Author:
Sarah Patnode
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Date Posted: 00:05:52 01/16/08 Wed
To my six year old mind I only knew that I was something called a dyslexic and it meant I had a problem with numbers and letters. I understood what was being asked of me, but when I wrote my numbers and letters down they didn’t look like everyone else’s. I was sure, if I tried very hard and was very careful I could write them too. Reading was a magical thing those around me could do yet I could not. Just how did they do that? I wanted to be able to do that too. That the letters made sounds I could get if I tried really, really hard. But by the next day I couldn’t remember how I had done it the day before. Each day was starting all over again. That it took me more time to do my work was kind of discouraging, but everyone was sure that I would do, and be, just fine. It’s 36 years later and I am still working on being just fine.
I am 42. Knowing I was LD did not prevent psychological trauma that is the common by-product of the condition. The knowledge does not lessen my resentment of the additional time and energy needed for me to function effectively in work, at home, and in school. It does not reduce my social and performance anxieties. Knowing is not coping.
The human psyche is amazing; it can know a thing and still deny it: its existence; the severity; the effects on all who are touched by it. Denial was a buffer. It is not readily acceptable to be disabled, to be different, or to be difficult. A buffer for my family, at times my parents feel somehow at ‘fault’ for the hardships and problems I have endured.
For three decades I have suffered under the assumption I was psychologically disturbed and/or lacking in character. I attributed my disruptive-ness and impulsiveness to unexplained emotional problems, not fully understanding that I learn through verbal interaction and I think out loud. I am often perceived as easily frustrated. I am not. Frustration is the result of the accumulation difficult encounters concluding in unsatisfactory outcomes. This is an apt description of my daily life. It is around the tenth time I misspell the word ‘the’ that I really start to become miffed. At twentieth or thirtieth time, beware pencils may fly. Chronic frustration became rage
The rage within me is steeped in pain, in confusion, in shame. My rage is impotent. It floats with in my psyche without direction. There is no one evil foe on whom to focus. My brain just works that way it works. No one ‘did’ anything to harm me. To lash out at an honestly well meaning person is not only self-defeating, but also cruel. Arguing with the arrogantly ignorant is futile.
The frustration seems unending and overwhelming. I was not aware of the exceptional self-discipline I employ daily just to function. Misspelling again, getting things out of order again, trying to be quiet again, trying harder and enduring frustration requires much of my attention. I do not mean to be disruptive; denial hides my embarrassment. I do not mean to take more time to do things; denial hides my shame. I do not mean to be disorganized; denial hides my confusion.
Denial is also a buffer for society, because acknowledgment requires accommodation. I know I do not physically appear to have a problem. Humans have a hard time believing what they cannot see. Many humans refuse to believe things they can see.
I know that my disability is as much a result of time in history and placement upon the planet, as an inherent difference in my brain function. In a different century, or even now in a different country or language, my learning differences would be irrelevant. But I live now, in this place, and to continue to deny them only begets further self-destruction. We live with a myth: if you only work/try hard enough, you can do or be anything you want to do or be. Yet by limiting how people can do things, we limit what they can do. And any acknowledgment of limitation is unacceptable to us. Things that are not understood, and perceived as negative, are simply dismissed as moral deficiencies. It is considerably easier to dismiss the LD as lazy, overly emotional, and/or lacking self-discipline, therefore deserving of failure, than to refute this myth.
An irony of LD is as hurt and angry as I am, I need to try and please people. If I try hard enough…if I’m good enough…I will give you anything…I will be anything, please don’t reject me. Please don’t hurt me anymore. I try too hard. I am too intense. I give too much. I over compensate. Under this scheme my relationships are unbalanced. I try to fit in, in many ways I just don’t. Fitting in is not a privilege I am allowed.
I am striving for acceptance. Accepting the world is the way is it, not as I want it to be. No matter how many times I spell ‘the’ – ‘het,’ no one else may know what I mean. Acceptance of my grief -- for time lost, hurt I have endured, hurt I have caused. I can not always expect others to understand or empathize, some will, some will not. Also admitting I am not always understanding or empathetic myself. Realizing that there is a continuum of human abilities, some I have some I do not. I have found that perfection is an opinion, and usually not a very good one.
My fight is now with changing my own perception of what being LD is and who I have become because if it. Acceptance is for me realizing the full pain and shame associated with my Learning Disability, letting them surface and pass, knowing that these feeling are not who I am. I refuse to be ashamed any longer. I am not defective, slothful, or insane. With experience I have become deeply empathetic and insightful. I have awareness, maturity, creativity, humor, and intellect. I am motivated and tenacious. I have had to go slowly in my life, but I will not be stopped.
Go slowly, make your own timeline, but Do No Be Stopped
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