For every day, for every week, for every month, for every year, for every milestone, I should have been told about my disability. Being told about my disability was not a luxury I was afforded.
For every struggle, for every bad thought, for every time I was told I needed to do my exercises without an explanation, for every time I got a bad mark because I failed to understand school, I should have been told about my disability.
I go back to being a child, I didn’t get what was so difficult. If my upbringing had been any different I would have been told. I know that in her own way mum never gave up helping me, insisting I exercise because she thought it would help.
She never gave up trying to make my life easier, hoping I would fall into line, but without the explanations that didn’t work out. I would eventually fall into line to do my exercises, but it wasn’t without a fight.
I knew the muscle tone and leg length difference were there, but didn’t question them because no one else did, so thought they mustn’t know. I knew my left foot was deformed, I didn’t know why, why I walked with a limp, or why I walked toe heel.
Another reason: I was embarrassed to go home with my school reports, even more so I hated my parents reading them. I remember counting the days until I could leave and looking back now thinking how sad that was.