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The lie of privacy rant

dont-call-me-handicapable:

My mother would gossip to the other parents about my stomach pains, the rashes, my bowel movements and bed wetting when i was a child.

I begged her to not share these things but she would insist maybe one of those catty women would know a way to help.

My grandmother laments my strict diet and shelves of medication to her bible group and I simmer when they make jokes at dinners.

My father complains about the medical bills to his buddies, I hear him on the phone telling a man I’ve never met about the anxiety attacks I have always hidden from my friends.

My sister explains to the people ar the grocery store why I walk so slowly, why I limp, why my breathing is so loud even when i ask her to stop.

My grandfather asks people to pray for my crooked spine, my failing lungs, the way my joints have begun to give up.

They do it because they need to explain why I’m not normal, they do it to vent about the burden.

They say it’s public information since anyone could see.

But that woman in the store didn’t need to know about my bowel movement when i was 13 and burning red with embarrassment.

The church ladies didn’t need to know the amount of pills i take in a day.

I deserved an increment of privacy.

But if you’re disabled in any way you are seen as a small child. Private information is nonexistent, they speak like you can’t hear them, like it doesn’t matter how embarrassed you may be.

And that sucks.