Veterans of the atheosphere might recognize Zoroastrianism as the ancient Persian religion whose Mithraic component is the best-attested antecedent for many Christian traditions, such as celebrating the birth of Jesus on 25 December. What I didn’t know is that Zoroastrianism is a living religion, with active fire temples singing the praises of the god Ahura Mazda and a world membership of over 200,000, a surprising fraction of which live in Canada. I can only imagine how they feel about freethinkers using their history as one of many disproofs of Christianity. My guess? Weirdly flattered.
Earlier SpasticFantastic posted a great article calling out Takei on sharing an ableist joke for which he later apologized. The joke centered around a picture of a woman standing from a wheelchair, with the caption “A miracle has occurred in the alcohol isle”. SpasticFantastic did a great takedown of the problems associated with the image including the idea that lots of folk use mobility devices who don’t have complete paralysis, who may only use it occasionally, etc.
I am one of those people. My arthritis on most days manifests as stiffness and soreness, but otherwise doesn’t impact my ability to walk (I say walk and not mobility because I do have hindered mobility always). Other days however, every step sends a shockwave of pain up my body. My hip feels like it is dislocating every time it bends. On those days, at the very least I need a cane to maneuver and at worst I require a wheelchair.
My decision about whether or not to use an accessibility device should depend only on whether or not I need to at that moment and nothing else. Unfortunately, because I am also a fat girl, the decision also has to take into account how much fat shaming I am prepared to handle that day.
I’ve written about my anxieties surrounding my weight, and the way in which fat-shaming overlaps with my sexual assault. My weight has also been intimately involved with my disability. For many years, my condition was ignored on the pretext that it was caused by weight. The fact that symptoms persisted even at my lowest weights never seemed to register. Later when my various illnesses manifested themselves fully, I was left in a difficult position when it comes to managing my weight.
One of the medications I take frequently is a steroid which causes weight gain. My joint damage rules out any intensive forms of exercise, and my Crohn’s rather than my weight dictates what I eat. That said, despite my weight and my disabilities, I have healthy habits. Most of my food is made from scratch and uses little sugar or fat. I eat a healthy diverse diet. But that doesn’t matter ultimately because fat-shaming isn’t actually about health the way those who engage in it claim. It is about feeling superior to someone else and reminding women in particular that their bodies are public property.
Whenever I take steps to accommodate my disability, I find that I have to fight hard to assert my right to do so in the face of public scrutiny and judgement. I hear the snide comments and mocking laughter, I can see the smirks and not-so-hidden looks of disgust when I have to take the elevator one floor up. It doesn’t matter that stairs are painful for me, because obviously I am just being a lazy fat girl. The judgement makes me feel as though I have to perform or rather exaggerate my disability in order to get approval. This might mean highlighting my limp, or making obvious pain faces while rubbing my hands across my lower back. I have to put on an act in order to be granted approval for self-care.
The need to do this is encouraged by a social perception that bodies are public property and that society has the right in that case to grant my disability legitimacy. They, without any information about my pain levels, my daily struggle, get to decide on appearance alone whether or not I am “really disabled”.
Among these people are the folk who believe that my disability must be the result of my weight. The people who think that maybe I wouldn’t be so fat if I just walked instead of using a wheelchair at the grocery store. The idea that I am fat because I cannot walk never seems to enter their minds as a possibility.
And so knowing these judgements are being made about me every time I go out, every decision about whether or not to take advantage of mobility devices is painted with the difficult decision: which disability is more pressing today: my physical one or my mental one. And that is a choice no one should have to make.
In the various circles I have inhabited, I have always, always been the one who is most okay with creepy-crawlies. My friends and family alternately flee from or declare vengeance campaigns on the many-legged urban wildlife they encounter, unless I am around. Then, they notice the demanding smolder in my eyes and let me escort the errant creatures outside, away from insistent shoes.
It’s a cliché, but most of those creatures are not dangerous, only misunderstood.
When I was 18, I was assaulted by a doctor at the university clinic.
I had gone in to get tested for bacterial vaginosis. I was in love and wanted to make sure that I didn’t smell strange if the chance to have sex ever came up. The first doctor at the clinic was very kind. She opted not to use a speculum since I was a virgin, just like every other doctor I had seen for a vaginal issue until that point. I got a call a few weeks later to come in to get my results. The doctor who saw me then was someone I had not seen before. Before she even got to the test results, she began laying into me about my weight. She told me I was morbidly obese, that diabetes must be causing the smell. I was maybe 40 lbs. heavier than my optimal weight for my height. I didn’t know what fat shaming was then, but I tried standing up for myself, letting her know that my cholesterol, blood pressure, and blood sugar levels were all perfect.
The facts didn’t matter to her. She had decided that I didn’t meet her standards of fitness and that the best way to deal with it was to make me feel horrible about myself. Finally, we got to the results: I did not have BV. She asked me why I had come in to check on it, and so I told her. Unexpectedly, she offered to take a look. I was shocked, but I accepted her offer. I was worried and she was a doctor. She had to be professional, right?
As I sat on the table, getting ready for the exam, I looked over at her and asked her not to use the speculum. I was a virgin, I told her, and the other doctor said it wasn’t necessary. Then, I lay down on the cold table. There is vulnerability in that statement. Everything about the doctor’s office is about power. You sit, while the doctor stands above you. You are naked, while they are dressed. You are in pain, afraid, vulnerable, and they hold the answers. Everything about the doctor-patient relationship reinforces that power dynamic. I was vulnerable on that table, exposing my private parts to a doctor who had already wounded me. She had already established her power over me, so I knew that my request was a supplication. It was her power to grant it.
But she didn’t.
As I lay there exposed on the cold table, worried about whether or not I was normal, the doctor violated my request. She shoved an unlubricated speculum inside me and opened it to its widest setting. I can’t even remember what came next. I do remember the pain. I don’t remember walking out of the clinic. I do remember trying to rush back to my dorm; I didn’t want to cry in public. I looked for the room of the person I trusted most on campus but he wasn’t home. In my search for him, I ended up in a room with some people I vaguely knew. I broke down crying. I told them what had happened. I was bleeding, I was sure of it. I felt torn. But I was crying about the fat shaming, had every instance of it having happened flying through my brain.
I was lucky in some ways. The people I barely knew, who comforted me as I cried, said all the right things. They told me what happened wasn’t my fault. That what she had done was wrong and that I was right to be upset. Not everyone is so lucky. But I didn’t want to listen. I wasn’t prepared to face that what happened to me was assault, so instead, I concentrated on the fat shaming. I convinced myself that the assault was no big deal.
Years later, when I lost my virginity, I postponed getting a pap smear for two years. Normally, you are expected and encouraged to get one within a year of becoming sexually active, but I didn’t want to be in that vulnerable position again. Moreover, I became more sensitive to fat shaming. I lost my temper more quickly whenever my weight was mentioned. It tinged all my interactions with doctors. If they brought up my weight, I found it more difficult to trust them or found myself reacting negatively to the rest of the appointment. Every time a doctor failed to listen to me, it felt like another betrayal.
Everything came to a head when my GI made the decision to send me to the weight management clinic. The morning of the appointment, I woke up in a panic. My heart was beating like crazy. I was sweating. I couldn’t focus my mind. I found myself sitting in a corner, rocking back and forth and crying. I couldn’t understand why.
All I could think about was that doctor, her cold hands, the pain of the rough plastic edges as the speculum entered me, the stretching-tearing feeling of it being opened. I couldn’t get the feeling of betrayal, of being violated, out of my mind. Superimposed over those feelings was every instance when a doctor refused to listen to me, all the times when I’d had to be vulnerable with a doctor and had that vulnerability rewarded with pain and betrayal.
When I realized what was going on — a panic attack — I took some anxiety medication and tried to calm myself down. I spent my day curled around myself, trying to hold myself together, as I watched the clock tick down to my appointment. I was terrified. I didn’t know what would happen when I went into the clinic.
Throughout my struggle, I realized that what I had thought was no big deal had actually been affecting my interaction with doctors for years. Suddenly, I was facing the truth: What had happened to me was a big fucking deal. I had been assaulted. By a doctor. By a member of society that I was supposed to be able to trust implicitly. By a person that everyone expected me to trust. Not only had my body been violated, so had my ability to trust that doctors had my best interest at heart. What’s more, the violation brought on the realization that I was very much a member of a vulnerable population: people with disabilities are among some of the most at risk for sexual assault.
Sexual assault is about power. It is about the perpetrator feeling like they have power over the victim. It is not about sex. The inclusion of my genitals in this assault was incidental. The doctor in question wasn’t trying to get any kind of sexual thrill or fulfill a sexual desire. Who I was didn’t matter. She just needed to assert her own power over someone else, and I was the lucky victim.
If you asked her, she probably would have no idea that what she did to me was assault. She might make excuses about how she thought that the use of a speculum was necessary. She might say that she is a doctor and I am not, and that she knew better than I did. It doesn’t matter what she would say. The simple truth is that I made my boundaries clear and she violated them. The fact that she did so without even the courtesy of using lubrication (standard in those types of medical procedures) is just icing on the cake. To her, it didn’t matter if I felt pain. I wasn’t a human being in that moment. I was at her mercy. She was the one in charge and she could do whatever she wanted to me without fear of consequences. To her, what I wanted didn’t matter. And that is what makes it assault.
Assaults by doctors, unless sensationalized and existing on a large scale, rarely get talked about — and are sometimes even trivialized. We as a society put great faith in doctors. We don’t want to face that the people responsible for our health and well-being might be as human as the rest of us. We don’t want to address the fact that power dynamics that are enforced as severely as those between patients and doctors puts everyone at risk of abuse. We especially don’t want to talk about doctor abuse, because in doing so, we risk being lumped in with conspiracy theorists that take things too far and condemn the medical profession altogether. As an advocate of evidence-based medicine, it’s difficult to draw attention to abuses perpetuated by doctors and still defend medicine as a profession.
And yet, drawing attention to this abuse is very important. When someone is hurt so personally by a doctor, it can be easy to lose faith in the entire industry. Being violated by a doctor does more than affect you psychologically, it can also put your health at risk. It can make you afraid to be vulnerable with doctors again. It might mean that you try to protect yourself by keeping things to yourself that the doctor should know about. But more importantly, talking about doctor abuse is essential to help victims know that they didn’t do anything wrong and that they are not alone.
Whenever I discuss what happened to me, someone always feels the need to mention that the doctor might not have been thinking about consent but might have simply decided that using a speculum was necessary. Who was I, as an untrained patient, to decide what equipment the doctor needed or didn’t need, they ask? I have questions of my own. If doctors know better, does that mean they have the right to ignore the boundaries I set for myself? Does that mean that I have no say in what happens to my body? And if so, is my body really mine? What about your body? And where do we draw the line?
TW/CN: descriptions of childhood verbal and physical abuse, sexist and misogynistic, homophobic, fatphobic, ableist language, domestic violence, rape
I grew up in a pretty fucked up environment. It was macho, and sexist. The people in charge of raising me and the other people who came in contact with me, did a number on me. My self-esteem was so bad, I hated myself just for the fact that I was born. I was constantly told I was too fat, too ugly, too stupid to live. That I would never be as smart as my brothers. That I would be so much prettier if I wasn’t so fat. That no man would ever love me. My plans for going to school and having a career were belittled. I wouldn’t do any of that because I had a duty to get married and have kids. That all my plans would go down the drain once a man “dominated me”. I was called a whore and a slut because I refused to clean up after my brothers. I was seven. I was called a lesbian because I preferred to play with the boys and I didn’t like dresses. I was called a whore and a slut because I only hung out with boys. I used to draw a lot and make new dresses for my dolls. I was told it was a waste of time. I wasn’t’ creative. I was being silly. No, girls don’t play video games. Go clean. No, it doesn’t matter that you did it yesterday, it doesn’t matter that your brothers haven’t. Why are you talking back? Then the beatings would come.
I excelled in school. But nobody ever told me they were proud of me. My teachers praised my work but at home all I heard was how I wasn’t good enough.
I grew up into an insecure, scared, unsure teen. A new country would help me, I thought. I can be a new person. No one will know how horrible I am because I won’t let them see what my family saw. But the bullying happened anyway. It bothered me but I was so used to it, it didn’t make much of an impact. No one would ever be as cruel as my family.
I ended up with an abusive boyfriend at 19. Everything I ever heard from my family; I heard from him. It was just confirmation that, yeah, I was too ugly and stupid to live. That my family had been right all along. I didn’t deserve happiness or respect. He abused me, he raped me, he broke down what ever little bit of self-esteem there was left.
(I have two brothers, but I’ll talk about the youngest one since he was the one I was closest to)
My brother grew up in a pretty fucked up environment. It was macho, and sexist. The people in charge of raising him and the other people who came in contact with him, did a number on him. His arrogance was so high, he thought he could get away with anything. He was constantly told how smart and handsome he was. That his older sister wasn’t worth looking up to, but his older brother was. That he had the choice of any woman he wanted. It was OK that he didn’t have any plans for his future. Just make sure you got a wife that cooks for you! You don’t want someone lazy like your sister. He was seven. He’d risked being called a f*g if he showed any emotion. He’d risked being called sissy if he touched his sister’s dolls. Play video games! But make sure your sister doesn’t play. She needs to clean all the windows. No, don’t worry about it being your chore, she’ll do it. Don’t interfere when your sister is getting beat with the belt buckle.
He did well in school. If only your sister was as intelligent.
He grew up into an insecure, scared, unsure teen. A new country would help him, he thought. He can be a new person. He won’t have to hear the horrible way they treat his sister. But the bullying happened anyway. It bothered him. It ate him up; left a huge impact. He wasn’t used to being targeted for being himself. Wasn’t he perfect? No one would ever be as cruel as my family.
So he became cruel, and people left him alone. He became a bully. He ended up being an abusive man. Everything he ever heard from my family towards me, he directed towards others, and I too, became a target of his abuse. And no one said anything. It was just confirmation that, yeah, he could do what he wanted and there would be no consequences. If there were, it was time to change the people around him but not himself. So he continued to hurt with his words and his fists. He had been broken down.
I’ve had to learn how to undo all the damage done by my family and by the abusive ex. It’s been a long and painful process. I’ve had to “re-wire” how my brain works so that the first thing that pops in my head about me is NOT something negative.
I am a good person. I have friends who love and respect me. I deserve respect. I have a child who loves me and needs me at my best. I deserve happiness. I’m not that little girl anymore. I’m an adult and I define who I am.
My brother hasn’t had that chance. Well, he’s had the chances but he lacks the insight to take them. He has friends that care about him, he has children that love him. He has family that loves him. I love him. But he doesn’t see that. He just sees that he must never break down. Must never show his emotions. He must never be anything other than “a man”.