Rachael Eyre's Blog - Posts Tagged "dyspraxia"
Weird Girl Notes: Living With Dyspraxia
It's one of the hoary chestnuts of Writing 101: Write What You Know. This being Dyspraxia Awareness Week, I thought I'd share my experience of this most misunderstood of conditions.
Growing up I never felt like the other children. I craved friendship but was so boisterous and noisy, I alienated my contemporaries; I retreated into a world of make believe instead. I scorned rules, spat on authority and seemed incapable of keeping myself tidy. My teachers must've thought I was a budding serial killer, but they missed the real seeds of my unhappiness: I couldn't bloody do anything.
I couldn't tie my laces, wash or style my hair, colour within the lines, catch, cartwheel, climb a rope, do joined up writing, tell the time - the list went on and on. Maths was anathema to me: the slippery hieroglyphs on the page made no sense and refused to tot up inside my head.
I hated being different. Everybody assumed I was "backward" - including, to my lasting chagrin, my own father. One of my earliest memories is him declaring I was "mentally deficient" to a roomful of my stepmother's relatives. I haven't seen him since I was six, thank God, but the damage was done; it has always been my berserk button. If anyone so much as implied I was stupid, blood was shed.
Fortunately Mum was stubborn and demanded answers. After years of mysterious cross examinations and being ordered to catch bean bags, I was diagnosed on my tenth birthday. You should see my expression on the photos. The Grumpy Cat is a novice.
You'd think that now my problem had been officially identified, the hard part would be over. Far from it. Challenges only shifted and proliferated as I grew older. As a teenager I worried about being picked last for the netball team; as an adult, my bluster and difficulty in pitching my feelings meant I performed dismally in interviews. This puts you in a bind with employers: do you disclose your condition and risk discrimination, or bumble along and be labelled incompetent? Even experienced health professionals claim you can't be disabled if you have a degree, which is arrant nonsense.
Thankfully this is beginning to change. It's estimated between 5 and 10 percent of the population have dyspraxia - and, contrary to common belief, they're not all male. Nor does it magically disappear when you get older. We now have an openly dyspraxic MP, Emma Lewell Buck; events like Dyspraxia Awareness Week boost its profile. Not long ago I had a lady earnestly explain that her daughter was dyspraxic, and what this entailed. It gave me an eerie feeling of deja vu.
It's great that kids are finally receiving the support they need, but what about the millions of adults with dyspraxia? If as many public figures as possible were to acknowledge they had the condition, it could make a real difference. If you're a writer with a disability, you can do your part by creating likeable, believable disabled characters, not the one note jokes or long suffering saints audiences are accustomed to.
Dyspraxia. Seldom a blessing, frequently a curse and a fact of life for many. Perhaps I'd have had a happier, easier life without it - but then I wouldn't be me.
Growing up I never felt like the other children. I craved friendship but was so boisterous and noisy, I alienated my contemporaries; I retreated into a world of make believe instead. I scorned rules, spat on authority and seemed incapable of keeping myself tidy. My teachers must've thought I was a budding serial killer, but they missed the real seeds of my unhappiness: I couldn't bloody do anything.
I couldn't tie my laces, wash or style my hair, colour within the lines, catch, cartwheel, climb a rope, do joined up writing, tell the time - the list went on and on. Maths was anathema to me: the slippery hieroglyphs on the page made no sense and refused to tot up inside my head.
I hated being different. Everybody assumed I was "backward" - including, to my lasting chagrin, my own father. One of my earliest memories is him declaring I was "mentally deficient" to a roomful of my stepmother's relatives. I haven't seen him since I was six, thank God, but the damage was done; it has always been my berserk button. If anyone so much as implied I was stupid, blood was shed.
Fortunately Mum was stubborn and demanded answers. After years of mysterious cross examinations and being ordered to catch bean bags, I was diagnosed on my tenth birthday. You should see my expression on the photos. The Grumpy Cat is a novice.
You'd think that now my problem had been officially identified, the hard part would be over. Far from it. Challenges only shifted and proliferated as I grew older. As a teenager I worried about being picked last for the netball team; as an adult, my bluster and difficulty in pitching my feelings meant I performed dismally in interviews. This puts you in a bind with employers: do you disclose your condition and risk discrimination, or bumble along and be labelled incompetent? Even experienced health professionals claim you can't be disabled if you have a degree, which is arrant nonsense.
Thankfully this is beginning to change. It's estimated between 5 and 10 percent of the population have dyspraxia - and, contrary to common belief, they're not all male. Nor does it magically disappear when you get older. We now have an openly dyspraxic MP, Emma Lewell Buck; events like Dyspraxia Awareness Week boost its profile. Not long ago I had a lady earnestly explain that her daughter was dyspraxic, and what this entailed. It gave me an eerie feeling of deja vu.
It's great that kids are finally receiving the support they need, but what about the millions of adults with dyspraxia? If as many public figures as possible were to acknowledge they had the condition, it could make a real difference. If you're a writer with a disability, you can do your part by creating likeable, believable disabled characters, not the one note jokes or long suffering saints audiences are accustomed to.
Dyspraxia. Seldom a blessing, frequently a curse and a fact of life for many. Perhaps I'd have had a happier, easier life without it - but then I wouldn't be me.
