“I’m the kid you think is a loner. Not quite a geek, but definitely NOT popular. Sometimes I actually feel invisible when you talk about the sleepover parties you had that I wasn’t invited to or when you talk about the movies you saw. Sometimes I wonder if you are laughing at me when I see you giggling. I just look away like I don’t see you or I don’t care. But inside I wish for that easy way of being it looks like you have. I wonder what it’s like to whisper secrets at night at a sleepover. I wonder what it’s like to have someone spend time with me because they are interested in my opinions, my humor, my caring. I see movies and read books about teenagers that are nothing like me. I feel alien, or that I was born at the wrong time, or at times that maybe I shouldn’t be born at all.
I’m a special needs kid, a disabled kid. I have hemaplegia, a paralysis or inability to move certain muscles, the right side in my case. This paralysis makes it hard for me to speak above a loud whisper. I also have cataracts, so I can’t see very well. I am lucky to be in a regular private middle school, they say. I’m not cramped up like a pretzel, and I don’t drool out the side of my mouth or have seizures like the other kids that have the same label as me.
But I have difficulties on the inside where you can’t see. I’m slower because I’ve got to figure out a way to get things done that are usually easy. I work real hard every day for things that come easy to you: walking up and down the stairs, running, seeing my school work, or speaking up for myself. You see, what takes you one step, takes me six steps. You can yell and people will listen. I yell and people say: “What? Speak up.” You are laughing with your friends while I’m figuring out how to do math homework that takes me 3 1/2 hours and takes you 30 minutes.
I wish that you could just see me for who I am. I wish you could include me in your conversations. I wish I could tell you about my cats or my dog and rabbit.
My first two pets were cats: Sunny, a tailless orange-and-brown Manx and Rosco, a grayish, green-eyed short-haired cat. They were GREAT cats. Sunny loved to jump up on a high bar in the living room and view everything below. Rosco was the dignified queen who often sat outside “guarding” our house. One year, Roscoe ran away. After putting up signs, walking the neighborhood at odd hours and putting ads in the local newspapers, I thought she was gone forever. Then a week later, though we had scoured every hiding place in the house at least 20 times, she came walking down our white carpet stairs, acting like a debutante at her coming-out party. I was so excited!
I lost two friends
Both cats died when they were 13—Sunny had to be put to sleep because she had seizures and Roscoe died of illness. It was a difficult year for me, losing my two best friends. Before they died, a stray cat showed up at my family’s garage sale one Saturday. She was the dirtiest cat I had ever met, with the loudest meows. She helped soothe the pain I felt from losing my other cats. She would literally put her paws around my neck and lick my lips as if we were lovers. It sounds a bit disgusting, but her love made my loneliness go away. We named her Feather because she was light as a feather, and she had a long, black feathery tail. She was blue-eyed, deaf and a bit stupid, but her loving nature made up for everything. Feather also got sick and had to be put to sleep on the day after my 13th birthday (the number 13 may not be my lucky number). It was then I knew I could never be a veterinarian, putting animals to sleep. Maybe I can be a Hollywood animal trainer.
My Dad tried to soften the loss by getting me a gray rabbit named Thumper. He didn’t like her because she bit and scratched him, and chewed on his carpet and telephone wires. However, she was always gentle and sweet to me. She also died in my 13th year.
With the passing away of all my pets, I ached inside. I hadn’t made any human best friends at my new school, New Roads. Then my aunt took me to the animal shelter and I picked out a new orange-and-white cat. In honor of my previous cat, her name is Feather also. She is still alive and well today, giving me lots of pleasure and love. My aunt also gave me her German shepherd dog, Angel. He stays at her house, but I get to train him, wash and walk him, and most important, love him. He is sweet and docile until a stranger passes by. Then he barks loudly and places himself between others and me to protect me.
I also have a dog-walking business called PAWS. I have walked four dogs: Timmy, Beau, Luna and Bo. Timmy is a lovable terrier. Beau, an old, calm Alaskan Malamute he walks next to me, keeping up with me. Sometimes he talks to himself. It is funny to see that. Walking Luna the black Labrador is like holding onto a hurricane! She is a great friend and is fun to play with. Bo the German shepherd lies down, and makes me scratch his belly, every time I pet him. All these animals are my best friends. When I talk to them, they listen and keep my conversations private. They don’t know I’m disabled. They treat me the same as they treat everyone else.
Since I was seven, I have done a sport called “horse vaulting.” I and other disabled kids learn to do stunts similar to the gymnasts who vault in the Olympics, except we do our moves on a live moving horse. I have learned to do amazing things: I can stand, do somersaults, and perform other tricks on the horse. It’s given me a lot of confidence. Every year I participate in a solo performance on ”Fun Day” and get a gold medal for my participation. One year, Nancy and president Ronald Reagan gave me my medal. What a thrill!
But, to tell you the truth, I am lonely for a human friend, a best friend. It seems that my sister has friends, at the dinner table, she talks about her friends at school. My mother does too. She talks to all her friends too. Is it my disabilities that people just don’t know how to deal with? Or is it my shyness, or how I look, or how I act? What is it about me, the person underneath the big green eyes and the cautious smile, that makes it hard to be my friend?
If I had a best friend, we could do so much together—laugh at jokes, talk about dogs, write notes to each other, share secrets, listen to each other, and cheer each other on when we accomplished something great. She would never worry what people thought of her. She’d be adventuresome, strong and honest—she wouldn’t be afraid to tell me what I might not like to hear.
I would like to have a best friend but if I could not, I would like to be included more often. Would you include me if I were any different? If you knew my accomplishments would you include me? If I ran for student council would you include me? What would it take for a special needs kid to be liked or even wanted in a regular school, a private regular school? Does anyone know how lonely it is, or how much work it is, for me to belong to a “normal” world? I wish there was some large print instruction manual to tell me how I can belong, too.”