For those who read my blogs, you will know that I write from experience. Those who shared these experiences with me will know for themselves whether things might have been handled differently. It is for each of us to reflect and reconcile in our own way.
I write about my experiences so that I can make sense of them and not carry the impact of that trauma in a way that harms my wellbeing. Couple that with the loss of my twin, and both continue to cast a shadow over my experiences.
Knitted from the same wool, with the same needles – twins, side by side.
Once we were two stitches in the same row.
Now the pattern continues with only one.
I am a twin, but we have always been different. My disability is part of my story, but it’s not the whole design. Learning about how I function with a mental disability, I’m still discovering another side of myself.
I’m calmer and more at peace with who I am because I choose not to judge my shortcomings and because I care more about myself.
In many ways, over the decades I’ve had to learn that I am my own stitch.
Which brings me to a question I’ve carried for a long time: how do I move forward without an apology? And after many years of wanting one, do I still need it?
Yes. This has spanned too many decades.
An apology represents honesty, goodness, openness, and accountability. It is something deeper than words. An apology recognises that your experiences were real, and that the expectations placed on you didn’t – or should never have accounted for what you were living with.
Would it help? Yes. It would show understanding – and contrition.
But when an apology isn’t forthcoming, the emotional work becomes learning how to move forward without the apology – whether that recognition comes or not. Not because your past didn’t matter, but because you and your story deserve peace. What others do with that truth is for them to reconcile.
For those who know my story – it did matter. It still does.
The truth is, I feel angry about the lack of support and recognition, and about those who continually watched me fail as a result. My mental and emotional struggles were noted, but left. In school when I struggled, it was assumed that I was the problem – that I wasn’t trying hard enough, that I was the one falling short.
That wasn’t true. I have proved that I am more than capable.
Expectations at school and at home were based on the belief that I was “normal” and functioned like everyone else. When I couldn’t meet those expectations, the explanation was seen as effort or ability, rather than the possibility that something else might be going on.
Learning later that I had a disability changed how I understand those experiences. But understanding something now doesn’t erase what it felt like then.
And it’s not something that simply resolves because you finally have an explanation. After decades of not knowing, the understanding and the learning arrives too late. The experiences happened much earlier – and something in your gut knows – your experiences can never be fully reconciled.
That, also needs to be part of the truth.
