Tag Archives: Motivation

Being Bullied: The Effects that Can Last a Lifetime.

9 Oct

About two weeks ago, I randomly received an email from a woman who works at an elementary school in Asheville. She informed me she had received my contact information from the program director of Easter Seals in Asheville who spoke very highly of me. She then told me there is a book club at the elementary school, and in the book the children are reading, the main character has Cerebral Palsy. Based on the high remarks she received from the Asheville Easter Seals program director concerning me, she asked if I’d be willing to come speak to the third through fifth graders about my experiences with CP. Specifically, she asked if I could speak about my experiences of being bullied during my school years.

The email was completely out of the blue, and I was stunned. To have received this kind of opportunity without searching for it is incredible, and I am excited for such a wonderful opportunity. However, the tricky part comes with the focus of the talk: my bullying experiences in school.

It is safe to say my bullying experiences were the worst part of my childhood (excluding my intense surgeries and physical therapy, obviously). As a child, I could not understand why I was being targeted out of everyone in my class. I understand now that children are especially curious about those who are different from them. However, I didn’t know why it always had to be me. During those times, I also didn’t understand why I was so different. All I wanted was to fit in, and by getting bullied I stuck out even more.

I got my hair pulled in kindergarten because I had no way of running away, I got pelted with a dodge ball in middle school because I couldn’t move away from the ball fast enough, and every day in gym class, I was picked last. Though I know those experiences helped me to develop a thicker skin very early on in life, many of the experiences were just plain cruel. There is no other way to say it. They resulted in me coming home from elementary school crying to my parents on a daily basis. I cried over more than just the bullying though. I cried over hating I was so different. I cried over not being able to fit in because my experiences were so different from most of the other kids my age. I cried because it wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. I was a nice kid. I smiled at other kids, I laughed with them, and yet I still didn’t ever really fit in with them.

The complex social aspects of school are difficult for any kid. However, they are especially difficult for any kid who may be a tiny bit different from their peers. I only hope to try to convey this to the children I’ll speak to at the elementary school in Asheville. I don’t want to berate them or tell them to stop being mean. After all, they are kids. Kids are curious, especially regarding things they don’t fully understand. I only hope to explain how children with disabilities should be treated just like any other kid. Yes, they are different, but pointing out their differences and excluding them from activities because they are a little bit unique only makes it that much more difficult for them.

Despite growing a tougher skin due to being bullied, I have carried my bullying experiences with me ever since I was a kid. I remember the specific moments in detail. I remember who targeted me, and I remember exactly the way I felt when I came home and cried. I know now that many of my bullying experiences were not intentional. They were just moments of kids being kids. However, that does not mean I still don’t remember the feeling of walking into gym class with my fingers crossed, silently hoping I wouldn’t have to be pelted with a dodge ball by the one girl who always got so much satisfaction out of being the one to hit me.

To those who taught me to dream.

2 Jul

When I was little, I wanted nothing more than to be a ballerina. Around Christmastime, my grandmother would take me to see The Nutcracker at the Koger Center. As I sat up in the balcony in my checkered dress and patent leather shoes, I stared with admiration at the character of Clara. I imagined myself twirling around in my own leotard with a toy nutcracker in my hands, lost in the music and a dance that was all my own. When I got home from seeing The Nutcracker, I’d put on my leotard and tutu, grab a favorite stuffed animal at the time, and twirl in circles to the music only I could hear.

It was in those moments, in the safety of my childhood bedroom, that I began to dream, imagining doing things I knew I wouldn’t be able to do in reality due to my disability. I imagined dancing with a grace I had seen only in ballerinas. I put on my ballet shoes and twirled until my unstable balance got the best of me and I fell to the floor in frustration. I even remember asking my parents if I could take ballet lessons, determined to learn how to create the beauty I had seen in the character of Clara. The opportunity never arose though, simply because I didn’t have the balance to be a ballerina. Despite walking on my tiptoes, twirling around in circles on those same tiptoes was out of the question.

As I got older and I filled my head with more realistic dreams, I never stopped imagining doing the things I’d never be able to fully experience. I thought of dancing to the music of my world. I imagined running down the street and feeling the wind on my face as I chased the orange and red sunset I saw in the distance. I pictured myself climbing the huge oak tree in my backyard, wanting nothing more than to find a sturdy limb I could sit on so I could rest my back against the tree’s broad trunk and escape into my favorite book. The creative imagination I possessed placed me right into the worlds I dreamed, though I knew I was so far away from actually experiencing them.

I am forever grateful to the people throughout my life who have encouraged my imagination and dreams. Though I was constantly reminded by other kids around me of the things I was unable to do, so many of the adult figures in my life understood the importance of believing in my creativity. Because of those individuals, I have learned what it means to still hope and strive for the things that still seem a bit out of reach. Through my ability to dream, I developed a determination that has propelled me through my life, despite stumbling again and again. While I may not have had the chance to be a ballerina who twirls endlessly with the grace of a perfect melody, I have sung my heart out at a voice recital, capturing an entire room with the simple sound of my voice. I have participated in theatre productions, achieving my moment in the spotlight by being Glinda the Good Witch in The Wizard of Oz. I have written of specific moments of pain during the months following intense operations, creating the same tears in the eyes of my readers that I possessed during my moments of defeat. Though I may not have had the chance to live the experiences I longed for, I have continued to move to the song of my own life, continuously grateful to those who taught me to dream and create my own destiny.

Own your story.

20 Apr

Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.-Brene Brown

When I came across this Brene Brown quote a few days ago, I couldn’t help but realize how much it applied to my certain circumstances. Not just the overall situation of living with Cerebral Palsy, but the more recent circumstances of realizing that I must now face the emotions which resulted from my recent return to physical therapy. Though it would be so much easier to resist thinking about the emotions and memories that returning to physical therapy brought up for me, I know that I must face them if I’m going to be able to move forward.

Throughout my life, I have heard people tell me how awesome it is that I don’t let my CP define me. According to my CP doctor, I “make it look easy.” Though I do understand that most people are trying to compliment me, it’s also hard for me to believe them in the full sense of the phrase. Though I don’t ever introduce myself as “the girl with CP,” I often wonder if that’s what others are thinking, specifically people I have just met. Overall, I try not to let myself focus too much on all of the difficulties it brings, because if I did that, how the heck would I still be able to find joy in the little things? However, at the same time, my CP affects me on a daily basis. Every day is hard, and every day I am reminded of how different I am from those around me. At the same time, I am reminded of how far I’ve come, and that’s where “owning my story” comes in.

Though I began writing my memoir in order to help myself come to terms with what I’ve faced and to help others in similar situations, I have also just wanted to shed a light on just how many of us are struggling in ways people may not truly understand. Putting all the benefits and support aside, “owning my story” through writing about it and essentially saying “Yes, this is who I am, and I am damn proud” has been the most frightening, scariest, most frustrating and overall hardest thing I’ve ever done. In all actuality, it sucks, but it’s helping me. Truthfully, it reminds me of the idea that you’ve got to hit rock bottom before you can truly understand your own strength. It’s cliché, but it’s also true. In many ways though, I feel as if trudging through this first draft of my memoir is similar to hitting rock bottom, over and over again.

Despite the frustrations of “owning my story,” it’s my way of being the voice of so many others who aren’t able to express what it’s like living with a disability. If writing my memoir means I can give a voice to a few of those people, then I will plunge into the darkness of it. Just because there are people who aren’t able to express the emotions connected with what they have experienced doesn’t mean that they shouldn’t have a chance to still be heard. If anything, all of those people deserve it a little bit more. After all, every one of us has so much to learn from each of the people we come into contact with, so why not start by owning the experiences we’ve faced, no matter how scary and painful?

Sports Illustrated Kids Brings Awareness To CP.

4 Feb

A few days ago, I watched the inspirational story of brothers Connor and Cayden Long, the winners of the Sports Illustrated Kids 2012 SportsKids of the Year award. However, I have found myself watching it more than once over the last few days simply because it’s that amazing, but be sure to have your Kleenex ready!

The story of Connor and Cayden not only brings awareness to Cerebral Palsy, but it also emphasizes that those with disabilities deserve to be treated like everyone else. Connor, brother to Cayden who has CP, has done something incredible. Through his decision to include his brother in triathlons, he is reshaped the course of his brother’s life, whether he knows it or not. He’s making a point to say that even though his brother has CP, he shouldn’t be viewed as any less than anyone else. Through Connor’s desire to connect with his brother, he is giving Cayden a voice that may not have been heard otherwise. He is helping others become more aware of CP and other disabilities, which is definitely needed in today’s society. Hopefully the more aware people become regarding CP and other disabilities, the less fear there will be toward those who are “different.”

The fact that Connor, who is only 9 years old, was able to make so many important points concerning the acceptance of those with disabilities is incredible. Sadly, there probably aren’t even that many adults that would have the courage or understanding to make such claims. Though I know that some of that fear stems from a lack of education and awareness about those with disabilities, it’s why we need more people like Connor who have a background with people with disabilities (whether it’s a family member or friend) and who are not afraid to get up and say what needs to be said. Though there is still a long way to go regarding society’s acceptance of those with disabilities, allowing the public to become more aware through stories such as this is how it begins.

The story of Connor and Cayden is yet another emphasis on why I have chosen to share my own story of CP. Though it may take quite a while for me to actually get my complete story on paper, I know there are people with disabilities who have some of the same pain, fears, hopes, and dreams as I do, but are unable to express how they are feeling or just want to know they are not alone. That’s why I’ve kept on writing. These stories need to be brought to light, both for those who have lived through the experiences as well as for those who are striving to understand just what someone they know with a disability is feeling.

The Disability Fight: It Never Ends, Does It?

23 Jan

I am still incredibly self-conscious in regards to the physical aspects of my disability. Though I may have reached a point where I am able to talk about my disability with more ease than ever before, I still haven’t developed a sense of confidence when it comes to the physical differences related to my Cerebral Palsy. I shrink away from the differences, silently wishing they were a part of someone else and not me.

When I see the severe curvature of my lower back in a mirror, I cringe. In the summer, when I give in and put on a bathing suit because of the heat, I hate to look down and see the scars on my legs from my intense surgeries. In just one moment, I am transported back to my intense surgeries, all the physical therapy I endured following those surgeries and the nights I’d wake up screaming and in tears because of the pain that seemed to come from everywhere all at ounce. When I am about to walk inside of a building and I see the reflection of myself in a door, I look away. I don’t have to look at my own reflection to know the way I’m swaying side to side as I walk with a visible stiffness in my legs. I don’t have to look at my reflection to know the way my knees still knock inward and the way I’m up on my tiptoes despite the operations I had to straighten my femurs and try to decrease the spasticity in my legs. I can formulate a picture in my head of myself walking that’s so accurate I want to scream. I’d give anything to not know every single detail of how the way I walk is different from how the average person walks. A part of me hates myself for my self-consciousness in regards to my walking. I spent my entire childhood going through intense surgeries and 15 years of physical therapy to reach a point where I could walk on my own without assistance and be as independent as possible. It’s not that I am not proud I can walk. I am. I know I should be jumping up and down on a daily basis because I am able to walk. But I don’t. I just can’t make myself do it.

If you were to ask me whether I’d choose to have CP over not having it, I’d say I’d rather have it because it’s made me into a much stronger person. But if you were to ask me if there’s anything I’d change about myself, I’d tell you that all I want is to look like everyone else. I don’t want to always be the target of stares from toddlers, and even adults, in grocery stores. I want to be able to stop having to cringe at the severe curvature of my lower back or look away from my scars and the pain I remember and still feel. I want to stop having to look away from my reflection because my knees are knocking together and I’m up on my tiptoes. In a way, that’s what all of the physical therapy and surgeries were for. It was to get me as independent as possible, or as close to being like everyone else as I could get. But even with all that work, I’m so far from being where I wish I could be. My balance sucks. I can’t go up or down stairs without a railing. I can’t put on a pair of pants without needing to be in a seated position. And on the days when I think of the things I can’t do and I’ve fallen more than what is normally expected of me during the course of a day, I cry. I cry because it is so, so hard to keep fighting this. No, I am not faced with a life-threatening health problem, so I’m not fighting for my life necessarily. But I’m still fighting just as hard. And it takes every ounce of strength in my body to wake up every morning and make the choice to face it all…again and again, even though all I really want to do sometimes is pull the covers over my head and hide.

The Shrine Bowl of 2003.

25 Nov

Ten years ago, as I was riding back from one of my weekly physical therapy sessions with my mom, I received a phone call informing me I had been nominated to be the Shrine Bowl Queen. At the time, I wasn’t sure what being a Shrine Bowl Queen meant, and I didn’t know there was a football game that took place every year in the Carolinas hosted by the Shriners.

As months went by following that first phone call, I received more phone calls informing me I was a finalist and finally that I had been chosen as the Shrine Bowl Queen for the Shrine Bowl of 2003. I didn’t know what to think. I was excited, obviously. However, I was confused as to how I’d been chosen. Apparently, as I later learned, I had been one of the few girls who had been chosen out of the thousands of patients who had been in and out of Shriner’s Hospital for Kids in Greenville, SC, over the past year. Though sometimes it still blows my mind that I was picked out of all the others girls that year, I’m proud. I was chosen because I had stood out. However, for once, I didn’t stand out because of my disability (since the majority of the kids at Shriner’s were disabled too). I stood out because someone saw me as one of the patients at Shriner’s who had faced a lot, but was still able to have a smile on her face and a lively laugh despite the pain.

Being named “the Shrine Bowl Queen” involved attending two required events. The first event was a parade that took place in Myrtle Beach, SC, in which I rode on a float (along with the Shrine Bowl King) to support the Shriners and the Shrine Bowl game that would take place in the Spring. The second event was the Shrine Bowl itself. Though I don’t remember the outcome of the football game, I remember being so incredibly nervous, but also extremely excited. As time passed during the first quarter, I knew the chance to make my appearance was getting closer and closer. Part of being the Shrine Bowl Queen (or King) involves going onto the football field during halftime of the Shrine Bowl to release a dove into the air. During this time, both the king and the queen each receive a trophy with their name engraved as well as a football that is signed by all the Shrine Bowl players of that year. Though I was excited about having the opportunity to walk out onto the field with the Shriners to release a dove, the thought of being in front of so many people gave me huge knots in my stomach. However, despite the nervousness, I knew that I would walk out onto that field. After all, I had been chosen as the Shrine Bowl Queen for the Shrine Bowl of 2003. With all references of having a disability aside, that isn’t an opportunity that you simply walk away from.

I guess you could say that the Shrine Bowl of 2003 was one of the highlights of my time at Shriner’s Hospital for Kids. Though there were definitely some other exciting times that were connected with getting closer and closer to independence, the majority of those memories were layered with months of physical pain. However, the Shrine Bowl of 2003 didn’t include any kind of pain: physical or emotional. It just served as a day which now signifies that I was a patient at Shriner’s Hospital for Children, and I was a prime example of a girl who endured. Though there are definitely numerous moments now in which I’m able to look back on all that I have overcome, being chosen to be the Shrine Bowl Queen of 2003 was evidence that I wasn’t the only one who was able to recognize all that I had endured. Doctors, physical therapists, nurses, and others at Shriner’s who were responsible with making the Shrine Bowl Queen nominations knew it as well. They probably knew it long before I even saw myself as someone who could smile and laugh despite the continued presence of pain in my life.

Creativity according to Elizabeth Gilbert.

24 Nov

Elizabeth Gilbert TED Talk: Your Elusive Creative Genius

“You were given life; it is your duty (and also your entitlement as a human being) to find something beautiful within life, no matter how slight.”

“We don’t realize that, somewhere within us all, there does exist a supreme self who is eternally at peace.”

“In a world of disorder and disaster and fraud, sometimes only beauty can be trusted. Only artistic excellence is incorruptible. Pleasure cannot be bargained down. And sometimes the meal is the only currency that is real.”

“Your treasure – your perfection – is within you already. But to claim it, you must leave the busy commotion of the mind and abandon the desires of the ego and enter into the silence of the heart.”