When I was around 12-13, I had hit that awkward stage in growth. I had already gone through the beginning phases of puberty-- I was somewhat of an early bloomer-- and my body just couldn't keep up with the raging hormones tearing through my person and my psyche like a hurricane. One for which I was definitely ill-prepared.
It was also around that time that I began to notice boys. There was one in particular who I'd like to call my first crush. He was actually my best friend at the time, and someone who helped me through my awkwardness more than I think he will ever realize. But as crushes tend to do, he moved on, quicker than I expected, and I was left with a confused head and a broken heart.
"Why," I pondered, "wouldn't he want me?" We loved the same tv shows, books, and music. We loved the same God. We could talk for hours. We made each other laugh. In my mind, we were perfect for one another. Why didn't he think so, too? What was wrong with me?
I began to watch my friend with the girls who had become his new friends and compare myself to them. They were all older, taller, and thinner than me. So pretty. And none of them had a disability.
Don't get me wrong; I was a pretty little girl. I look back at pictures now, and I see what I guess he must've seen in me then. But at the time, all I saw was a fat lump, positioned between two metal sticks. It's true that I was a little lumpy. I wasn't finished growing, and hadn't yet achieved comfort in my new, maturing body. I was overweight, and could stand to lose a few pounds. I was convinced that losing weight would make him want me. It would make everybody want me, right? After all, I couldn't control the fact that I had to walk around between two metal sticks... but I could control what was between them. I was going to lose so much weight that no one would even notice my disability anymore; I'd be too pretty for them to focus on that, or any of my other flaws.
I started out slowly, skipping meals and telling my parents I wasn't hungry for more than one meal a day. It was still summer at this point, and I could get away with being "too tired" or "too hot" or even "too sad" to eat, since what I considered to be "the break-up" was still really fresh in my mind. I was exercising a lot too, going on long walks in the evening and spending the majority of my day at marching band camp. The pounds began to melt away, and I was getting positive feedback from my family and friends, telling me to keep up the good work.
I decided to kick it into high gear, and what followed in the next few months continues to be a blur to me. I began my weightloss journey at a weight near 140, and before I knew it, I was staring at myself in the mirror at just under 90 pounds, still calling myself fat and still seeing the lump that I imagined myself to be. I was eating diet everything, and very little of it. I was counting every calorie. I was hiding food in my napkins. I was mashing it on my plate to make it look half-eaten. A diet coke had become a meal. I had grown so accustomed to not eating that it had become a self-imposed competition to me. The longer I could go without food, the more successful I was. My weight had become nothing but a numbers game to me. I was obsessed with the number of calories I ate, the number of minutes I walked, the number of pounds I lost, and the numbered size of my pants. I could think of little else other than food, and how I was going to beat it, and my lumpy little self-image, into submission.
Then, one Tuesday morning in 9th grade Biology, I ate a 190-calorie package of peanut butter crackers. They had not been on my food agenda for that day (I kept a written log of everything I ate) but they had looked so good when I passed them in the vending machine that I HAD to eat them.
I remember the gritty texture of the crackers feeling so unusual in my mouth; it had been such a long time since I'd tasted any. I ate all six and licked the peanut butter residue from the inside of the plastic. I guzzled my diet coke, satisfied.
Thirty seconds later, though, I couldn't focus. I had written the crackers down in my notebook, and they just didn't fit. 190 calories!! Why did I eat them?? I was such a fat cow. Didn't I have any willpower?? What was wrong with me?? I jumped from my seat and ran to the bathroom. I had to get them out. Now.
I hurled myself into the large stall, and shoved my finger down my throat 7 times until the crackers followed it out of my mouth. Their marvelous gritty consistency had become a slimy and disgusting soup in my stomach. Watching them fall from my mouth into the toilet I felt better knowing I had corrected my mistake. I was still in control.
All day, I could think about nothing but the crackers. What was I doing? Had I really become that sort of person?? The kind you see in tv movies or after school specials? The kind who could be sent away for help??
I told my mom and dad that night. I told them everything. About the crackers and the calorie-counting and the food-hiding, and the crazy thoughts I was having about myself.
My parents never scolded me, because they loved me. But because they loved me, they got me help. There are still many days that I struggle in a war with food.... and for someone who loves food, that's hard to admit. There are some I wake up and everything seems disgusting to me, and others that I could eat a whole pizza in an hour and contemplate purging after. It's a war that to some extent, I will continue to fight for the rest of my life. Somedays, I'll catch myself looking into the mirror and seeing a lump between two sticks, and others I'll catch myself thinking, "Hey, I look pretty good today."
The difference is that now I realize that I'm in control without needing to turn to food as my vessel. I realize that those who want me in their lives will want me, lumpy or not.
They will want me with metal sticks or without. They will want me for who I am, and not just how I look.
I realize now that I am in control of how I feel about myself, and that no other person can change what I feel just with their opinion. Only I can do that. I am in control of whether I let myself love and be loved, just the way I am....and realizing I have that control is a natural high, much better than the temporary high I could feel from starving or purging any day.
Whether someone else wants me no longer matters, because I love myself enough to stay in control by finding happiness through my relationship with God, my friends, and my family rather than through my relationship with food.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Old poetry
I was going through my old e-mail account, trying to find inspiration for one of the characters in my book, and I came across this poem, written a few years ago. I'm posting it here, just so that I have it saved someplace, since I do not use the e-mail account anymore.
WARNING: It does not have explicit language in it, but there is a part or two that addresses adult subject matter. I am human. I have changed and thankfully am not quite the same person I used to be. No one is perfect. Everyone makes mistakes. This poem reminds me of how much I've grown, so I'm sharing it here in the hope that someone else might benefit.
So without further ado...
It has become apparent lately
that my heart is not my own,
It's scattered about with family, with friends, and with
strangers,
and even a bit or two
has fallen to an enemy.
But I always thought reclaiming it
would be a simple feat.
"Mind over matter."
"Walk through the double-doors to baggage claim
at Gate A1 and find it,"
spinning slowly on a conveyer belt in
various packages marked with my
name in permanent black ink.
Some parts of me I'd find in large suitcases, triple-locked
by the persons to whom they were on loan,
packed lovingly in three feet of peanuts and
wrapped in plastic.
Boxed too, out of fear that
the slighest movement during the journey would
cause a crack in the crystal, spill-
ing its contents--all my love, dreams, hopes, and fears--onto
the cold floor as I lifted the baggage from the belt.
The gawkers and the gossipers would laugh heartly at my
misfortune,
taking out their digital cameras
to capture every moment of this once-in-a-lifetime separation
of
self
and
of
soul.
Other parts of me I'd find thrown haphazardly into a duffel, sent to me from the soul's seat of
a man who had
forgotten
that I had given him a part of me to keep
until he found it buried underneath his own pile of self-loathing and tossed it in the trunk,
not thinking it worth returning until years after the fact.
So I'd find it, wet and sticky,
in between
bottles of shampoo and used condoms from
someone other than me.
And I'd remember how I tried to clean it before I gave it to him, and how
he had helped me to forgo the bottle of 409 and the washrag,
immersing it instead in various moments of intense pain
with a topcoat of regret.
Gathering myself, I'd lay the pieces onto the hard tile in an
attempt to reassemble before leaving, starting first with
corner
pieces
and working my way in, all the while
reminding myself that I have never been
great at puzzles.
Standing back to gaze at my collection,
odds
and
ends
of me, arranged in disarrayed neatness,
I'd realize that
a piece of me is
missing.
Knowing to whom I gave it and when and where, I'd think,
"did he take it from my dorm room where I left it
for him
on the blue smiley-face pillow, face-up and trembling?
Or did he leave it there for me to pack away with my pencil cup
and paperclips
and move on?"
"Did he take it from the sofa bed and
pack it in the plastic bag with his toothbrush,
ready for inspection by the angsty airport agents
who have his random number?
Or did he leave it under the cushion for me to find,
and I mistook it for gone
(they are both red after all)?"
"Did he take it in his coffee cup, sloshing in and out
and everywhere
into the cab
and from there to Memphis then to Kentucky, and into
his home and to his kitchen sink
and from there to his bedroom, quite possibly, where he placed it
safe
on the dresser
ready for a return trip back to me sometime in July?
Or did he leave it on the carpet,
underneath his
footprint, for me to find when its smudged outline
becomes
visible after
the next hard rain
that falls behind closed doors
in Comet Circle number 307?"
Shrugging to myself, I take
from the floor what's left of me
and leave, knowing
that I may never be whole again
until my soul meets his soul
sometime
in this life or in the next.
It's become apparent lately
that my heart is not my own.
WARNING: It does not have explicit language in it, but there is a part or two that addresses adult subject matter. I am human. I have changed and thankfully am not quite the same person I used to be. No one is perfect. Everyone makes mistakes. This poem reminds me of how much I've grown, so I'm sharing it here in the hope that someone else might benefit.
So without further ado...
It has become apparent lately
that my heart is not my own,
It's scattered about with family, with friends, and with
strangers,
and even a bit or two
has fallen to an enemy.
But I always thought reclaiming it
would be a simple feat.
"Mind over matter."
"Walk through the double-doors to baggage claim
at Gate A1 and find it,"
spinning slowly on a conveyer belt in
various packages marked with my
name in permanent black ink.
Some parts of me I'd find in large suitcases, triple-locked
by the persons to whom they were on loan,
packed lovingly in three feet of peanuts and
wrapped in plastic.
Boxed too, out of fear that
the slighest movement during the journey would
cause a crack in the crystal, spill-
ing its contents--all my love, dreams, hopes, and fears--onto
the cold floor as I lifted the baggage from the belt.
The gawkers and the gossipers would laugh heartly at my
misfortune,
taking out their digital cameras
to capture every moment of this once-in-a-lifetime separation
of
self
and
of
soul.
Other parts of me I'd find thrown haphazardly into a duffel, sent to me from the soul's seat of
a man who had
forgotten
that I had given him a part of me to keep
until he found it buried underneath his own pile of self-loathing and tossed it in the trunk,
not thinking it worth returning until years after the fact.
So I'd find it, wet and sticky,
in between
bottles of shampoo and used condoms from
someone other than me.
And I'd remember how I tried to clean it before I gave it to him, and how
he had helped me to forgo the bottle of 409 and the washrag,
immersing it instead in various moments of intense pain
with a topcoat of regret.
Gathering myself, I'd lay the pieces onto the hard tile in an
attempt to reassemble before leaving, starting first with
corner
pieces
and working my way in, all the while
reminding myself that I have never been
great at puzzles.
Standing back to gaze at my collection,
odds
and
ends
of me, arranged in disarrayed neatness,
I'd realize that
a piece of me is
missing.
Knowing to whom I gave it and when and where, I'd think,
"did he take it from my dorm room where I left it
for him
on the blue smiley-face pillow, face-up and trembling?
Or did he leave it there for me to pack away with my pencil cup
and paperclips
and move on?"
"Did he take it from the sofa bed and
pack it in the plastic bag with his toothbrush,
ready for inspection by the angsty airport agents
who have his random number?
Or did he leave it under the cushion for me to find,
and I mistook it for gone
(they are both red after all)?"
"Did he take it in his coffee cup, sloshing in and out
and everywhere
into the cab
and from there to Memphis then to Kentucky, and into
his home and to his kitchen sink
and from there to his bedroom, quite possibly, where he placed it
safe
on the dresser
ready for a return trip back to me sometime in July?
Or did he leave it on the carpet,
underneath his
footprint, for me to find when its smudged outline
becomes
visible after
the next hard rain
that falls behind closed doors
in Comet Circle number 307?"
Shrugging to myself, I take
from the floor what's left of me
and leave, knowing
that I may never be whole again
until my soul meets his soul
sometime
in this life or in the next.
It's become apparent lately
that my heart is not my own.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
The Process of Self-Acceptance
With tomorrow marking 2011's International Day of Acceptance, I have been pondering the topic quite a bit. It took me awhile to realize that in order to allow others to accept me just the way I am, and to love me for just who I am, I had to first accept and love myself.
People have always told me that they admire the positive attitude I have toward myself and my disability... and I thank them for their encouragement. But my attitude hasn't always been so upbeat, and on somedays, after spending 30 minutes with 5 pairs of shoes that match my outfit and two uncooperative feet, my attitude is still a little lackluster.
Self-acceptance is a process, an on-going goal that I accomplish everyday, when I look in the mirror and decide to like what I see. I take self-acceptance, day-by-day, just as I take others' acceptance of me. I expect you to accept me as I am, of course, but how can I expect more acceptance from you than I am willing to grant myself?
Self-acceptance is a process-- definitely worthy of multiple blog entries. It has taken me awhile to become as comfortable with myself as I am today. So I will start my examination of my journey to self acceptance by taking a look back at a time when I was less accepting.
From a blog post in 2004 before I began law school:
"Go for the Gold!
There's a song on the new Alanis Morisette CD that I really like. It's called "Naked" but don't let the title make you think it's dirty...
The song is about letting go and being free of your limitations.
Often I think of what it would be like if I woke up and didn't have crutches (because I didn't need them anymore).
Some people may find that morbid, but it actually makes me happy to think of everything that I could do if I was allowed to give up my need for two metal legs.
For example, I've always wanted to be a dancer/figure skater. Sometimes I imagine myself winning the gold.
I imagine my body being graceful and uninhibited.
Graceful enough to fly through the air in sproadic twists and turns.
Graceful enough to ballroom and swing dance with my husband on our wedding night.
Graceful enough to carry, deliver, and properly care for my own children,
It's true that if I could just be free of my limitations, I would feel that I had truly won the gold, that I was at the most awesome place in my earthly life.
You'd think that reminiscing about something that could never happen would make me sad. But instead, it makes me hopeful. Every time I wake up wishing for the day without limitations, I realize that I am much closer to that day than I think. I know that if I work hard enough, it will finally come to me. Not in this life, but in the next.
And my gold medal will be good for more than just a few years after.It will last forever. God has given me these limitations for a reason, and I will do my best to handle them positively. Because in the end, my reward in Heaven will more than make up for any nitpicky things I had to deal with down here."
Now, don't get me wrong, I still agree with the main point of this post. I look forward to the day when Earthly superficialities no longer matter. When my soul will be the only part of me that people can see. When my daydreams about duct-taping pumps to my feet won't matter, because I'll be concerned with nothing but praising God forever.
That being said, I think, in my previous post, I was selling myself short. It seems I hadn't accepted what I could do, but only everything I couldn't.
I may not be able to figure skate, but I can ride a bi-ski down a mountain. I can snowtube and SCUBA-dive and run 5 k races.
I may not be able to ballroom dance... but I got rhythym. I can CP-shake with the best of 'em to some Lady Gaga. And if my husband wants to dance on our weddding night, I am more than capable of a very slow two-step (which is more than some able bodied people can say). We can even take a crippy-swing class... as long as he can overlook my not-so-dirty-dancing shoes.
I don't know if I can have children, but I know that I want them. And even if I'm never married, I would love to adopt an older child on my own. And if I do have my own flesh-and-blood baby (God-wiling) I will make sure that he or she has everything he/she needs to live a happy, healthy childhood.
I'm still going for that heavenly gold. It's still what's most important to me. But at the same time, I want to make sure that I do not waste the talents that God has given me for use on this Earth. I accept my limitations for what they are-- yes, I do. But my limitations do not define my life. I do. I may not be able to do things exactly as I would like, every day... but who can... able-bodied or not?
Self-acceptance is a process. I accept myself today. But accepting myself doesn't equate to stifling my desires or selling-short my abilities. Every day, when I look in the mirror and make that conscious decision to like what I see for one more day, I remind myself of what my Daddy always said to his little, blonde-haired girl: if you want something bad enough.... If you believe in it, no matter what stands in your way, and you work hard to make it happen, it will.
People have always told me that they admire the positive attitude I have toward myself and my disability... and I thank them for their encouragement. But my attitude hasn't always been so upbeat, and on somedays, after spending 30 minutes with 5 pairs of shoes that match my outfit and two uncooperative feet, my attitude is still a little lackluster.
Self-acceptance is a process, an on-going goal that I accomplish everyday, when I look in the mirror and decide to like what I see. I take self-acceptance, day-by-day, just as I take others' acceptance of me. I expect you to accept me as I am, of course, but how can I expect more acceptance from you than I am willing to grant myself?
Self-acceptance is a process-- definitely worthy of multiple blog entries. It has taken me awhile to become as comfortable with myself as I am today. So I will start my examination of my journey to self acceptance by taking a look back at a time when I was less accepting.
From a blog post in 2004 before I began law school:
"Go for the Gold!
There's a song on the new Alanis Morisette CD that I really like. It's called "Naked" but don't let the title make you think it's dirty...
The song is about letting go and being free of your limitations.
Often I think of what it would be like if I woke up and didn't have crutches (because I didn't need them anymore).
Some people may find that morbid, but it actually makes me happy to think of everything that I could do if I was allowed to give up my need for two metal legs.
For example, I've always wanted to be a dancer/figure skater. Sometimes I imagine myself winning the gold.
I imagine my body being graceful and uninhibited.
Graceful enough to fly through the air in sproadic twists and turns.
Graceful enough to ballroom and swing dance with my husband on our wedding night.
Graceful enough to carry, deliver, and properly care for my own children,
It's true that if I could just be free of my limitations, I would feel that I had truly won the gold, that I was at the most awesome place in my earthly life.
You'd think that reminiscing about something that could never happen would make me sad. But instead, it makes me hopeful. Every time I wake up wishing for the day without limitations, I realize that I am much closer to that day than I think. I know that if I work hard enough, it will finally come to me. Not in this life, but in the next.
And my gold medal will be good for more than just a few years after.It will last forever. God has given me these limitations for a reason, and I will do my best to handle them positively. Because in the end, my reward in Heaven will more than make up for any nitpicky things I had to deal with down here."
Now, don't get me wrong, I still agree with the main point of this post. I look forward to the day when Earthly superficialities no longer matter. When my soul will be the only part of me that people can see. When my daydreams about duct-taping pumps to my feet won't matter, because I'll be concerned with nothing but praising God forever.
That being said, I think, in my previous post, I was selling myself short. It seems I hadn't accepted what I could do, but only everything I couldn't.
I may not be able to figure skate, but I can ride a bi-ski down a mountain. I can snowtube and SCUBA-dive and run 5 k races.
I may not be able to ballroom dance... but I got rhythym. I can CP-shake with the best of 'em to some Lady Gaga. And if my husband wants to dance on our weddding night, I am more than capable of a very slow two-step (which is more than some able bodied people can say). We can even take a crippy-swing class... as long as he can overlook my not-so-dirty-dancing shoes.
I don't know if I can have children, but I know that I want them. And even if I'm never married, I would love to adopt an older child on my own. And if I do have my own flesh-and-blood baby (God-wiling) I will make sure that he or she has everything he/she needs to live a happy, healthy childhood.
I'm still going for that heavenly gold. It's still what's most important to me. But at the same time, I want to make sure that I do not waste the talents that God has given me for use on this Earth. I accept my limitations for what they are-- yes, I do. But my limitations do not define my life. I do. I may not be able to do things exactly as I would like, every day... but who can... able-bodied or not?
Self-acceptance is a process. I accept myself today. But accepting myself doesn't equate to stifling my desires or selling-short my abilities. Every day, when I look in the mirror and make that conscious decision to like what I see for one more day, I remind myself of what my Daddy always said to his little, blonde-haired girl: if you want something bad enough.... If you believe in it, no matter what stands in your way, and you work hard to make it happen, it will.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Words
I recently had an interview with the Pentagon Channel to discuss my experiences with the Workforce Recruitment Program for College Students with Disabilities. It was a wonderful opportunity and I'm so grateful to be able to spread the word about the WRP and the opportunity it provides for students with disabilities to be exposed to the federal government workforce. I was lucky enough to land this interview because someone from the Pentagon Office of Public Affairs had seen me participating in another documentary and tracked me down to ask for my time.
I had to let my boss know about the interview obviously, because it was during work hours, so about a month ago, I walked into her office and let her know that the Pentagon Channel wanted to interview me. There were a few people standing in her office when I approached the door. I had to get back to the Reporter within the hour, so I stuck my head in the doorway and let her know. She was fine with it; she just asked me to put the interview on the calendar once it was scheduled.
As I was walking out the door, a co-worker followed me. Our exchange was is below:
Co-worker: "You know they're only interviewing you because you have a disability, right?"
Me: "Well, yes, in a sense. It would be silly to interview someone who doesn't have a disability about their experience in a program for students with disabilities."
Co-worker: "Well, what I mean is... they are not interviewing me because I don't have [a disability]."
Me: "Huh?" (befuddled look)
Co-worker: "They're only interviewing you because you have a disability. They are not interviewing you because of any skills or knowledge you might possess. I'm just putting that on the table."
Me: "I don't know that that is true, but even so, what does it matter? If I can present a positive, articulate image of federal employees with disabilities, maybe I can change an attitude or two."
Co-worker: "Well, I understand it doesn't matter to you how you get your foot in the door, but you know me, I'm just telling you the truth."
Conversations like the one above are one reason why I need a new job. It's hard to work around people who don't think about what they say, or think too little about what they say, in a field centered around words and the perception of them. Let's face it; most basic discrimination cases involve a breakdown in communication where, at some point, the words exchanged between two parties either lost all meaning or found new meaning within the mind of the speaker or listener. It's important, especially in a workplace, to think about what we say and how we say it. I'm not saying that we should walk on eggshells and worry every second how someone might perceive a "Hello" or a "Good Morning," but we should at least make sure that everything we say has a purpose, and that we know what the purpose of our statements are before they grace our lips.
What was the point of the exchange above? What did my co-worker hope to achieve by saying those things? If her goal was to make me feel a little crappy, she succeeded. Not enough to make me run away crying... but still. What other effects could those words have had? What was their point? As professionals, we really need to ask ourselves these questions from time to time.
Case and point: Yesterday, I was talking to the office Director about what she did over the holiday and she told me that she played a game her friend calls "autistic scrabble" over the weekend. Imagine me, again with the befuddled look.
"Well," she said, "it's a game where everyone has her own set of tiles and works alone to use all of them and the quickest."
Me: "Why are you calling it "autistic scrabble" again?"
Director: "Well, because you know, autistic people like to do everything by themselves."
Three things:
1. Apparently she doesn't know Matthew Hunt, or hasn't read anything by Temple Grandin, or John Elder Robinson.
2. It's never a good idea to make a generalization about all people with a certain disability. She should know that as the Director of an EEO office. And they are people first. People, who have autism.
3. If it's a joke, it wasn't that funny. I didn't laugh.
My family and friends joke and laugh with my brother about his traits that are a part of his autism, but we love them and him, and wouldn't want it any other way. We all have our quirks.
But to make a blanket generalization, that is in a sense making fun of all people with a certain disability is nowhere near the same. I'm not sure why she thought that would be funny to me... maybe because my brother has autism. Maybe because I have a disability.
Yeah.
Not so much.
I had to let my boss know about the interview obviously, because it was during work hours, so about a month ago, I walked into her office and let her know that the Pentagon Channel wanted to interview me. There were a few people standing in her office when I approached the door. I had to get back to the Reporter within the hour, so I stuck my head in the doorway and let her know. She was fine with it; she just asked me to put the interview on the calendar once it was scheduled.
As I was walking out the door, a co-worker followed me. Our exchange was is below:
Co-worker: "You know they're only interviewing you because you have a disability, right?"
Me: "Well, yes, in a sense. It would be silly to interview someone who doesn't have a disability about their experience in a program for students with disabilities."
Co-worker: "Well, what I mean is... they are not interviewing me because I don't have [a disability]."
Me: "Huh?" (befuddled look)
Co-worker: "They're only interviewing you because you have a disability. They are not interviewing you because of any skills or knowledge you might possess. I'm just putting that on the table."
Me: "I don't know that that is true, but even so, what does it matter? If I can present a positive, articulate image of federal employees with disabilities, maybe I can change an attitude or two."
Co-worker: "Well, I understand it doesn't matter to you how you get your foot in the door, but you know me, I'm just telling you the truth."
Conversations like the one above are one reason why I need a new job. It's hard to work around people who don't think about what they say, or think too little about what they say, in a field centered around words and the perception of them. Let's face it; most basic discrimination cases involve a breakdown in communication where, at some point, the words exchanged between two parties either lost all meaning or found new meaning within the mind of the speaker or listener. It's important, especially in a workplace, to think about what we say and how we say it. I'm not saying that we should walk on eggshells and worry every second how someone might perceive a "Hello" or a "Good Morning," but we should at least make sure that everything we say has a purpose, and that we know what the purpose of our statements are before they grace our lips.
What was the point of the exchange above? What did my co-worker hope to achieve by saying those things? If her goal was to make me feel a little crappy, she succeeded. Not enough to make me run away crying... but still. What other effects could those words have had? What was their point? As professionals, we really need to ask ourselves these questions from time to time.
Case and point: Yesterday, I was talking to the office Director about what she did over the holiday and she told me that she played a game her friend calls "autistic scrabble" over the weekend. Imagine me, again with the befuddled look.
"Well," she said, "it's a game where everyone has her own set of tiles and works alone to use all of them and the quickest."
Me: "Why are you calling it "autistic scrabble" again?"
Director: "Well, because you know, autistic people like to do everything by themselves."
Three things:
1. Apparently she doesn't know Matthew Hunt, or hasn't read anything by Temple Grandin, or John Elder Robinson.
2. It's never a good idea to make a generalization about all people with a certain disability. She should know that as the Director of an EEO office. And they are people first. People, who have autism.
3. If it's a joke, it wasn't that funny. I didn't laugh.
My family and friends joke and laugh with my brother about his traits that are a part of his autism, but we love them and him, and wouldn't want it any other way. We all have our quirks.
But to make a blanket generalization, that is in a sense making fun of all people with a certain disability is nowhere near the same. I'm not sure why she thought that would be funny to me... maybe because my brother has autism. Maybe because I have a disability.
Yeah.
Not so much.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Local Lawyer Arrested For Failure to Pay Cab Fare: Details at 11
Last night, I needed to go to Target to buy handsoap, granola bars, mascara, face wash, and toilet paper. It was the last night of a glorious five-day hiatus from work, due to some strategic planning of time off around the Veteran's Day holiday. I had checked my bank account that morning, knowing that I had a little over $100 left to last me until payday on Thursday. "I'm a master at making money last," I thought. "I can eat soup, drink water, and use the money for transport only. I bet I'll have $50 left on Thursday when my next check deposits."
Sure of myself, I hopped into Yellow Cab number #182 and rode $5.85 down the road (half a mile) to the Fair Lakes Shopping Center. I handed the driver my debit card (I never carry cash when I'm out alone, because protected Bank of America plastic is safer when stolen.) He handed the card back to me and said gently, "It says it's been declined."
"Impossible!" I thought. "I just checked my balance today. I know the money's in there." I quickly rummaged through my purse to find my emergency credit card, which was meant exactly for a situation such as this-- an emergency.
A cold, clammy feeling came over me as my hand groped from top to bottom of the blue lining inside my bag. Where was my card holder? I hurriedly dumped the contents of my purse onto the seat next to me. Papers, checks, a Starbucks gift card, lip gloss, a hairbrush.... no wallet!
"I can't pay you," I said, barely audible. My wallet seems to have disappeared."
"Well, we're here, so just get out and get what you need," he replied, slightly irritated.
"Sir, I don't think I can," I said. I had pulled up my bank account on my phone within seconds, thanks to my Bank of America app. It appeared that muy student loan payment (which was set for automatic debit on the 14th) did not go through until yesterday. And what's worse... the payment had graduated this month, making it $200 more than it has been for the past year.
So there I was, sitting in a cab, penniless, plastic-less, and plan-less, with the words, "I'm going to jail for $6." flashing like a burning neon sign in my brain.
"Can you just take me home? I have a cup of change there, and I think I can pay you in quarters." I was totally serious about this. On the way home, I told him everything, with intermittent bouts of "I'm sorry you're wasting your time on me" thrown in.
When we arrived in the apartment complex parking lot, he opened the door for me and asked, "Can I give you $20?"
"No, it's okay. I owe you money. And I get paid on Thursday. I'll manage until then."
"You have no money," he said. "I have some."
He insisted, shoving the shriveled bill into my hand. I was so stunned and amazed that I wanted to hug him. "What's your number or how can I get ahold of you to pay this back?"
"Don't wory about it," he said. "Everyone has bad days."
I thanked him twice more and walked through the door, stunned silent. I couldn't believe that a complete and total stranger, nonetheless a cab driver--the type of person with whom I notoriously have bad luck-- had committed this random act of kindness for me.
After ransacking my house to no avail to find the missing wallet, I went to bed determined to do two things this morning: (1) find my wallet and (2) ask my boss for a raise.
Currently, I make less than any of the other similarly situated EEO Specialists in my office (except for one, who will not be eligible for a promotion until January). We all have the exact same position description. I earn a lower salary than any starting federal government attorney, and I have been working for this office for over three years. I do not receive student loan repayment funds, and all of my Bar and CLE expenses are paid for out-of-pocket. How I came to be in my exact predicament is a long, somewhat sordid story for another day.
However, I have been to both my first and second line supervisors multiple times to ask them for the promotion, explaining to them that not only do I qualify for a raise on my education and licensure alone, I do the same work as the Specialists who recieve more pay than me, with the same position description. The responses I've gotten at various points in time have been:
"Not for another few months."
(when asked a few months later) "Your position doesn't go that high."
"You don't need your promotion yet, because you've 'been bad.'" (Yet no perfomance appraisal at all exists as proof of my bad-ness and I only received objectives earlier this year.)
My personal favorite reponse, from the office director, "Have you considered Section 8 housing?" **Not saying I wouldn't but I don't qualify for it based on income, and she knows this. I took this question to be more offensive rhetoric than anything.
Today, I was met with the same sort of opposition. No reason was given as to why I don't qualify for a promotion-- because I do-- but I was handed an internet address for some apartments in DC, said to be cheaper than the one in which I currently live.
They were the same price, and they had no in-unit washer/dryer hook-ups, which is somewhat of a requirement for someone who has no car, no hands to carry laundry, and no extra money for a coin-laundry if I'm paying the same amount in rent.
Personally, I think that I'm just being blown off time and again. I know what my rights are... but I've been struggling with whether to excerise them for some while now.
I just hope something new comes through for me on the job front, so I can put an end to that struggle.
Sure of myself, I hopped into Yellow Cab number #182 and rode $5.85 down the road (half a mile) to the Fair Lakes Shopping Center. I handed the driver my debit card (I never carry cash when I'm out alone, because protected Bank of America plastic is safer when stolen.) He handed the card back to me and said gently, "It says it's been declined."
"Impossible!" I thought. "I just checked my balance today. I know the money's in there." I quickly rummaged through my purse to find my emergency credit card, which was meant exactly for a situation such as this-- an emergency.
A cold, clammy feeling came over me as my hand groped from top to bottom of the blue lining inside my bag. Where was my card holder? I hurriedly dumped the contents of my purse onto the seat next to me. Papers, checks, a Starbucks gift card, lip gloss, a hairbrush.... no wallet!
"I can't pay you," I said, barely audible. My wallet seems to have disappeared."
"Well, we're here, so just get out and get what you need," he replied, slightly irritated.
"Sir, I don't think I can," I said. I had pulled up my bank account on my phone within seconds, thanks to my Bank of America app. It appeared that muy student loan payment (which was set for automatic debit on the 14th) did not go through until yesterday. And what's worse... the payment had graduated this month, making it $200 more than it has been for the past year.
So there I was, sitting in a cab, penniless, plastic-less, and plan-less, with the words, "I'm going to jail for $6." flashing like a burning neon sign in my brain.
"Can you just take me home? I have a cup of change there, and I think I can pay you in quarters." I was totally serious about this. On the way home, I told him everything, with intermittent bouts of "I'm sorry you're wasting your time on me" thrown in.
When we arrived in the apartment complex parking lot, he opened the door for me and asked, "Can I give you $20?"
"No, it's okay. I owe you money. And I get paid on Thursday. I'll manage until then."
"You have no money," he said. "I have some."
He insisted, shoving the shriveled bill into my hand. I was so stunned and amazed that I wanted to hug him. "What's your number or how can I get ahold of you to pay this back?"
"Don't wory about it," he said. "Everyone has bad days."
I thanked him twice more and walked through the door, stunned silent. I couldn't believe that a complete and total stranger, nonetheless a cab driver--the type of person with whom I notoriously have bad luck-- had committed this random act of kindness for me.
After ransacking my house to no avail to find the missing wallet, I went to bed determined to do two things this morning: (1) find my wallet and (2) ask my boss for a raise.
Currently, I make less than any of the other similarly situated EEO Specialists in my office (except for one, who will not be eligible for a promotion until January). We all have the exact same position description. I earn a lower salary than any starting federal government attorney, and I have been working for this office for over three years. I do not receive student loan repayment funds, and all of my Bar and CLE expenses are paid for out-of-pocket. How I came to be in my exact predicament is a long, somewhat sordid story for another day.
However, I have been to both my first and second line supervisors multiple times to ask them for the promotion, explaining to them that not only do I qualify for a raise on my education and licensure alone, I do the same work as the Specialists who recieve more pay than me, with the same position description. The responses I've gotten at various points in time have been:
"Not for another few months."
(when asked a few months later) "Your position doesn't go that high."
"You don't need your promotion yet, because you've 'been bad.'" (Yet no perfomance appraisal at all exists as proof of my bad-ness and I only received objectives earlier this year.)
My personal favorite reponse, from the office director, "Have you considered Section 8 housing?" **Not saying I wouldn't but I don't qualify for it based on income, and she knows this. I took this question to be more offensive rhetoric than anything.
Today, I was met with the same sort of opposition. No reason was given as to why I don't qualify for a promotion-- because I do-- but I was handed an internet address for some apartments in DC, said to be cheaper than the one in which I currently live.
They were the same price, and they had no in-unit washer/dryer hook-ups, which is somewhat of a requirement for someone who has no car, no hands to carry laundry, and no extra money for a coin-laundry if I'm paying the same amount in rent.
Personally, I think that I'm just being blown off time and again. I know what my rights are... but I've been struggling with whether to excerise them for some while now.
I just hope something new comes through for me on the job front, so I can put an end to that struggle.
Monday, November 8, 2010
The Marriage Question
Recently, I celebrated a birthday-- the one that comes after 28 and before 30. It was harder for me than I expected it to be... Long story short, I feel old. As I approach the age that starts with a 3 and ends with "Oh, Crap, am I really that old?," I've started to think about how I might need to take a long hard look at reprioritizing what I want out of life.
I've always wanted a family, complete with husband, kids, and pet... and I realize that I'm young and I have a great many years to make this dream a reality, but the problem is finding someone with the qualities I want who also wants me.
I would like to find a man who is a Christian, who wants kids (or a kid) fairly soon, and who is willing to accept me for who I am... this last part is always the hardest bit. Not because I think I'm inadequate in some way, but because most guys without disabilities don't see me as serious dating/possible marriage material. I think sometimes people see the crutches (or the chair, depending on the situation) and are afraid to ask the things they really want to know.
Trust me, I'd rather someone (anyone from my potential husband to my potential hairdresser) ask what they wanted to ask, rather than foregoing the courage to approach me at all. It saves both of us a lot of worry about what the other is really thinking, and if we're that open and honest up front, we're going to have a great friendship at the very least.
Honestly, sometimes I feel as though if a man in the church was on a "wife hunt," so to speak, I would be the last place he'd look. Before anyone gets angry at me for saying this, I'm not trying to discredit myself or any of the wonderful Christian guys out there.... but... when we reach a certain age, people start to wonder when we're going to get married, so we look for someone with common goals who seems to fit nicely into our life.
While I am a self-sufficient, smart, career woman who can get myself to work daily and cook my own meals, I am definitely not the no-frills option when it comes to wife-dom. I require a little maintenance-- and not the self-imposed, materialistic kind. I don't drive. It takes me awhile to make a bed, and on the days when I wake up with arthritis pain, I have to add a few extra minutes to even some of the most mundane daily tasks. But really those things don't even compare to the amount of love and happiness that I could build in a home with someone, so it's unfair to consider only those things.
The church is often one of the first places I would think about looking for a mate. When I first moved to DC, I was struck by the number of people who were amazed that I could actually take care of myself, let alone the fact that I wanted to find a husband. The people who took the time to know me realized that I was no different than any other young woman my age. Our goals were the same; the execution of them just might turn out to be a little different.
Often though, I saw and heard about others in the church being set up on dates or introduced to people who others thought might be a good fit for them. I was never one of those people. What I could never figure out was whether I wasn't being approached in this manner because people were scared of approaching me or because I wasn't making myself approachable.
I'm a girl who's used to making the first move in some ways. Once I have an inkling that a guy might be interested in me, I try my best to open up the lines of communication wide enough so that he feels comfortable assuaging all of his curiosities where my disability is concerned. Sometimes this can be a tiring process, because we have to have so many conversations that start with "Can I ask you a personal question? Please don't be offended." In reality, there is very little that a well-meaning person could say to offend me...and after 29 years of being asked questions, I know the difference between a well-meant question and a question meant to offend.
Some people might say that the easiest way to avoid this problem is to look for someone with a disability... someone who really "gets" me from the get-go. I'd love to.... but so far, the men I've dated who have disabilities have tended to be more superficial than the ones who don't. I've just been dating the wrong ones, you might say, and you're probably right. I'm not looking for much: I just want to be pursued, appreciated, and loved for who I am-- just like everyone else.
But at what point do I just "let go and let God?" It either is going to happen or it isn't, and I know this. I have wanted a family more than anything else on this Earth for as long as I can remember. Just ask my mother. "Playing house" was my favorite activity from the time I was 3 until I was twelve. I think now, though, it is the time to start preparing myself for a life which may include just me and the dog, minus the husband and kids. Not to say that that is a horrible existence in any way at all, it's just not really what I want, if I'm honest with myself.
But if I continue to focus on what I want, I'm going to miss out on truly enjoying all of the wonderful things, people, and opportunities God has given and is going to give me. This Earth is only temporary anyway. It's not my home. I need to find a way where I (as my single self) can be content--content enough to make the best out of my life serving others. Even if it doesn't turn out to be the life that I planned, it's the life that God purposed for me, so I need to work hard to live it to its fullest potential.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
"You're too pretty to be in that chair..." My spin on dating with a disability
Some of you know this story. Most of you don't. I had just moved to DC and was cruising around Crystal City (the neighborhood in Arlington where I work) in my black power chair. This particular morning, I was headed to Corner Bakery for coffee. I followed the same path from the Metro to work every day, and the Bakery was my usual coffee spot. Each morning I saw the same people, standing in line, salivating, as they waited for their morning caffiene fix.
I was a relatively new power chair user, because in years past, I had shrugged off using any mode of transportation other than the obvious (my four legs). During my teenage and college years, I thought that using a chair, for me, was going against nature in a sense. Since God had given me the ability to walk, no matter how painful or fatiguing it could be, I was going to use that ability until it failed me completely.
A new chair convert, I was slowly learning that life on wheels was not all bad. For instance, I was able to keep pace more easily when I was out with my friends. I could stroll alongside and be a part of every conversation rather than languish behind it.
Not only that, I was rarely as fatigued in my chair. I didn't sweat as much-- if at all-- because it takes much less effort for me to manipulate a joystick than to move my arms and legs back and forth and to and fro. As a result, my makeup looked cuter (because it stayed on longer) and I could wear less practical shoes (because I walked less than I ever had in my life).
My long blonde hair was cute and in place with a sparkly black headband, and I was wearing a black and white wrap dress with knee-high black boots. I carried my blue plastic Defense Equal Employment Opportunity Management Institute mug to the counter, and had it filled with my favorite European blend. The cashier, who knew me by name at this point, thanked me, and I headed for the door.
As I aimed for the exit, a man in line stopped me and said, "Excuse me, but... you are just too beautiful to be in that chair." This, I suppose, was his idea of a pick-up line. ... for me, it was anything but. Where else should I be? Barefoot and pregnant in his kitchen? And if I was too pretty for this chair, was he implying that all chair users were as a general rule un-pretty? I ignored his so-called "compliment" and strolled on to work. I had places to be.
But the more I thought about this encounter, the more it infuriated me. Generally, society and the mainstream media portray those who use wheelchairs as deficient in some way or as geriatric. Even someone who attemps to keep a positive attitude about her disability is hard-pressed not to be influenced by occasional negativity.
Young women in their teens, twenties, and oftentimes older, tend to have problems with body image... and I am no different than most. We tend to put a lot of stock in what others think of us when it comes to a lot of things, including their thoughts about our physical appearance.
So... everytime a boy or man has commented on my beauty, or lack thereof, I have taken it to heart.
Don't get me wrong, I want someone to love me for my brain and my heart, first and foremost... but it doesn't hurt to feel pretty-- sexy even-- somedays. I want to know that men, who primarily form first impressions with their eyes, are capable of seeing me as attractive.
Often, others see people with physical or other developmental disabilities as asexual beings, and any mention of us having sex or having children is taboo, even in our own families. I've never felt comfortable talking about such things with my mother. It's not something we do. I don't know if that will ever change, even after I am married (assuming, of course, some man is lucky enough to snag me.) The point is, her experiences with men and dating will always be different than mine. She's been with the same guy since she was 14, with only intermittent "break ups" here and there.
I am 28 and I'm still searching for something even remotely close to what she has.
When I look back at my past relationships, I know I've been loved and that I have loved. That's not to say there haven't been some real doozies.
Perhaps my most serious boyfriend was the worst. He was the first person I dated who also had a disability. The majority of strife in our relationship came from my insecurity about his feelings toward me. He would remind me that people "expected us to be together" because we both had CP and would sometimes tell me he was frustrated that he could not date someone normal.
With comments like that, I was sharing the same thoughts: What was his malfunction?
The real low point in our relationship came after he declared his intention to marry me. I was on Cloud 9 and thought I had finally found someone who loved me with the same fervent and unconditional love I showed him.
Until one moment snapped me back to reality.
He held my face, his hands gently cupped around my cheeks, looked me straight in the eye and said, "I think I'm finally ok with the fact that you have CP now."
"Excuse me?" I said, my voice cracking, unsure of what I'd heard.
He repeated himself again, louder, and as if he was proud of his ability to overlook my obvious flaw.
I grew silent. I couldn't understand how someone who expected others to see him for who he was looked at me through the same clouded lens that he asked others to avoid every day. I began to wonder what his thoughts of me had been before this sudden revelation or how he could be attracted to me, even in that moment, if it had taken him so long to come to grips with a characteristic we both shared.
What I realized then was that I was expecting more from him than I would from any other man-- a standard that was perhaps unfair. I had thought his having a disability would make him more understanding and compassionate toward me, and that he'd be able to look past my crazy spastic facial expressions and altered gait, just as I'd done for him. I was doing more than overlooking those characteristics though. I was loving him for them.
I found the post-tracheotomy gravel in his voice very sexy, and the shakiness of his his hands and sound of his hard gait familiarly comforting.
Unfortunately though, prejudice knows no bounds. And in asking him to overlook what he perceived as my flaws, I wasn't asking enough. I wanted him to do more. I wanted him to love them.
I'm waiting for the guy who thinks my crooked smile is adorable, that my toe walking is a familiar comfort to him, and that my curled toes are just something unique about me... even if they are a little weird. Point is, they're part of me, so they'll be something that he loves....
I was a relatively new power chair user, because in years past, I had shrugged off using any mode of transportation other than the obvious (my four legs). During my teenage and college years, I thought that using a chair, for me, was going against nature in a sense. Since God had given me the ability to walk, no matter how painful or fatiguing it could be, I was going to use that ability until it failed me completely.
A new chair convert, I was slowly learning that life on wheels was not all bad. For instance, I was able to keep pace more easily when I was out with my friends. I could stroll alongside and be a part of every conversation rather than languish behind it.
Not only that, I was rarely as fatigued in my chair. I didn't sweat as much-- if at all-- because it takes much less effort for me to manipulate a joystick than to move my arms and legs back and forth and to and fro. As a result, my makeup looked cuter (because it stayed on longer) and I could wear less practical shoes (because I walked less than I ever had in my life).
My long blonde hair was cute and in place with a sparkly black headband, and I was wearing a black and white wrap dress with knee-high black boots. I carried my blue plastic Defense Equal Employment Opportunity Management Institute mug to the counter, and had it filled with my favorite European blend. The cashier, who knew me by name at this point, thanked me, and I headed for the door.
As I aimed for the exit, a man in line stopped me and said, "Excuse me, but... you are just too beautiful to be in that chair." This, I suppose, was his idea of a pick-up line. ... for me, it was anything but. Where else should I be? Barefoot and pregnant in his kitchen? And if I was too pretty for this chair, was he implying that all chair users were as a general rule un-pretty? I ignored his so-called "compliment" and strolled on to work. I had places to be.
But the more I thought about this encounter, the more it infuriated me. Generally, society and the mainstream media portray those who use wheelchairs as deficient in some way or as geriatric. Even someone who attemps to keep a positive attitude about her disability is hard-pressed not to be influenced by occasional negativity.
Young women in their teens, twenties, and oftentimes older, tend to have problems with body image... and I am no different than most. We tend to put a lot of stock in what others think of us when it comes to a lot of things, including their thoughts about our physical appearance.
So... everytime a boy or man has commented on my beauty, or lack thereof, I have taken it to heart.
Don't get me wrong, I want someone to love me for my brain and my heart, first and foremost... but it doesn't hurt to feel pretty-- sexy even-- somedays. I want to know that men, who primarily form first impressions with their eyes, are capable of seeing me as attractive.
Often, others see people with physical or other developmental disabilities as asexual beings, and any mention of us having sex or having children is taboo, even in our own families. I've never felt comfortable talking about such things with my mother. It's not something we do. I don't know if that will ever change, even after I am married (assuming, of course, some man is lucky enough to snag me.) The point is, her experiences with men and dating will always be different than mine. She's been with the same guy since she was 14, with only intermittent "break ups" here and there.
I am 28 and I'm still searching for something even remotely close to what she has.
When I look back at my past relationships, I know I've been loved and that I have loved. That's not to say there haven't been some real doozies.
Perhaps my most serious boyfriend was the worst. He was the first person I dated who also had a disability. The majority of strife in our relationship came from my insecurity about his feelings toward me. He would remind me that people "expected us to be together" because we both had CP and would sometimes tell me he was frustrated that he could not date someone normal.
With comments like that, I was sharing the same thoughts: What was his malfunction?
The real low point in our relationship came after he declared his intention to marry me. I was on Cloud 9 and thought I had finally found someone who loved me with the same fervent and unconditional love I showed him.
Until one moment snapped me back to reality.
He held my face, his hands gently cupped around my cheeks, looked me straight in the eye and said, "I think I'm finally ok with the fact that you have CP now."
"Excuse me?" I said, my voice cracking, unsure of what I'd heard.
He repeated himself again, louder, and as if he was proud of his ability to overlook my obvious flaw.
I grew silent. I couldn't understand how someone who expected others to see him for who he was looked at me through the same clouded lens that he asked others to avoid every day. I began to wonder what his thoughts of me had been before this sudden revelation or how he could be attracted to me, even in that moment, if it had taken him so long to come to grips with a characteristic we both shared.
What I realized then was that I was expecting more from him than I would from any other man-- a standard that was perhaps unfair. I had thought his having a disability would make him more understanding and compassionate toward me, and that he'd be able to look past my crazy spastic facial expressions and altered gait, just as I'd done for him. I was doing more than overlooking those characteristics though. I was loving him for them.
I found the post-tracheotomy gravel in his voice very sexy, and the shakiness of his his hands and sound of his hard gait familiarly comforting.
Unfortunately though, prejudice knows no bounds. And in asking him to overlook what he perceived as my flaws, I wasn't asking enough. I wanted him to do more. I wanted him to love them.
I'm waiting for the guy who thinks my crooked smile is adorable, that my toe walking is a familiar comfort to him, and that my curled toes are just something unique about me... even if they are a little weird. Point is, they're part of me, so they'll be something that he loves....
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