This is about how abled people can be flakes, and my ex-boyfriend is a jerk, yes, but also how my reality is considered a worst-case scenario for some people. It’s a terrifying what-if, a possibility so terrible and with such frightening ramifications that my ex partner had to run to save himself.

The surprising thing: It’s actually been pretty good for my self-confidence. 

Alright. Let’s do this, let’s unpack.

I was fifteen when I received my first love letter. My partner, L, wrote it to me about two weeks into our relationship, after the fourth time we screwed. At the end of it, he used my deadname and compared me to a moth. It is still, probably, the most romantic thing that has ever happened to me or ever will.

He said to me many times that he wanted to be with me forever. I wasn’t sure, and I told him as much. He said that was okay, he would wait for me to reciprocate those feelings.

He texted me first every morning when I was ill (with pneumonia, which I suppose most people assume is a short-term illness, though in my case it was not).

Over and over he begged me to stay with him, told me I was the love of his life and he couldn’t live without me.

He went on and on about his passion, he’d write songs about me. We talked about the band we’d form to sing them, named after the pet names we used for each other.

Yes. I swear.

These were things we were going to do.

And I liked him too! In fact, I said I loved him first. Three or four months in, probably.

I know now I didn’t mean it, but I thought I did at the time, and I believed he meant it when he said it back over and over again.

Things were going pretty well, we had ups and downs but nothing seemed deal-breaking, and L assured me that he would take care of me through my mental health struggles (just as I did for his BPD, OCD, depression, and anxiety).

Nothing would come between us. He loved me.

After about three months with him I was diagnosed with my first labels — iron deficiency anemia, chronic recurrent gastritis, and See A Rheumatologist Disease. I was chronically ill.

I wasn’t frightened, but I was a little bummed at the time because I hadn’t gotten used to the lifestyle changes that were disrupting my amateur gymnastics and figure skating career.

I wanted some support, and I turned to my boyfriend at the time. He asked if there was a cure. I explained what “chronic” meant.

He seemed devastated, then told me not to lose hope. I said I just had to adjust, but would appreciate support. He didn’t understand. I dropped it.

Over the next two months or so of dating, and I mentioned my illness in passing a few times. Each time, L was distant and anxious until one of us changed the subject. We still had conversations about other things, especially mental health, just as we always had. Nothing else seemed wrong.

He started messaging me less and less. One week, I had several doctor’s appointments, and we barely spoke during the whole time. I messaged him one evening, and he never replied. A few weeks went by. All his social medias disappeared. I was really confused. He just left, with no explanation. We’d been together for six months.

This dude branded our future as doomed, as tragedy. I was going to be fine.

But sickness scared this kid so much that our future— and every trace of his fervently professed attraction to me— evaporated before his eyes.

If your gut reaction to this is that I’m saying able-bodied people aren’t capable of love, well, I won’t disagree with you. But that’s not very PC.

Maybe something that goes down a little easier is the idea that abled people are afraid of the reality that I didn’t even struggle to accept.

Not even of living it themselves, but of being near me while I do. It disgusts them.

That knowledge has a certain impact on a disabled person when they’re growing up. It’s really something.

I’m over my ex from freshman year of high school, got over him within two weeks.

But the lingering knowledge of his disgust and fear stuck with me, a critical formative experience. I’ve never looked at abled people quite the same way. They’re… limited. In ways I can’t relate to anymore.

In a weird way, being ghosted really solidified my identity as a disabled person — it was proof of the branding, and forced me to deal with it.

All my interactions with abled people since have been armed with the knowledge that they are terrified of my body.

Was that a little mortifying? Oh, yeah. But it was also pretty empowering when it came down to it.

I have never had to be insecure about an abled person’s intentions. And, although the ghosting was pretty pathetic, I still think it was a good thing.

My status, which sets me apart, also makes me invulnerable. He made himself the jerk, and now I will never have to question my worth. Talk about empowering.