This post was inspired by the Everyday Sexism project which asks women to list their experience of sexism.
It starts when you’re a toddler, when they call you a boy because of your red boilersuit and basin haircut. When you’re a child they look down your top to check. A disabled friend is told to sit and look pretty but you’re too busy rolling around in the sandpit. When you’re a teenager they make up songs about your flat chest and try to set you up with the only other disabled kid at school.
At uni something changes. Your dad calls you pretty. You find a new confidence behind a mask of alcohol, but there’s an intake of breath whenever they see your crutches for the first time. You have a boyfriend: he’s not very nice, but it’s better than nothing. You’ve joined the club. You are so grateful for the attention that you don’t ask questions.
You have your #MeToo moments. Your colleague wears shorts ‘just in case.’ You receive unwanted attention and ‘friends’ who abuse your vulnerability, but because of your disability, you possess a complete lack of self respect. You never say, ‘No, I deserve better.’
When you find a good man to share children with, you are forever amazed that he chose you. Then cancer: your body betrays you: there’s no power in its scars or desire in its exhaustion.
Because you’re a girl it’s always about weight. Your teenage friend craved a concave stomach. They said you needed to be slim once you got a man, so you ate cereal for lunch in your 20s, a size ten at most. You recoil now in horror when someone calls your daughter slim enough for a bikini. She’s six. ‘At least you don’t have boys,’ people sigh sympathetically.
Despite their doubts, your family fights your corner and encourages your ambition. They worry you won’t pass your driving test, get married, have children. But you do. You make it.
I’m taking a break from blogging over August to focus on my poetry. Please stay tuned for future updates.
These Boobs Were Made For Talking 