DjinniWhispers
"From Awkward Laughs to Inked Paths: Writing Without Limits"
“From Awkward Laughs to Inked Paths: Writing Without Limits”
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Navigating the world as a tourist with invisible disabilities comes with a unique and specific set of challenges. From dealing with rude and abrasive behavior to the internal struggle of accepting help in its many forms, the journey is often rife with obstacles.
As a woman with multiple invisible conditions( see my posts about EDS, MCAS, POTS, and more), I’ve recently experienced firsthand how societal perceptions change when a disability becomes outwardly visible. In this blog post, I will delve into my family’s recent trip to the Seattle Museum of Flight for my son’s birthday. This is about highlighting the stark contrast in how I was treated before and after using a wheelchair.
Traveling as a tourist with invisible disabilities can be so overwhelming. While visible or physical disabilities are often met with immediate understanding and accommodations from others, invisible disabilities—such as chronic pain, fatigue, and sensory issues—are not always acknowledged or even respected. People can be surprisingly rude, abrasive, and unkind when they can’t see the struggle you’re facing. A lot of assumptions are made about people like me, we’re lazy, we’re dramatic, we’re making it up for attention. I have heard it all from people who did not know I was part of that community.
One comedian who will remain unnamed had a whole shtick about allergies or dietary restrictions and how they are minor and said to “take a Benedryl” rather than realizing just how severe conditions like MCAS can be.
For those of us with invisible conditions, simply functioning like everyone else can be a Herculean task. I constantly grapple with my limitations, trying my best to keep up with the world around me. Years of internalized abilism, not just whispering in my ear, but yelling quite loudly. However, I can only sometimes do what others can, and this was especially evident during our recent family trip out to Seattle.
Thanks to his school’s NASA class, my son has developed an obsession with space. He dreams of being an aerospace engineer someday, and I want to encourage him the way I was not.
So, recently, we took a family trip to the Seattle Museum of Flight to celebrate my son’s birthday. He had visited the museum on a school field trip a few months back and was eager to return and see everything he had missed the first time, as well as touch, play with, and explore the exhibits the class didn’t get to do due to the number of students present. As his mother and fellow nerd, I was determined to make sure he had the whole experience.
The day started off wonderfully. My son’s excitement was contagious, and I was thrilled to see him so happy. Watching his face light up with wonder and curiosity reminded me of similar experiences I had as a kid. Ah, nostalgia.
However, after about two and a half hours of walking and standing, I was in excruciating pain. Hobbling through the exhibits, I could barely focus on anything but the throbbing in my hips, knees, ankles, and back. My husband, noticing my discomfort, insisted that we borrow a wheelchair from guest services. We knew they were available from when I called to inquire about the best times for an autistic kid to come. Guest services was so helpful, and informed us of the disability supports they had.
Accepting the wheelchair was hard for me. I’ve often gaslighted myself into believing that I can manage without such aids, telling myself to push through the pain, suck it up, quit whining, you aren’t that bad off, and so much more. The entire concept of using a mobility aid was embarrassing to me.
But this time, I had to face the truth: I was genuinely in pain, and if I didn’t use the wheelchair, my son’s birthday celebration would be cut short. I refuse to be the reason his day was over early. Not again. I had to remind myself, using Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) techniques I learned from therapy, that my pain was valid and that accepting help was necessary. Mobility aids exist for a reason, and did I want to set the example to my son that he should ignore his body’s alarms? No, I need to live the example I want to set for him.
Finally, I got in the wheelchair and told my brain to shut up, today is not about me and my issues. I braced myself for judgment or sneers and dismissal. For people to tell me I wasn’t that disabled, but that didn’t happen. I was so guarded, but then, something unexpected happened—everyone around us changed.
Suddenly, people were kind. They were happy to move out of the way, open doors, and apologize for not seeing me coming. The stark contrast in behavior was both comforting and disheartening. On the one hand, it was comforting because I finally received the help and consideration I needed, but…on the other hand, it was disheartening because it took the visible presence of a wheelchair for people to show kindness and compassion to another person.
Before I used the wheelchair, I was just another person in the crowd, struggling invisibly and often overlooked. But once my disability became visible, the world around me transformed. It was a powerful reminder of the importance of visible accessibility aids and how they can change public perception and treatment. I had heard tales of this before, but, I had never experienced this for myself.
In the end, my family was able to complete our tour of the museum, and I was in significantly less pain than I would have been if I had forced myself to tough it out. While I still experienced a sensory hangover, it lasted only three days instead of a whole week, allowing me to recover more quickly.
This experience made me realize that I am going to have to invest in a collapsible cane that I can keep in my bag. Sadly, people need to see a disability to show others kindness, but that’s the post-social media reality we live in.
The whole “pics or it didn’t happen” is a genuine issue today. Visible aids can make a significant difference in how we are treated and can help us navigate the world with a little more ease.
Navigating tourism with any invisible disabilities is a challenge that requires not just personal resilience but also societal empathy and understanding. My experience at the Seattle Museum of Flight was a stark reminder of the disparity in how people treat those with visible versus invisible disabilities. While it’s disheartening that visibility is often required for compassion, it’s also a call to action for greater awareness and empathy.
I hope that we can work together to cultivate a society where kindness thrives, and consideration is extended to all, regardless of whether a disability is visible. Until then, those of us with invisible conditions must continue to find ways to signal our needs and advocate for ourselves. Perhaps, with each small step, we can help create a world that sees and respects the unseen struggles of others.
If you’ve ever experienced something similar or have thoughts on this topic, I’d love to hear from you in the comments below. Let’s keep the conversation going and work towards a more inclusive and compassionate world.
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