Young and not knowing which is the right way, what a strange feeling. On top of all that, add having a disability which brings necessity into focus in the blink of an eye.
I shifted my attention to other things besides my cerebral palsy. One big step out of my comfort zone because during my adolescence and early teenage years, I was still wrestling with floods of emotion while trying to figure out who I truly was.
Was this the sum of my existence? I was getting older and wanted to see what else the world had to offer for my experience. One huge transition itself out of my comfort zone. I’d been going to school for half-days in a special inclusion class with other kids who had disabilities. It was the first time I can remember being around people who truly didn’t understand me.
I didn’t know them and they didn’t know me. Awkwardness: everyone feels it when they’re around someone they don’t know. However, it was much deeper than the feeling of simply being in the company of complete strangers.
I could feel their stares penetrate my bones. I knew they were looking at the obvious, my wheelchair, my body. It was nothing new, but I still wanted to make the most of this new adventure. Or show off the smile I’d learned to flash whenever I met new people. If anything, I wanted to try to make some friends. I just hoped my classmates wouldn’t single me out. If I didn’t end up making any friends here, maybe I could meet new ones somewhere else.
Making friends proved to be less painful and embarrassing than I thought it would be. No one called me out or made fun of me. Everyone was more interested in the communication board I’d gotten to help me “speak” better as I got older. The other kids gathered around my wheelchair and tried their best to restrain from pressing all the buttons on the board. It lit up every time I pressed one of the 140 keys. They understood, for the most part, that I had the board because it helped me. They knew it was a part of who I was, even though I was apprehensive about having another thing to distract people from looking at me.
The communication board was the ultimate freedom the first time I used it. Every thought and feeling I had locked up inside me finally had a way out. The one thing my classmates didn’t realize was that each key stood for three or four different words and phrases. One wrong hit could’ve wiped out the entire system that had been specifically programmed for me.
It felt good knowing other people were starting to understand why I needed that board, and why it wasn’t a “toy”. I’d gotten good at using it, even learned to type with a little speed. However, it wasn’t helping me make any real friends.
I understood curiosity comes with my territory, so I didn’t mind all of the excitement that came with my communication board. I did, however, mind the automated male RoboCop voice it was programmed with. I already felt strange about the fact it would likely draw more attention to my disability. Now, I had to somehow hide my embarrassment every time I “spoke”.
Most people didn’t care, but I did. I eventually asked for my “voice” to be changed to a female one. It was more about trying to show other kids that it was OK to be friends with me than anything else. I never wanted to allow my needs as a disabled person to get in the way of any potential friendships—and having a male voice didn’t seem like a good way to introduce myself to people.
Making that small change opened the door for many more. It gave me a sense of normalcy in many ways. It made me realize I was a kid who had to grow up. Maybe not in the conventional way most kids do, but I had to do it eventually. This particular moment was a pretty good start.
I’ve since “graduated” from using my communication board and now have true, meaningful friendships with people from all walks of life. It has taken a very long me to grow and learn from this. The most important lesson it has taught me is: While it may take a while, the best things in life are truly worth waiting for!
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Photo Credit: Pixabay