For the last year and a half, I've been working on being more confident in myself. It's quite easy to do when I'm surrounded by the same people everyday. My classmates. My professors. My friends and family. These people lift me up, they see me for my passion, my love of helping, my intelligence, my heart. I often forget that the other people in this world are not like the people that I let in my little bubble. When I walk into Walmart, I keep my eyes fixed on the ground. I don't look around at people's faces. I'm probably that "cold hearted lady" that never says hello to you unless you say hello first. It's nothing against you, it's just people have had a way of putting me down without even knowing it. Today, I was reminded of this.
I love art. All kinds of art. So today Justin and I decided to go to Theatresquared. It's a live theater here in Fayetteville. I was beyond excited to see Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. I knew this play would be wonderful, I mean, how could it not be?! We got our tickets and headed to the restroom before the play started. Afterward, I met Justin in the hallway. He looked as if he was uncomfortable about something. When I asked him what was up, he looked around to make sure nobody heard him. Apparently there was a gentleman who had been watching me walk to the restroom. While Justin was waiting in line to use the restroom, the man asked him "Why does she limp?"
When I heard this little story from Justin, I was trying to reach into my "counselor" self to have empathy on his poorly filtered question; however, I am human and got upset by this. I kept thinking "what if this was a first date? How embarrassing would that have been?!" and "since when is it okay to ask a total stranger what's the matter with his friend?"
I try not to speak for everybody who has a disability. I know that for each person there is a different circumstance, a different attitude, a different feeling. I am only speaking for the ones of us that have accepted the lifestyle, the ones who want to educate the general public, and the ones who fight against discrimination. Most of us appreciate if you just ask politely. You are not pointing out anything that we don't already know. Yeah, I have a limpy leg and crazy arm... that's nothing new. It's not like I have toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe. Yeah, I'm different and you know what...? So are you :)
It has taken me a long time to come to terms with my disability. Some days I'm on top of the world. Other days I'm dragging my limpy leg two steps backwards. It's not easy. Everyday is a struggle, everyday a new worry, everyday a new obstacle, everyday I wake up to find that I'm still me. There are times when I make jokes about my disability. If you don't laugh, you'll cry. That is my mom and I's motto for life.
Like I was telling Justin earlier today, disability does not discriminate. It affects all ages, races, abilities, sex, etc. If you see someone who is struggling, go see if he needs help. If you are wanting to know what happened to an individual, ask in a kind and caring manner to the person who possesses the disability. The average population, they like to associate what a person with a disability has with something that they can firmly grasp in their own life. For example, "Oh, I had to get a knee replacement when I was 65. I totally understand your struggle." For many people with disabilities, they find this offensive. To the disabled community, the average person does not know what it is like to wake up day after day with a body fighting it's owner. To say that one totally understands what it is like... it's like the individual is putting himself on the same playing field as the disabled community.We do not want sympathy. We just want to be recognized as being human.
I want to encourage ya'll to spend some time with an individual who has a disability. Ask them how they live day to day, what they do differently than the average person, how does the general public make them feel about themselves, and what do they enjoy doing during their free time. You may be surprised by their answers :)
Sunday, December 4, 2016
Sunday, July 3, 2016
Learning to get back up
Before my strokes, I was involved in T-Ball, ballet, tap, clogging and many other physical activities. I remember never thinking much of it. Every kid my age was involved in some kind of activity. It would be weird to meet a seven year old who wasn't in dance, a sport, or music lessons of some sort. At this age, children were learning to tie their shoes (if they hadn't mastered that already), riding a bike without training wheels, and how to shoot a basketball. I took my abilities for granted. After surviving three strokes, rounds of chemotherapy, physical and occupational therapy, it dawned on me that I would never be quite as good at physical activities as I was before my brain became so messed up. I tried to play softball the following year but I became too aggitated and would cry everytime that I couldn't do something right. So I quit. I never went back to dance because I was having trouble with keeping my balance and my foot wouldn't move near as fast as it had before. Heck, I was just doing good to walk, talk and write. I had to start completely over when it came to my physical being. I would never learn how to ride a bicycle, or how to tie my shoes or shoot a basketball quite like the rest of my peers did.
Many people do not know just how green with envy I am of people who have the ability to dance. I plaster a smile on my face when I hear about peoples children taking jazz, tap and ballet. I tell them that I used to be a dancer too... not that I can't dance now but I tend to make a fool out of myself on purpose so that at least I can laugh at myself and maybe it won't hurt so bad if someone laughed at me too. This was a technique I learned early on in life from my mother. We would often go into walmart and an older woman would see me and say "Oh you poor thing..." My mother would quickly turn around and say"Poor thing?? She's fine!" and then we go laughing at how I couldn't let go of the shopping cart or how I would say "I'd like for him to hold my bad hand. I'd never let him go AND I could blame it on my stupid hand!" This technique was known as "If you don't laugh, you'll cry." Little did I know that this phrase would be burned into my mind and become quite handy as I entered into the tourchous world known as "high school."
Watching people "Ohhing and awwing" over their children's ability to dance and play sports was something that I always longed for. Sure, I could sing, read, do crafts and I was fascinated by sciences but, for me, that wasn't something that I was necessarily proud of. I choose these activities because I couldn't do what I really wanted to do and I didn't want to be mad at myself or God so I didn't try to do those physical activities that I longed to be apart of. I wanted to be happy with the abilities I had developed and forget the skills and achievements that were stolen from me at such an early age.
Some of you know, I have recently taken up an interest in ice skating. Last week, I ordered myself some ice skates and started looking up ways to improve my balance on the ice. I was beyond excited when I returned to the Jone's Center for the public session. I was ready to see how these skates would feel and how they would glide. Of course, I didn't realize that there was such a big difference in hockey and figure skates. "What is this jagged edge on the toe for?" I thought when I got to looking at my skates. I would quickly learn that the jagged edge was for making me fall flat on my butt/knees/ and/or head. This jagged edge was NOT my friend. I took a moment to look around at all the children, adolescents, and adults who were clearly way better at this than myself. Then I saw her. She looked like a ballerina on the ice. She skated frontward, backward, did a triple axel, and with such ease. She made it look easy. I was in awe. Every hand gesture was fluid and precise. Every movement her legs made had a purpose. I couldn't help but think "That could've been me if this hadn't happened! Ugh!" As I wobbled and strained my back in order to keep my balance, I would look at the clock. 3:00pm. I decided that I was going to stay another hour. I was going to make this work. And that's when I went down for the third time. It happened so quickly that I didn't have time to grab the wall but yet, for my eyes, it was like it was in slow motion. And there I was. Laying on the ice. When I got up, I looked like I just came from Winter Wonder Land as I had shaving of ice all over my black yoga pants and the back of my jacket.
As I walked to my car, sulking over my less than successful day, I couldn't help but think of the many goals I had set out for myself. I did not achieve what I wanted to achieve. I wanted to be be able to say that I didn't fall down. That I was half way graceful. That I was able to help someone else up off the ice. Then as I was getting ready for a hot bath, filled with epsom salts and lavender bubbles, a very still voice whispered in my ear. "You learned to get back up like you have many times before. You don't give yourself enough credit. You did that all by yourself and with so many more physical obstacles than the others."
I may never be able to be like that girl who was a ballerina on the ice, who moved with such grace, but I bet that she has had her own obstacles to overcome as well. So tomorrow when I wake up with my bruised right hip, my banged up knee and all my muscels in my stomache are sore from helping me balance, I'm going to try to remember what that still small voice said. I learned to get back up by myself. That that is an achievement in and of itself.
Many people do not know just how green with envy I am of people who have the ability to dance. I plaster a smile on my face when I hear about peoples children taking jazz, tap and ballet. I tell them that I used to be a dancer too... not that I can't dance now but I tend to make a fool out of myself on purpose so that at least I can laugh at myself and maybe it won't hurt so bad if someone laughed at me too. This was a technique I learned early on in life from my mother. We would often go into walmart and an older woman would see me and say "Oh you poor thing..." My mother would quickly turn around and say"Poor thing?? She's fine!" and then we go laughing at how I couldn't let go of the shopping cart or how I would say "I'd like for him to hold my bad hand. I'd never let him go AND I could blame it on my stupid hand!" This technique was known as "If you don't laugh, you'll cry." Little did I know that this phrase would be burned into my mind and become quite handy as I entered into the tourchous world known as "high school."
Watching people "Ohhing and awwing" over their children's ability to dance and play sports was something that I always longed for. Sure, I could sing, read, do crafts and I was fascinated by sciences but, for me, that wasn't something that I was necessarily proud of. I choose these activities because I couldn't do what I really wanted to do and I didn't want to be mad at myself or God so I didn't try to do those physical activities that I longed to be apart of. I wanted to be happy with the abilities I had developed and forget the skills and achievements that were stolen from me at such an early age.
Some of you know, I have recently taken up an interest in ice skating. Last week, I ordered myself some ice skates and started looking up ways to improve my balance on the ice. I was beyond excited when I returned to the Jone's Center for the public session. I was ready to see how these skates would feel and how they would glide. Of course, I didn't realize that there was such a big difference in hockey and figure skates. "What is this jagged edge on the toe for?" I thought when I got to looking at my skates. I would quickly learn that the jagged edge was for making me fall flat on my butt/knees/ and/or head. This jagged edge was NOT my friend. I took a moment to look around at all the children, adolescents, and adults who were clearly way better at this than myself. Then I saw her. She looked like a ballerina on the ice. She skated frontward, backward, did a triple axel, and with such ease. She made it look easy. I was in awe. Every hand gesture was fluid and precise. Every movement her legs made had a purpose. I couldn't help but think "That could've been me if this hadn't happened! Ugh!" As I wobbled and strained my back in order to keep my balance, I would look at the clock. 3:00pm. I decided that I was going to stay another hour. I was going to make this work. And that's when I went down for the third time. It happened so quickly that I didn't have time to grab the wall but yet, for my eyes, it was like it was in slow motion. And there I was. Laying on the ice. When I got up, I looked like I just came from Winter Wonder Land as I had shaving of ice all over my black yoga pants and the back of my jacket.
As I walked to my car, sulking over my less than successful day, I couldn't help but think of the many goals I had set out for myself. I did not achieve what I wanted to achieve. I wanted to be be able to say that I didn't fall down. That I was half way graceful. That I was able to help someone else up off the ice. Then as I was getting ready for a hot bath, filled with epsom salts and lavender bubbles, a very still voice whispered in my ear. "You learned to get back up like you have many times before. You don't give yourself enough credit. You did that all by yourself and with so many more physical obstacles than the others."
I may never be able to be like that girl who was a ballerina on the ice, who moved with such grace, but I bet that she has had her own obstacles to overcome as well. So tomorrow when I wake up with my bruised right hip, my banged up knee and all my muscels in my stomache are sore from helping me balance, I'm going to try to remember what that still small voice said. I learned to get back up by myself. That that is an achievement in and of itself.
Saturday, November 8, 2014
"2 and 1/2 movies till we get to St. Louis, Presley"
It's November and as most of you have probably noticed that on Facebook there's the "30 days of thankfulness" thing going on. I find that the majority of the people are still complaining about their children having the stomach virus, or their husband's being gone on business, or having to clean the house because the children have made a huge mess. I know that some people don't think before they put stuff on facebook but I just want to share what I'm thankful for and maybe it will help other's think before they "post."
It's been just Mom and I as long as I can remember. Even when she was dating someone or when she was married to my (ex) step-dad... it always felt like it was her and I against the world. I particularly think it's because she's my soulmate, and even though I've always been her little girl to protect... I always felt like I had to shield her against the bad guys, the evil of the world, and be her rock. When I became sick with CNSV, she had to stand up for me more than she would if I were healthy. In her late 20's, she had to not only be a single mother with several jobs, but she also had to take me to get chemo therapy once a month, take care of me after the the treatments and take me see doctors several times a year. I don't remember much about those days; however, I remember going to Country Mart and renting Mary-Kate and Ashley, Winnie the Pooh, Matilda, The Parent Trap, and Peppy Long Stockings videos for our 4 hour trip to St. Louis. My nanny and mom were always going to Walmart and finding me $5 videos to watch. I knew exactly how many videos to pack away for our trip. 5. At seven years old, I didn't use time. I used things that I could measure time by and I had this down to an art. Even though I spent five years doing chemotherapy, all I remember is what I see in pictures and the movies I watched in the backseat of the suburban on our way to and from St. Louis. Maybe I don't remember on purpose. Maybe that's a good thing.
My mom has always been constant. She has always been there. I asked her recently how she knew what she was doing. She said "I called nanny a lot. I asked her for advice and when she told me that she didn't know the answers because she never had to take care of a sick child... well, then I would cry and pray and do whatever I had to do to have you another day."
I really cannot imagine being a single parent in my 20's, let alone being a single parent with a child who has a terminal illness. In ways, my disease has been a blessing. It makes the small acheivements (for most people) seem so much bigger because well... it really is. It makes each day something to remember. It makes my relationships stronger. But most of all, it makes me appreciate my momma more. It allowed me to see a side of my mom that I wouldn't have seen otherwise. My mother has been the greatest gift God has ever given me. I've never been good at protecting my mom, but she has always given everything to make sure that I was going to be okay.
One of the things that my mom always reminds me of is there's always someone who has it worse than I do. She always reminds me to be thankful for my problems and to be thankful for the health that I do have. So here's what I have to say to the Facebook world, be thankful for your child's stomach bug because it'll run it's course and leave. To the lady who has a husband who is gone on business, be thankful because your husband has a job and is willing to go the distance to make sure that he can help provide for you. To the parents who complain about their child who has toys all over the floor, be thankful because your child is physically able to make decisions, play, and live the life of a child. I'm not saying this because I have all the answers, want pity or any of the sorts; however, there are families who will be spending the holidays in the hospital with children, with their parents, with people they love. Been there, done that. Be thankful for your problems. Be thankful for the smiles, the laughs, for the time you have with loved ones because you never know when they'll be called "home."
Thank you Momma for making time for me, for being my bull dog, for celebrating the otherwise simple accomplishments with me, and for the countless videos you provided me with over those 5 years. :) I love you, Momma! I'm glad that God gave me you to call "Mom." Nobody else could have done the job better.
It's been just Mom and I as long as I can remember. Even when she was dating someone or when she was married to my (ex) step-dad... it always felt like it was her and I against the world. I particularly think it's because she's my soulmate, and even though I've always been her little girl to protect... I always felt like I had to shield her against the bad guys, the evil of the world, and be her rock. When I became sick with CNSV, she had to stand up for me more than she would if I were healthy. In her late 20's, she had to not only be a single mother with several jobs, but she also had to take me to get chemo therapy once a month, take care of me after the the treatments and take me see doctors several times a year. I don't remember much about those days; however, I remember going to Country Mart and renting Mary-Kate and Ashley, Winnie the Pooh, Matilda, The Parent Trap, and Peppy Long Stockings videos for our 4 hour trip to St. Louis. My nanny and mom were always going to Walmart and finding me $5 videos to watch. I knew exactly how many videos to pack away for our trip. 5. At seven years old, I didn't use time. I used things that I could measure time by and I had this down to an art. Even though I spent five years doing chemotherapy, all I remember is what I see in pictures and the movies I watched in the backseat of the suburban on our way to and from St. Louis. Maybe I don't remember on purpose. Maybe that's a good thing.
My mom has always been constant. She has always been there. I asked her recently how she knew what she was doing. She said "I called nanny a lot. I asked her for advice and when she told me that she didn't know the answers because she never had to take care of a sick child... well, then I would cry and pray and do whatever I had to do to have you another day."
I really cannot imagine being a single parent in my 20's, let alone being a single parent with a child who has a terminal illness. In ways, my disease has been a blessing. It makes the small acheivements (for most people) seem so much bigger because well... it really is. It makes each day something to remember. It makes my relationships stronger. But most of all, it makes me appreciate my momma more. It allowed me to see a side of my mom that I wouldn't have seen otherwise. My mother has been the greatest gift God has ever given me. I've never been good at protecting my mom, but she has always given everything to make sure that I was going to be okay.
One of the things that my mom always reminds me of is there's always someone who has it worse than I do. She always reminds me to be thankful for my problems and to be thankful for the health that I do have. So here's what I have to say to the Facebook world, be thankful for your child's stomach bug because it'll run it's course and leave. To the lady who has a husband who is gone on business, be thankful because your husband has a job and is willing to go the distance to make sure that he can help provide for you. To the parents who complain about their child who has toys all over the floor, be thankful because your child is physically able to make decisions, play, and live the life of a child. I'm not saying this because I have all the answers, want pity or any of the sorts; however, there are families who will be spending the holidays in the hospital with children, with their parents, with people they love. Been there, done that. Be thankful for your problems. Be thankful for the smiles, the laughs, for the time you have with loved ones because you never know when they'll be called "home."
Thank you Momma for making time for me, for being my bull dog, for celebrating the otherwise simple accomplishments with me, and for the countless videos you provided me with over those 5 years. :) I love you, Momma! I'm glad that God gave me you to call "Mom." Nobody else could have done the job better.
Friday, November 7, 2014
"Why do you want to be a counselor?"
Mr. M, the interviewer at a university that I recently met up with, asked me "Why did you choose counseling? Why didn't you pick social work, research, or clinical work?"
Three months before this, I was sitting with my aunt asking her about the interviews that I was about to embark on , about the questions they were going to ask and what they wanted to hear. She gave me a list of questions and for the most part... I didn't have a clue how to answer them. Some of the questions were, 1) Why do you want to attend this university? 2) What do you want to do in the field of counseling? and 3) why did you choose to pursue counseling? After all the hard work that I did in my undergraduate, you would think that I would have a grasp on why I wanted to do what I wanted to do! I had always found the answers to a test in the lectures of my professors and in the minds of authors... I never had to think about why I chose psychology for my major. I just did. I had to start thinking of a way to answer these questions and not embarrass myself in the process.
When it came time for my interview, I knew how to answer 2 of the 3 questions: #1 "Well, this school is known for its credentials and it has a great reputation for it's counseling program. I have big dreams and I think that if I were to be accepted then this program would not only help me achieve those dreams but go far beyond those dreams."
2) "Definitely community counseling with teens and adults.
And 3)... the dreaded #3. I didn't know how to answer this question until the time came for me to answer this at my interview. You would think that this question is simple and that everyone has a well thought out reason why they choose a master's program...
Back to where we started. Mr. M asking me the dreaded question that I had been thinking about months.
This is what came out of my mouth: "When I was 7 I had had several strokes, and growing up in a small town, I always thought of myself as different. I walk funny. My hand would pull my hair. I was in special ed from the time I was in 5th grade up until 9th grade. I thought that everybody saw me as different."
Mr. M stopped me. "You mean, unique."
I looked at him with a smile and said, "No. I saw myself as different... like somehow, I was less human than everybody else in my school, in my small town. I wasn't what I would have called 'normal.' I felt as though every time I stepped in a room that people noticed me for all the wrong reasons. That they couldn't see who I really was because my shell was in the way. Then... Then I moved 2 and half hours away from that small town and went to the University of Central Arkansas. I quickly realized that people were too busy with their own lives to notice that I walk with a limp, that my hand doesn't work, that I might need a little more time to complete a task. It wasn't until I moved away that I began to see myself as Presley Darby. That I am a unique individual and not "different". That I can bring to the world a different point-of-view and that's a good thing. So to answer your question, Mr. M... The reason I want to be a counselor instead of a social worker, researcher or do anything else is because I want to help others see that they are more than what meets the eye. That they are unique individuals. That it is okay to not be okay. That they are who they are and that they have something to bring to the table."
I left everything out there in the open. I was honest with Mr. M and myself. I think somewhere in midst of Mr. Scole's class, college tests, studying, and being a lost college student... I forgot why I chose psychology as my major in the first place. It wasn't until I was put under pressure that I could finally let myself remember that, "oh yeah, I was a 'different' kid at one time," and that's why I want to be a counselor.
I know several people who are in college and/or about to graduate and if I could offer any advice to you (no matter if you are going for further education or not) would be to strip everything down to the basics. Why do you think that you would be good at this profession? Why did you choose this company/master's program? What skills do you have that others may not? What makes you... you? Be honest with yourself. There's no textbook out there that knows all the answers to who YOU are. Trust me... I looked for one with my name on it. Be confident and go after what you want. Nobody else is going to go after your dreams for you.
Three months before this, I was sitting with my aunt asking her about the interviews that I was about to embark on , about the questions they were going to ask and what they wanted to hear. She gave me a list of questions and for the most part... I didn't have a clue how to answer them. Some of the questions were, 1) Why do you want to attend this university? 2) What do you want to do in the field of counseling? and 3) why did you choose to pursue counseling? After all the hard work that I did in my undergraduate, you would think that I would have a grasp on why I wanted to do what I wanted to do! I had always found the answers to a test in the lectures of my professors and in the minds of authors... I never had to think about why I chose psychology for my major. I just did. I had to start thinking of a way to answer these questions and not embarrass myself in the process.
When it came time for my interview, I knew how to answer 2 of the 3 questions: #1 "Well, this school is known for its credentials and it has a great reputation for it's counseling program. I have big dreams and I think that if I were to be accepted then this program would not only help me achieve those dreams but go far beyond those dreams."
2) "Definitely community counseling with teens and adults.
And 3)... the dreaded #3. I didn't know how to answer this question until the time came for me to answer this at my interview. You would think that this question is simple and that everyone has a well thought out reason why they choose a master's program...
Back to where we started. Mr. M asking me the dreaded question that I had been thinking about months.
This is what came out of my mouth: "When I was 7 I had had several strokes, and growing up in a small town, I always thought of myself as different. I walk funny. My hand would pull my hair. I was in special ed from the time I was in 5th grade up until 9th grade. I thought that everybody saw me as different."
Mr. M stopped me. "You mean, unique."
I looked at him with a smile and said, "No. I saw myself as different... like somehow, I was less human than everybody else in my school, in my small town. I wasn't what I would have called 'normal.' I felt as though every time I stepped in a room that people noticed me for all the wrong reasons. That they couldn't see who I really was because my shell was in the way. Then... Then I moved 2 and half hours away from that small town and went to the University of Central Arkansas. I quickly realized that people were too busy with their own lives to notice that I walk with a limp, that my hand doesn't work, that I might need a little more time to complete a task. It wasn't until I moved away that I began to see myself as Presley Darby. That I am a unique individual and not "different". That I can bring to the world a different point-of-view and that's a good thing. So to answer your question, Mr. M... The reason I want to be a counselor instead of a social worker, researcher or do anything else is because I want to help others see that they are more than what meets the eye. That they are unique individuals. That it is okay to not be okay. That they are who they are and that they have something to bring to the table."
I left everything out there in the open. I was honest with Mr. M and myself. I think somewhere in midst of Mr. Scole's class, college tests, studying, and being a lost college student... I forgot why I chose psychology as my major in the first place. It wasn't until I was put under pressure that I could finally let myself remember that, "oh yeah, I was a 'different' kid at one time," and that's why I want to be a counselor.
I know several people who are in college and/or about to graduate and if I could offer any advice to you (no matter if you are going for further education or not) would be to strip everything down to the basics. Why do you think that you would be good at this profession? Why did you choose this company/master's program? What skills do you have that others may not? What makes you... you? Be honest with yourself. There's no textbook out there that knows all the answers to who YOU are. Trust me... I looked for one with my name on it. Be confident and go after what you want. Nobody else is going to go after your dreams for you.
Monday, February 10, 2014
The D Word
So today my mom text me "call me :)" I knew that something HAD to be up. She said "I have some really great news! The counselor wants you to come talk to her 7th and 8th graders about 'being different'." At first, I was really excited about this because my major is in psychology and in doing motivational speaking I would be addressing an issue that is being dealt with in this age. I got off the phone with my mom, still excited... then it hit me. I can barely get in front of my college classmates and tell them "my name, my major, and something interesting about myself" (college students understand what I'm talking about). I began to think about why I have a problem speaking in front of my peers.
In high school, I was always the last one to ask for help. Literally. I'd wait till the last student left the classroom to get help from the teacher. I didn't want the other students to think that I was stupid. I also didn't have that many friends because I was afraid of being regretted so I didn't try to make friends. The friends I did have often had to stand up for me... which I hated. I didn't have hundreds of boyfriends like the other girls in my class. I didn't have a boy ask me out for my junior prom... or my senior prom. Actually I asked my best friend to take me to my senior prom (by the way I got queen). Anyways... I always thought that there was something wrong with me. That there was some hidden reason why people didn't like me... that there was something that scared people away from me. And I was right. It's the D Word. I'm definitely the D Word.
Let me clarify something. When I was seven years old, I dropped on the playground for no apparent reason. I was a healthy 1st grader. I was a softball player, I was a dancer, I was right handed, I was a straight A student (yeah I know... I was only in 1st grade but still), I was smart. Then all of a sudden I was none of those things. I had three strokes at the age of seven. I couldn't walk, talk, eat by myself, I couldn't write... none of those things. I was no longer labeled your "NORMAL" child. I was diagnosed with Primary Angiitis of The Central Nervous System. I was on chemo therapy for 5 years thereafter being diagnosed. I was excepted to live past a few years. A "normal" child doesn't go through all of these things. I obliviously learned to write again... just with my left hand. I learned to talk, to eat, to walk for the second time around. However, I was always aware that I was not like everyone else... that I was very very different.
From the time of my strokes til about 8th grade, my "bad" arm would do some crazy crap. It would crumble up people's papers, it would grab people, it would grab my hair, it would do all of these things that would just embarrass me so bad. My arm was my own enemy... I could almost hear it saying "I'm gonna make you loath me. I'm gonna make you so self conscious that you won't be able to look people in the eye." And my arm sure did do just that. I grew up embarrassed of what had become of my body. My body didn't work like everyone else's. I was never going to be the basketball player, the cheerleader, or the track star. My brain was and is forever damaged. My brain isn't like everyone else's. I often get my thoughts backwards. I stumble over my words when I talking about something serious. And a part of me hated that because I was not supposed to be this person. I was supposed to be a dancer, a math whiz, a softball player, a cheerleader.
Different. Society, the media, the world says it's the D-Word. Think of how many different races are on the cover of Cosmo, Seventeen, and Teen Vogue. Now, how many people do you see on the covers of those magazines with people who have a disability? You see more representation of different races than you ever see of disabilities. You don't see a woman with her seeing eye dog. You don't see a young boy in a wheel chair. You don't see a young girl with a hand that won't let go of her hair, people, or the paper that she was doing her homework on. YOU DON'T SEE IT. So being different is bad... right? If you don't look like the people on the covers of the magazines, if you aren't skinny like the girls on Pretty Little Liars, if you don't have the clothes that the girls from The Lying Game have, if you don't have a cute boyfriend, if you don't have a husband by the time your 25, if you don't lose the baby fat within a week of having your baby... you are different. You know what! If that's the kind of person you have to be to be a part of society... then you can just keep all that junk. I'd rather be the D Word.
Back to the 7th and 8th graders that I will have the chance to talk to. I have a crazy arm. I have a limpy leg. I have a weird brain that doesn't always work the way I want it to. It's nothing to be ashamed of. It's ok. It's a part of me. I'm not the average person. I don't set my standards to be the average person. I strive to be so much more. I strive to be the best person I can be. I strive to make the best grades that I can make. I strive to represent my disability. I strive to be different from the rest of the world. I strive to be Presley Darby. If different is what I am then so be it. I'm glad for it.
In high school, I was always the last one to ask for help. Literally. I'd wait till the last student left the classroom to get help from the teacher. I didn't want the other students to think that I was stupid. I also didn't have that many friends because I was afraid of being regretted so I didn't try to make friends. The friends I did have often had to stand up for me... which I hated. I didn't have hundreds of boyfriends like the other girls in my class. I didn't have a boy ask me out for my junior prom... or my senior prom. Actually I asked my best friend to take me to my senior prom (by the way I got queen). Anyways... I always thought that there was something wrong with me. That there was some hidden reason why people didn't like me... that there was something that scared people away from me. And I was right. It's the D Word. I'm definitely the D Word.
Let me clarify something. When I was seven years old, I dropped on the playground for no apparent reason. I was a healthy 1st grader. I was a softball player, I was a dancer, I was right handed, I was a straight A student (yeah I know... I was only in 1st grade but still), I was smart. Then all of a sudden I was none of those things. I had three strokes at the age of seven. I couldn't walk, talk, eat by myself, I couldn't write... none of those things. I was no longer labeled your "NORMAL" child. I was diagnosed with Primary Angiitis of The Central Nervous System. I was on chemo therapy for 5 years thereafter being diagnosed. I was excepted to live past a few years. A "normal" child doesn't go through all of these things. I obliviously learned to write again... just with my left hand. I learned to talk, to eat, to walk for the second time around. However, I was always aware that I was not like everyone else... that I was very very different.
From the time of my strokes til about 8th grade, my "bad" arm would do some crazy crap. It would crumble up people's papers, it would grab people, it would grab my hair, it would do all of these things that would just embarrass me so bad. My arm was my own enemy... I could almost hear it saying "I'm gonna make you loath me. I'm gonna make you so self conscious that you won't be able to look people in the eye." And my arm sure did do just that. I grew up embarrassed of what had become of my body. My body didn't work like everyone else's. I was never going to be the basketball player, the cheerleader, or the track star. My brain was and is forever damaged. My brain isn't like everyone else's. I often get my thoughts backwards. I stumble over my words when I talking about something serious. And a part of me hated that because I was not supposed to be this person. I was supposed to be a dancer, a math whiz, a softball player, a cheerleader.
Different. Society, the media, the world says it's the D-Word. Think of how many different races are on the cover of Cosmo, Seventeen, and Teen Vogue. Now, how many people do you see on the covers of those magazines with people who have a disability? You see more representation of different races than you ever see of disabilities. You don't see a woman with her seeing eye dog. You don't see a young boy in a wheel chair. You don't see a young girl with a hand that won't let go of her hair, people, or the paper that she was doing her homework on. YOU DON'T SEE IT. So being different is bad... right? If you don't look like the people on the covers of the magazines, if you aren't skinny like the girls on Pretty Little Liars, if you don't have the clothes that the girls from The Lying Game have, if you don't have a cute boyfriend, if you don't have a husband by the time your 25, if you don't lose the baby fat within a week of having your baby... you are different. You know what! If that's the kind of person you have to be to be a part of society... then you can just keep all that junk. I'd rather be the D Word.
Back to the 7th and 8th graders that I will have the chance to talk to. I have a crazy arm. I have a limpy leg. I have a weird brain that doesn't always work the way I want it to. It's nothing to be ashamed of. It's ok. It's a part of me. I'm not the average person. I don't set my standards to be the average person. I strive to be so much more. I strive to be the best person I can be. I strive to make the best grades that I can make. I strive to represent my disability. I strive to be different from the rest of the world. I strive to be Presley Darby. If different is what I am then so be it. I'm glad for it.
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