The meaning of the word stigma is powerful. I looked up the dictionary definition, and
here's what I got:
1. a mark of disgrace or infamy; a stain or reproach,
as on one's reputation.
2. Medicine/Medical. a mental or physical mark that is characteristic
of a defect or disease:
Look at those words: "defective, diseased, stained,
disgraced." These definitions make
me cringe. The opposite of these
meanings are constantly promoted in various forms of media. Advertising promotes perfection, including
hiding any imperfections, or flaws, and how to look young forever. I
think it's easy to understand that anyone with a problem might worry about how
they'll be treated if they are "found out." No one wants to be perceived as different, or
"weird." I don't think people
always intend for others to feel
stigmatized, but I do think that people don't put themselves in other
people's shoes enough. I believe that
many are so uncomfortable with problems, they want to keep their distance. This distance makes the ones with the
problems feel separate, bad, stigmatized.
It might seem strange, but our cat Maisy makes me think
about stigma. She has been a part of our
family for about five months now, and is strong and healthy. She is a purring machine, adorable, loving
and fun. A striking Tortie cat, she has
now doubled her once thin frame, and is getting acquainted with having a body. I watch as she moves, reminding me of a baby
or toddler, rolling over and back again on the floor. I wonder what she experienced in her stray
life, and how it affected her to be so malnourished. She alternates between
chasing her tail and cleaning it, sometimes staring at a wall. She still hates jumping gates (we have a few
to keep Cosmo, our dog out of some areas).
Despite numerous times coaxing her, she remains fearful of going through
the pet door in the basement door. Maisy
somehow is never around when the front door opens, and runs away in fear when
the back door opens. I wonder if any of
this is why she was a stray in the first place.
I know cats, and people, can be quirky. But I have a hunch if Maisy was a human,
she'd have some kind of diagnosis. If a
diagnosis is treated successfully, people can lead fairly normal lives. I also know that lots of people have
undiagnosed or misdiagnosed problems.
Suppose there is a diagnosis, but treatment isn't available, or not
completely successful? If Maisy was one of those people, what would her
life be like? Would people think she
looks fine/normal, but get uncomfortable interacting with her, and judge her? People with problems experience interactions
that make them feel bad about themselves.
And there doesn't have to be a conversation; I think it's the vibe of
discomfort, the look on someone's face that can sting the most. Disorders, whether invisible or not, are generally
not contagious, but I think there's a sense of "that could be me," or
"I'm glad that's not me."
Sadly, this means people keep their distance, and those with disorders
feel disconnected, isolated.
On the other side of "looking fine," I think
people with invisible disorders worry about misperceptions. Dizziness from a vestibular disorder may make
someone look drunk, or nauseous. Balance
Disorders, which involve more than the vestibular system (inner ear), can also
create embarrassing situations. In
either case, someone may be holding on to something, or leaning against a
wall. They might be using so much energy
to function that having a conversation is limited - it takes too much
energy. Something as simple as sitting
with people in a room may be a lot of work.
Walking unassisted may take effort, or dealing with elevators or
escalators, just to name a few possibilities.
I've been in situations where I felt awkward, felt like I needed to be
careful, put effort into compensating so that nothing appeared to be
wrong. If someone's worried about how
other people will react to their behavior, and they're not confident they can
handle various pieces of a situation, they may just avoid doing things
altogether. Obviously this is very
isolating, which feels lousy.
I'm not happy that I have invisible disorders; sometimes
I feel as if I'm now part of an odd sort of club. In this club, there are some people who are
too consumed with whatever they're dealing with to think much about
others. I've been there and I understand
that. Whether they have the energy to extend
themselves to others or not, most members of this club are fairly consistently
compassionate towards others. Unfortunately,
it seems to be human nature that unless you experience something, it's hard to
really know how something feels. Even if
I don't have the same problem as someone else, I understand health
struggles. But I wonder if people don't
stop and think enough, use their imaginations.
Because of my invisible disorders, I probably spend more time than
average not doing something. Sitting and
eating without reading, listening to whatever, or watching something on a screen. Granted, I'd like to be able to do some of or
more of those things. But I wonder how
often people just sit and reflect. I
could say it would be a good thing if
everyone had a close relationship with someone who has an invisible challenge,
but the truth is, most people probably do.
They just don't know that they do.
Of course, the club isn't real, it's rather my sense of
how people are divided. You don't have
to have a problem, be a part of this imagined club of mine, to expose yourself
to experiences so that you know what it's like on the "other side." How
hard is it, really, to stop and think, take in a person, move past the moment
of noticing whatever makes you uncomfortable?
Is it really so difficult to be open to learning from whomever you encounter,
just as you would from whatever experiences you have? Some people may be rolling their eyes, and
saying "that sounds so cliche."
That I'm on a "soapbox" talking about how knowing people coping
with problems can make you a better person.
I'd say to them that I don't care if they're rolling their eyes, if
they're also thinking a bit more, just for a moment, about how they treat other
people. The girls and I have all
commented that Maisy is lucky she found us, lucky she found a family that
doesn't mind the fact that she's different.
And I wonder how many families, how many people are accepting of
different, of those who don't fit in perfectly.
