Diapers, dating & disappointment

I have a fear, buried deep inside me. That someday, someone will find me attractive. Someone would want to touch me, make love to me, roll her hand over my disabled body. Not turned off by the proportions of my body or the way it lies on the bed, hunched, like it is walking through a dream.


What should I tell her before making love to her? Should I tell her that I wear a

diaper

? How would I tell her that? Should I start with my history of diseases? I have to tell her about my scoliosis. And my infections. My urinary tract infections. Infections which recur with growing frequency these days. We have to use a

condom

. ‘Here, take E COLI. And thanks for making love to me.’ I can’t do that to her. Not after knowing that she likes my body.

Illustratiion by: Chand Crowe

The thought of sex makes me scared. I haven’t done that for almost a decade. Not since I became disabled. The first few years were just about coping with disability. How to go out without your bladder getting the best of you. Or worse still, when you lose control over your shit, while walking outside, in a mall. You run towards the bathroom, but it’s already too late. The film is about to start. My friends are waiting. There is no way I can watch the film now. My nerves are aching. There is a

spasm

which makes it hard for me to use my right leg. ‘Sorry, I had some urgent work. Had to rush out’. No more movie plans for me. Not before I learn how to empty my bowels before I step out of the house. And wear a diaper just in case my bowel betrays me. Adult diaper, my best friend.

Adult diaper, the word causes a flutter in the medical store. They pile up in my wastebasket every week till I pack them in a black garbage bag and deliver them personally to the bin. A secret document of my lived life, delivered without anyone noticing. I was scared about sharing this secret even with friends. Word might get out and ruin whatever chances I had of going out on a date. Not that wearing a diaper was the only

deal breaker

.

What does it mean to love a disabled person? Does it mean you empathise with your lover? Maybe it’s about passion. And understanding. But can you understand someone without empathising with them? ‘I love you. I am sorry but I don’t want to be a burden on you.’ My friend says disabled people can be negative. I agree. We are so negative that sometimes the able-bodied mind never reaches us. The distance is too far on a number line.

Recently, a cab driver asked me if I am married. I said no. He said ‘Oh! You have money, you must be getting laid anyhow.’

I didn’t tell him that my only date through an online dating site was with a disabled girl who only wanted to talk about our disability. Plus, getting sex was not a problem for her. ‘Men are bastards, they don’t care if you are disabled, they just want to do it’. I wasn’t envious anymore.

There are times when I am full of self-hatred for my body. I don’t have a dressing table at home. It makes me feel better about myself. I keep telling myself that I am losing weight. But T-shirts don’t lie. I was in the hospital for a month around January and by March all of my T-shirts were tight. I thought you were supposed to lose weight when you fall ill. Everyone betrays me.

Being fat is the least of your problems when you are wearing a diaper and have urinary tract infections all the time. You pee so much that you forget male genitalia has any other purpose. It’s when you get better that your desire reawakens. But then everyone makes you look at the mirror. You are still fat and disabled. You become sad. And then depressed. Spells of decent physical health occupied by bad mental health. Till it becomes a self-repeating cycle.

In my defense, I would like to say I love myself. But probably that is going too far. The first time I proposed to a girl as a 20-year-old, she told me she liked me but didn’t love me. I think I agree with her. I like myself.

The thought of not being loved doesn’t haunt me anymore. It bothers my romantic heart sometimes. But there are so many people who can’t find love. So I go out, have fun with friends, read books, write poetry and enjoy long platonic conversations.

It’s just a few minutes every day. Probably around midnight. When my body hurts, lamenting everything that eludes it. Every touch. Every sensation. And only then it is reminded of its incompleteness. Incomplete. Yearning. Longing. It’s like a melancholic song that never ends.

The writer is a research scholar working on disability and gender.