“I can’t see too well in the dark, so you are going to have to be my designated guide once we walk into the club,” I told the young woman I’d just met in the queue outside.
She shook her head.
“That was a poor attempt at a pick-up line, mate,” she replied.
If only it were a pick-up line.
I was seven when I developed a visual impairment known as retinitis pigmentosa or RP. It is one of the rarer forms of blindness which can create total vision loss in a short period. It is genetic, but you won’t necessarily pass it to your offspring.
The most challenging aspect is that my disability is not immediately obvious to fully-sighted people. Because of this, people can become skeptical about my ‘condition’.
Come nighttime, I only have 30 per cent of my vision and require assistance travelling in the dark
I was the first to be diagnosed with RP in my family, so navigating this experience is pretty new. The good news is, I still retain most of my day vision and only require reading glasses. But come nighttime, I only have 30 per cent of my vision and require assistance travelling in the dark.
On the upside, there is truly no excuse for going out alone.
As a child, my condition never had much of an impact. Presumably, this is because most outings I was invited to took place in daytime.
My first setback on romantic forays happened at the Year 7 school disco. A fun time – theoretically – for mixing with girls from our sister schools. But things soon took a turn once the lights went out.
For some reason, I’d neglected to account for the fact that I would be stuck in the dark with no parent to help me for the first time. The other kids in my grade either didn't care or didn’t believe my situation. “Stop cutting our grass!” was all they’d say as I approached people whose faces were a complete blur to me. In their defence, we were young, and I would have also done the same.
Eventually, I managed to make my way outside the gymnasium. One of the teaching staff guarded the door. A few other ‘loiterers’ and I were ushered back inside. I spent the next two hours navigating from corner to corner of the gymnasium wall, keeping a low profile.
Of course, things got worse as I got older. And the parties darker.
At 18, my friends were keen to kick off post-HSC celebrations with a night out at Kings Cross. I was nervous about the idea – but not to the same extent as my mum. Media coverage dominantly featured the one-punch death of 18-year-old Daniel Christie at that time. In the eyes of my mother, I was next. I allowed her to drive me and two friends to the Cross to put her at ease. We arrived home at 4 am and I found her waiting up for me.
Going out with a disability card and a group of friends now alleviates her concerns. It can be tricky for a visually impaired person to interact after dark, especially in the dating world. Most get-togethers happen in the evening. So when you meet someone for the first time, looking a little disoriented, you can come across as intoxicated or a potential threat.
It’s a lesson I learned the hard way at a club on Mardi Gras night last year.
Outside the club, assuming I was on some sort of substance, a security guard repeatedly shone a torch in my face and asked how many drinks I’d had. When I showed him my disability card and explained my condition, he apologised. This is a ‘going out’ ritual that would happen more times than I have had hot dinners. These days, I am confident I know almost every bouncer in the Sydney CBD thanks to my eyesight.
When you meet someone for the first time, you can come across as intoxicated or a potential threat
A few years prior, I attended another club with some friends from uni. We were dancing to ‘Mr Brightside’ and ‘Sk8er Boi’. As Murphy’s law would have it, I took a nudge from another patron and fell headfirst into a girl’s chest. After a few seconds of rage and a round of (otherwise justified) slaps, I explained my case. I showed her my disability card, offering to buy her some drinks to apologise. Thankfully, she wasn’t judgmental. She even introduced me to her friends. Over time, and some daylight hour dates, this club patron became my partner.
I’m now 25. In a sense, my condition has made me a little wiser and more laidback as a person. I have learnt to accept it as a unique part of my character. For the most part, I’ve found that people are open-minded. Living with RP has taught me the importance of honesty and trust in relationships, whether it’s in the context of friendships or dating.
To quote Dr Seuss, “Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.” This outlook has allowed me to focus on genuine people in my social circle. I’d say it’s even turned into an unlikely confidence booster – in good, as well as dark times.
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