A lot of what I read under the heading of “dating and disability” doesn’t adequately address the complexities of the endeavor.

Articles with terrible titles like “What It’s Like to Date Someone in a Wheelchair” often elevate the nondisabled perspective. They focus on a basic approach for people who suddenly freak out when attracted to a wheelchair-using coworker and worry about encountering some Matrix-y otherworld if they go out for a drink. The illustrations are generally horrible stock photos of someone who clearly does not have a disability sitting in an antiquated wheelchair staring off into the distance at a beach.

There are also the opinion pieces that dissect the question of how you should present yourself on dating platforms when you have a disability: “Do you show your chair, or do you let your date be surprised?” Are we really still discussing this?

We’re getting screwed when it comes to addressing the more nuanced topics of dating.

Where’s the article on how to respond to the sad excuses for messages that only we disabled folk are lucky enough to get from potential dates? Here are a few of my all too real favorites, along with the responses I wish I had sent:

“So, I guess dating you comes with some pretty sweet parking!” Good one, dweeboid.
“Do you believe in healing? I’d like to introduce you to my friend. He’s, like, a spiritual guru. Maybe he could help you.” Sure. And too bad I don’t have a friend who is a plastic surgeon because clearly, you’re an assface.

“What happened to you?” [I tell them.] “Oh, I’m so sorry for you.” Not as sorry as I’d be after a date with you. Thanks for sparing me that.

Where are the articles that address how disability can be an asset in dating? First, you automatically weed out any suitors who aren’t comfortable with human vulnerability and authenticity. Second, you have deep and meaningful life events to discuss right off the bat. And third, options for dates are immediately narrowed, so you don’t waste your time going through lists of inaccessible activities that neither of you was interested in anyway. For that, I say, “Thank you, wheelchair.”

But there is one topic I feel is woefully under-addressed: accepting care.

Now, I’m not talking about necessary post-injury routine care like bowels and bathing. That’s certainly important, and there are amazing partners who provide that sort of assistance to many in our community. But sometimes, it feels like that’s where the conversation on “care” stops, and we forget about the myriad of types of care that show up in our lives regardless of our bowel functionality.

From sitting with someone while they make a difficult phone call to giving a massage or washing a car, these are things that people want to do for each other, regardless of disability status.

You’d think I would be able to accept care, being that I have had no choice but to get it so much. After all, I’ve had 19 years of paraplegia-related surgeries, hospital visits, therapy appointments, alternative wellness visits, and caregivers spanning doctors, nurses, PTs, OTs, social workers and family members.

Yet, here’s what I recently realized: My care has predominantly been compulsory and transactional. When I’m sitting in the waiting room of the outpatient clinic at the rehab hospital, it is straightforward and easy for me to accept that I am a human being who requires care. But in the realm of dating, relationships and love? Not so much.

Over the past two decades, I’ve conditioned myself to feel like I only need or deserve care as far as I can pay for it. Or as far as it is expected to be given. Or as far as it relates to my disability. Beyond that, the idea that someone would actually want to care for me — that they would think, act and exist with my well-being as one of their priorities — often scares the shit out of me.

I blame hyper-individualist American values that have seeped into my psyche, along with the societal messages around disability — that we are better, more acceptable or more desirable if we constantly push for greater independence, and that the less care we need, the stronger and more valuable we are. We can probably thank the for-profit health care system for that, too.

Because of that ethos, I have become care-receiving-challenged.

Recently I started dating a guy who, by his very nature, is a caregiver. Awesome, right?! He wants to do all these fantastic things for me, from cuddling and celebrating my accomplishments, to bumping me over curbs or cleaning my bathtub. What a winner. And he accepts my care, too, from head massages, to giving him input on cologne choices, to talking him through challenging friendship dynamics.

But I get stymied by the push-and-pull of care politics. I get frustrated when he helps “too much.” I feel the need to assert my right to ask for help rather than accept it when he offers it or just does it, as though I need to maintain some measure of control through the act of the request.

In my opinion, figuring out the logistics of sex amid paralyzed parts or getting accessible tickets for a concert date are the easy part of dating. The most challenging part — regardless of disability — is determining the framework of care for another person: how and when to give it, request it, offer it, expect it, need it. It’s hard to figure out the extent to which you can expect someone to want to care for you, or that you can accept it while not getting pegged as “needy” or “clingy,” or having the relationship characterized as something other than a romantic partnership. It goes far beyond disability, but disability is one factor in it.

There is no straightforward answer or approach to the politics of care. It requires communication and honesty about what each human being can do, what they need, what makes them feel safe and respected and whole, and how much they’re comfortable giving of themselves.

We must remember that we people with disabilities are not the only ones who move through the world needing care. Some of our vulnerabilities might be slightly more obvious thanks to the wheeling pics on our dating profiles. But every person out there is porous and vulnerable, with injuries, insecurities, feelings and lots of baggage. Everyone has flesh, blood and spirit that need to be tended. Frankly, on every dating app profile page, there should be a little flashing GIF that says, “Note: This human requires care.”

As we put ourselves out there, we must do so with the belief that we deserve the care of another, regardless of disability. We must believe that people want to care for us in all the many ways humans do … and we don’t owe them a tip at the end of the meal.