I was so afraid of partners rejecting me for having endometriosis that dating turned into an exercise in exposure therapy: pushing myself to talk about my condition before I was truly ready. I wanted to prove to myself I wasn’t ashamed—and to vet my partners by seeing how well they handled it.
I had my fair share of grotesque comments lobbed at me along the way: “Well, it’s not like I want to put a baby in you.” “I was worried you’d be weak sexually.” “Does this mean we can’t have quickies?” Other times, it felt like men replaced genuine care and thoughtfulness with being overly effusive or empathetic about my endometriosis—like an easy, one-and-done way to signal, “I’m a good guy.” And men are so shit that, for a while, I put anyone who offered me even a modicum of kindness on a pedestal, thinking, “Sure, he doesn’t make time for me—but he’s so kind about my endo! No, he never brings me flowers, but he doesn’t get disappointed when I have a flare!” I used the way a man reacted to my endometriosis as the only barometer of our compatibility. I felt like it was the best I deserved.
I started to realize that by centering endometriosis in my approach to dating, I wasn’t being more discerning in my choice of partner. I was lowering my standards and robbing myself of all the other warm and fuzzy things I wanted in relationships. I realized that the impetus to oh so valiantly share my story had morphed into this sense of obligatory disclosure—this heaviness that clung to every part of my life, an identity that entered the room before me.
None of this happened in a vacuum. The stigma around chronic illness, disability, and romantic partnership is reinforced by our wider culture and society. In TV, movies, literature, and entertainment more broadly, sick and disabled women are drastically underrepresented. In real life, women with disabilities are at a greater risk of experiencing intimate partner violence and psychological abuse.
I often think about Padma Lakshmi, who wrote in the forward of her memoir, Love, Loss, and What We Ate, that her then husband, Salman Rushdie, called her a “bad investment” because she lives with endometriosis and couldn’t always have sex in the way he wanted to. Bile rose in the back of my throat when I first read that, and fear. Was I going to be seen as a bad investment too?
That’s what dating with a chronic illness can do to you—it makes you feel like you’re damaged goods. Therefore, I got “endometriosis goggles” when anyone loved me for “who I was” (a.k.a. someone with a long-term health condition)—I saw them as this rarified commodity because of their tolerance for the parts of me that made me feel insecure.
But whether it’s endometriosis or some other trauma or hardship, these aren’t things to tolerate. They’re things to embrace—parts of you that make you strong and resilient, and parts of you that are just that: parts, with a lot of other parts that are just as important and in need of care. And there are just basic things—namely, respect, boundaries, and kindness—that everyone should expect from a partner or a date.
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