My name is Brittany, and I am a woman with an invisible disability.
Well, not entirely invisible: I have a one and a half foot scar down my back where I was cut open twelve years ago. It’s not as visible as it used to be, but it’s certainly still there. When you’re open for six hours, having your spine cranked from an S-curve to a mostly-straight line with the medical equivalent of a tire jack, the mark tends to stay.
I don’t use a wheelchair, because I can walk. I can stand, and sit, and exercise, and crouch. But as often happens with a full spinal fusion, it hurts to do any of those things for too long, and I often can’t do them at all. I use the ADA line at the airport to expedite screenings, since I cannot stand still for long while holding my bags without pain, and bending down to remove my shoes takes time and involves a risk of hurting myself by throwing out a muscle or pinching a nerve.
I’ve had a series of bad encounters with the TSA over the years. Generally, it’s one or two agents who don’t know how to handle passengers with disabilities; irritating, embarrassing, or disconcerting, but generally small incidents. Yesterday, however, I had the most insulting, widespread, and unprofessional encounter with the TSA that I’ve had to date.