“If they can’t fix it in 10 seconds, then don’t point it out.” – My mom.
Simple. Easy. Or so I thought. Ever since I was diagnosed with acute chronic angle closure glaucoma two years ago, this rule has resurrected itself in my life.
When I was still wearing tutus and Hello Kitty backpacks, this rule was a work in progress. The filter between my brain and mouth looked like swiss cheese—the holes letting brutally honest opinions come out. Over the years, I’ve filled the gaps. But I’ve noticed this isn’t commonplace.
The summer before my junior year of high school, I was rushed into emergency surgery at the University of Virginia. An Ahmed glaucoma valve was inserted inside the sclera of my upper right eye. Thereafter, I had two additional laser procedures. Not to mention all the eyedrops my eye was subjected to the sting of morning and night. All this trauma to my eye took its toll. By the end of my senior year, my eye looked like a cherry tomato.
Unbeknownst to most, I really struggled with my diagnosis and subsequent appearance. I spent my quarantine committing my family member’s faces to memory on the offside chance I’d never be able to see them again. I secretly walked the halls of my house—eyes closed—practicing for when I’d have to traverse them in the dark. I looked up how to learn braille and savored the sensation of reading while I still could. My present became the future.
Living somewhere else in your mind is exhausting. It’s isolating and invisible. No one knows what kind of weight you’re carrying. No one knows that sometimes it gets too heavy to move. No one knows you need help.
An invisible ailment is arguably the worst kind, and I suffer from two: glaucoma and anxiety. A lack of context makes it harder to just exist. What others can see, they pick and point out because they can. We’re visually oriented creatures—gathering information best by what we see. Therefore, it’s natural to notice details like curly hair and blue eyes. Also, missing arms, underbites, and fire-engine-red eyes.
But without context, these observations feel unnecessary and cruel to whoever bears them. It’s important to understand that when an absent limb or hairy mole is missing its footnotes, others feel an urge to write them one. In order to do so, a certain uncomfortable drafting process is employed. It’s always abrupt and startling. Usually it begins with a mistimed accusation like: do you have allergies because your eye is so red? To which I’m always too stunned to reply. A wrench has been thrown in my cruise control. And it always feels so wrong. Here is this thing—in this case, my eyeball—that holds the weight of all my dread. My bowling ball is their feather. What keeps me up at night is their passing observation. Without proper context, my glaucoma is just seasonal allergies.
So the next time you see someone with a cleft palate or a gap in their teeth, read the rest of their story and let it fill in the footnote. Put your pen away. It’s not our job to write other people’s stories for them. It’s our job to let them tell it.