Kara (Age 29) “You’re walking so slowly. Are you okay?” “What happened to your legs?” “Do you want to hold on to my arm while you walk sweetie?” I have heard all of these questions from total street strangers as I’m walking to my bus after work. They have good intentions but big mouths. I never answer them mostly because I am afraid of what will come out of my mouth and because Dyspraxia is a big scary word for someone who’s never heard it. I don’t like explaining myself to people I know let alone some random person on the street. But when I see the kids that I once was on this page, I feel ready to explain myself. I want them to know that it’s possible to grow up and not let Dyspraxia define them. That while it’s a part of them, it’s not all of them. That they might be different but they are never less. I was officially diagnosed with Dyspraxia at the age of three, but my mom had known something was different long before that. I never crawled and my first steps didn’t happen until 19 months. I showed no interest in steps among other things. It was an occupational therapist who gave the official diagnosis although I have no memory of it. There was also something different about my Dyspraxia. As many of you know, Dyspraxia is often accompanied by other difficulties, but I was “lucky” because it was the only thing. For three years, I didn’t really know that I wasn’t different from other kids. I went to occupational therapy but it was after school and there were other kids in my group. I always loved it because I got to go in the tire swing and that made the best days better. I never felt out of place or weird and I had friends there. But then first grade, gym class and a bus happened. The first time I felt weird is when I was getting on Bus 22 to go home and an older kid shouted that I deserved to miss the bus because I moved so slow. It was a Wednesday in October. I went home, a little sad because someone made fun of me. But then my mom said the big word. “You have Dyspraxia. It means sometimes you walk a little slower.” I didn’t totally understand what it meant at the time, but in my six year old brain I had a comeback for people who told me I moved too slow. So I used it, all of the time. From the day I found out why I moved slower than everyone else, I told everyone who dared question me that I have Dyspraxia. I sang it everywhere in school. And I am ashamed to say this but sometimes as an excuse to not complete work on time or to not do my best work. And sometimes even for people to feel sorry for me. At the age of eight I didn’t realize that it wasn’t all of me and that maybe I should not be doing a daily opera about Dyspraxia. The first time I ever really felt different was in fourth grade gym class. We were playing a chase game called fox and geese. It was essentially tag, which I don’t have to tell you involves running. And if you’re Dyspraxic or love someone who is, I don’t have to tell you that running is not our strong suit. I was the fox that day and as I began chasing my classmates, they all pretended that I was too fast for them. They weren’t great actors. I still hate that game. The second time came in sixth grade when my friend and I were on a field trip somewhere and sharing one of the many popular teen magazines and doing a quiz. We got to an answer in the magazine that had been filled out. The question was “what would your excuse be if you were running late to class?” The answer “Helping Kara Banks, she’s the school cripple.” They say words can’t hurt. They’re wrong. From that point forward, I wanted to be normal. I didn’t want to walk slow or be disorganized or clumsy or any of it. I wanted to be like everyone else. I didn’t want the IEP or the therapy or for my teachers to take me on a special walk when the other kids got to go on a hike and swim in the ponds at the local park. I wanted to be a non-dyspraxic human being. In the eighth grade, my family moved from our small suburb of Youngstown to a small suburb of Cleveland. The dyspraxia and my IEP came with me. In high school, they didn’t know what to do with me. I still moved slow and struggled with math. They put me in basic classes for everything. They didn’t know how to deal with someone who wasn’t gifted in everything. Who wasn’t going to excel without trying. The first time in the new school district that anyone realized that just because I moved slowly didn’t mean my brain was slow was my ninth grade English teacher, Mr. Mulhal. I was in general English and when I was the only A he gave out at midterms and finals, he went to my end of the year IEP meeting and recommended I move up. “Because she’s smarter than this,” he said. That was the first time since fox and geese in fourth grade where I felt something other than dyspraxic. I felt smart and like maybe I could survive and thrive while dealing with the D word. The second time I knew I was going to be okay was my freshman year of college. I started small in a community college and was anxious to meet new people. So I auditioned for the fall play, and was cast. The show was physical and challenged me in ways that I had never been challenged. The show involved clowns (my apologies if anyone is afraid of them) and we had a full week where we trained by a professional clown named Jeff. He was larger than life and pushed all of us. He frequently called me out when I was struggling but never let me give up. The last day of the training, he approached me and we had the discussion that was as I like to call it, my acceptance discussion. When he told me it looked like I wasn’t trying, I cried. And in ten minutes I told him everything that dyspraxia was and made me feel. He hugged me and told me that he was going to keep pushing. And to push myself. He also told me to accept the Dyspraxia as a gift. In that moment I didn’t understand how it would ever be a gift, but I began to accept myself as I was. Yes, as someone with dyspraxia but as someone who is smart and capable. Who can have a good life and be loved. I haven’t seen Jeff since then but I carry his words with me every day. At the end of this story I would like to tell my fellow Dyspraxics and anyone who loves us the following things. There will be days when you want to share your dyspraxia with the world and days when you will want a magic pill to go away. There will be days when people use sympathy or cruel words to address something they cannot understand. There will be frustration and anger and tantrums. But there will also be people who love you and see the best. Remember that yes Dyspraxia is a part of you that cannot be changed but is not all of you. Use it to make an impact but not as an excuse. Because life can be lived and loved with it. If you have questions or are just having a bad dyspraxic day, I am a Facebook message away. Thank you for reading. Let your lights shine. Kara Like
Posted on: Mon, 22 Sep 2014 17:35:38 +0000