thing happens a
lot. People observe me, a twenty-something who can walk unaided and assume that
I therefore cannot possibly possess a disability of any kind (oh, how I only
wish). These same people then have a good old stare while I get into my car and
drive off unaided, without a carer in sight (how very dare I?). But sometimes, sometimes these smart-arse know-it-alls
go as far to call me out on not looking disabled.
Today however, I landed in between these two points. The man
didn’t stare at me nor did he call me out, but what he did do was shout, ‘I bet
it’s not even her badge.’ across the road to his friend who, as it turned out,
was also watching me.
I said nothing. I took my badge out of the window, put it in
my door, and drove off. Part-way home, I called my sister and cried. ‘They have
no fucking idea what a hard week it’s been,’ I said. ‘Normally I wouldn’t even
care, but it’s been hard.’
The rant:
I have little to no problem with people making snap
judgements and snarky comments because we each of us have something that pushes
our buttons. What pushes my buttons in this scenario is the unashamed brutality
of the comment that was made despite knowing nothing – and I mean literally
nothing – about me or my condition – which, for anyone in the mood for a quick Google,
is called CRPS, and it’s a pretty vicious beast when it gets going. And yet,
despite the snide comments and the subsequent upset it caused, this happens all
the time – and I’m not even being hyperbolic but rather statistically accurate.
All the goddamn time people size me up and down for having the nerve to claim that
I have a disability while also being upright – as though the two things are
somehow mutually exclusive.
Another element to this that crunches my gears is that the
Charley of yester year – the young girl who was confined to a wheelchair for months
at a time – was also stared at. Now at this age with this new knowledge, it
feels a lot like young Charley was too disabled while current Charley is
presumably not disabled enough? Is that about the size of it?
Now, this isn’t intended to be an attack on this one man in
particular; despite my feistiness while relaying this story to friends, I
absolutely couldn’t take the man and I know it. What this is, in fact, is a
plea from someone on the flipside of the ignorant comments because it’s about
time we all had a sit-down conversation about how bloody hard it is to have a
disability that doesn’t announce itself as soon as we walk in a room. Although,
it should be noted that these invisible conditions also have their perks for
that same reason, and sometimes it is the nicest thing in the world that people
don’t know that you’re not okay. But sometimes – like today, for example – I
want to shout at people just how not okay I am, just so they know, and they can
be reassured that even though I’m walking, it’s hurting like hell to do so…
…and how sad is it that we live in a world like this? Where
people who are suffering ‘invisibly’ need to make their condition open enough
just to bate the ignorance of others?
There’s no clear end to this. I don’t have a sign-off message
for you, dear reader, because my cynicism isn’t quite severe enough for me to
believe that you’re of the same level of ignorance as the pillock that I described
earlier – no, I choose to believe that you reading this are better than that. I
suppose what I would really like is more conversations, about chronic illness, chronic
pain, the way people live their lives around these things – and the ways in
which other people make it even harder without realising (because while it
might irk you that I’ve got a disabled badge, I can promise you that the powers
that be made good and sure I was disabled ten times over before giving me that
badge; hoops were jumped through, metaphorically of course, because I am
disabled after all).
For you, dear reader:
Thanks for reading another rant. You’re patient and kind and
I hope that something in here resonates with you, in one way or another.
For you, the man who shouted his slurs without pause for
thought or consideration:
I’m sorry that I didn’t look disabled today.
People should ub never judge as some people don't need aids to walk some do glad u had a rant and you have better days x
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