I was five yours old when I fell in love with words. My first books were the Little Critter series and Little Golden books. I would read The Poky Little Puppy over and over. Books opened up a whole new world to me that allowed me to escape into the stories that others had dreamed up. I wanted to be able to tell my own stories and have others able to live inside my worlds or see life through my eyes.
I was a pretty introverted child. I kept to myself unless approached first. I didn’t want to make anyone more uncomfortable and I was already the “odd man out.” Once they got to feel me out a little bit, the ice would break and they would see that I was just a kid like them. Once that barrier was broken, I never really had problems making friends. I was really choosy about who I did have around me though and I really couldn’t give them terms in which to understand my disability outside of “handicapped.”. It doesn’t matter so much when you are five anyway. I just kept what I couldn’t articulate to them locked inside and hoped one day I could find a way to let everyone know what walking in my shoes was like.
It wasn’t until the sixth grade and I had Mrs. Hall for English that I realized that I had a talent for writing. That is when my world burst open and I felt set free from my self imposed prison. I began to tell of my alienation, anger, and resentment of being stuck in this body that I didn’t want. Poem after poem would flow like churning rapids out of me and the supply of experiences seemed endless. Finally, for the first time in my young life, I felt a sense of freedom.
The thing that surprised me most about writing is that everyone seemed to be interested in learning and having a new understanding. A different perspective on a life they couldn’t even fathom. Most of them had legs that worked just fine and they never imagined their existence any other way. I would see a light come on in their eyes and I felt a rush of exhilaration and felt a small sense of accomplishment knowing that I had planted a seed in them to see the world through another set of eyes. At that moment, I regained some self esteem and had something other than a disability that identified me. I was a writer.
That is when I realized that even at the age of twelve, I had the power to facilitate change, even if it just was in my small corner of the world. Whenever I could, I would use my words to tell my story of triumph, heartache, loss, joy, sorrow; whatever emotion moved through me at the time. I loved the fact, that even in fiction writing; I could put little bits of myself in the DNA of the characters I created. My sphere of understanding swelled out into the lives of my characters or my own personal journey through life. I was only limited to what I could dream up.
For a girl like me, who kept herself away from the world because she didn’t want to draw anymore attention to herself, it was like a breathing new air into a life that had become stale and meaningless. I was no longer stuck in the pain and angst of my reality. I had a voice and place in this world. I had a choice about how I was going to react to what had happened and get me ready for what would happen to me in the future. I could be alienated and withdrawn or I could tell why I was the way that I was. Nobody can truly know unless you let them into the inner soul, the core of who you are.
I had been given wings and flight again. Words became a kind of salvation and a weapon otherwise; I don’t think I could have been so bold. They gave me fearlessness. Proud to stand tall and take my place in this world. The most important gift of all was the realization that I may be limited to what I can do with my body but, I am free in my mind.