I'm in
a foul mood right now because I've been reading some other people's
journals which are generally all about their particular complaints of
the moment which is, surprise surprise, generally the nature of
journals. I know that going in, and one of the great satisfactions
of reading journals is that you get to see what people are doing with
their time and how precisely and predictably well they are getting along
or not getting along, oblivious to their own shortcomings and/or
advantages just as I am often oblivious to mine. I get to be the
guy who sees lucky or unlucky people not realizing just how lucky or
unlucky they are and then I go off and agonize over my own lack of luck
in some area or another. Understand here, dear reader, that I'm
bringing all this on myself.
The same
thing happens in the real world. For example, from time to time
it's very difficult for me to be around typical children. They
speak in cute little phrases, and grab things with both hands.
Eventually they walk, and run, and belong to a world that welcomes them
straight on without having to whisper and inquire surreptitiously about
what's wrong with them, what's that thing on her leg and her arm, is she
deaf, did the parents do something bad during pregnancy, is it
contagious.
Every
encounter with a typical child is a lesson for me, a reminder that I
have to get over feeling sorry for myself and my daughter. It's
difficult. I always blink away tears and shove my mind toward
something altogether benign, like roof repair or how I need to get more
vacuum cleaner bags (for you new readers out there, we're talking
cerebral palsy from a massive stroke at birth, hemiplegia, epilepsy, and
a host of various developmental delays, comparatively speaking).
My heart
breaks every morning when I take my daughter to school. Onto the
campus she limps, dropping things along the way. Other parents
bustle about, getting their hugs and watching their kids run to the
playground and to class. Typical little girls speak amongst
themselves with all the speed and vocabulary of young women, and it's so
easy to see them as college students. Try as they do, they've
learned the ache of impatience in trying to converse with my daughter.
Picking
her up from school is remarkably similar except that now we're just that
much closer to sitting down and doing homework, which is, as I'm sure
you're well aware, a glorious exploration of the ecstasy that is
learning and joyous spontaneous discovery of life's rich pageant.
Like I
said, I'm in a foul mood right now. I'm jealous. I'm
tired. I'm certainly not living a nightmare, but I suspect this is
not a dream you'd like to have.
To be
honest, I am not in need of the repair that the intensity of this entry
suggests. I long ago pursued emotional remediation for myself, one
of those remedies being this journal. I am not soliciting offers
to fix me, for I am, in fact, not broken. And neither is my
daughter. She is who and what she is. Many therapies have
been pursued, some successful, some appropriate, some not. The
pain we feel is the pain of comparison, of not meeting other people's
expectations and seeing the behavior such a disconnect elicits in
others. As social creatures we are susceptible to their influence
and good intentions, however direct or indirect they may be. And,
unfortunately, it is sometimes impossible to quell whatever longing
there may be to have a life free of one's own relentless challenges.
It's odd
and frightening and infuriating to realize that, just because of how she
is, had my daughter lived in another place in an earlier time, her community,
in the name of God, would've
stoned her, drowned her, or lashed her to a stake and burned her to
death.
Makes ya
think.
_______________________