WordPress, which I love, has a new feature that provides a writing prompt each day. One that caught my attention was “what makes someone unique?” The idea of individuality – ie uniqueness – gets right at the heart of what it means to be human. Sadly, there are times when our individuality sets us apart from the rest of society due to no fault of our own.
When do we learn in elementary school that the “other” is not OK? I’d love to think that things have changed since I was bullied in early elementary school due to my appearance, mostly height and weight, but I’m not that naive. I’ve watched in recent years as various school districts have tried to address the root of bullying with varying degrees of success. Unfortunately, it all starts at home. Children need to learn from a young age that we are all different. We all have different talents and ambitions, as well as strengths and weaknesses. All of us – all eight billion people on Earth – face challenges at different stages in life.
There are certain things that a person may experience in life that no one will fully understand unless they have been through it – or something similar. For example, unless you have lost a parent or a child, it is impossible to truly understand that level of grief. It is similar when dealing with infertility. Unless you are affected, it is impossible to imagine the depth to which it alters one’s life.
Aside from all that sets us apart from one another, including our challenges, there are interests. My interests are vastly different from that of my siblings or parents. I’m used to it, and over the years, I’ve developed those interests through various opportunities and friendships, both in real life and online.
If I had one wish for students today, it would be for them to have all the resources necessary to first find their interests and then have the ability and support to pursue them further. How many people have stopped doing something they enjoy simply because someone discouraged them, saying they had no talent? I see and hear about it all of the time. It saddens and sickens me. We should be encouraging healthy interests, as well as providing students outlets to develop them. For example, a student who enjoys art should be encouraged to pursue that interest as much as possible, even if there is no interest in making art a career.It comes down to expectations. At times, we focus so much on making ends meet that we need to make a life. We need to teach students that there is so much more to life than material things. It is more than OK to be yourself. You need to be your authentic self.
I’ve been fairly open about my struggles with Turner Syndrome over the years (you can read my story here), but it still amazes me to see Turner Syndrome – along with certain aspects of myself – depicted in popular culture. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how those representations influence perception and so much more. Both well-known depictions of Turner Syndrome, one a “victim” in the Law and Order: Special Victims Unit titled “Clock” (hint: turns out she isn’t a victim at all) and the other, Gwen, the protagonist in the popular novelThe Condition by Jennifer Haigh, have issues and inaccuracies, and yet, there are certain truths that shine through. Personally, I have yet to meet a woman or girl with Turner Syndrome who isn’t as stubborn as we are portrayed in popular culture. It is quite simple, actually: We have to be.
Even though these images of women and girls with Turner Syndrome, along with their accuracy (or lack thereof), have been analyzed to death in the Turner Syndrome community, that isn’t my intention here. No. My intention is to describe my experience of seeing aspects of myself in relation to Turner Syndrome in Gwen in The Condition. I am discussing my experiences only.
Frankly, while I enjoyed The Condition, it isn’t a book that I would necessarily reread in its entirety. Yet, there are scenes, plots, and subplots in which I couldn’t help but see myself mirrored in Gwen – not as a woman, but as a woman with Turner Syndrome. It is those pieces and depictions that have stayed with me for well over a decade at this point. There are several things Gwen is faced with in the novel that most women will, fortunately, never have to face.
The opening scene still takes my breath away. In it, Gwen’s father, who later becomes almost obsessed with the fact that she has Turner Syndrome, watches Gwen tag along with her slightly older female cousin at the beach. He observes them as they run into the ocean. The difference in their height and body structure is noticeable. Gwen’s body remains almost childlike while her cousin’s decidedly does not.
Growing up with older female cousins, particularly my cousin Abby (10 months my senior), I couldn’t help but compare my body to theirs. I always wanted to catch up but never could. I distinctly remember one December shopping with my aunt, cousins, sister, and mom. I desperately wanted to be able to finally buy clothes in the misses section (not kids, not juniors …) like my older cousins. Nope. Not yet. Even though I was now in high school, it would have to wait. In that opening scene of the novel, I could distinctly visualize Abby and I swimming somewhere as preteens. In my head, I was the one comparing.
Later, Gwen is described as hiding herself away from the world in a job in which she remains in the background. Now in her late 20s/early 30s, she wears jeans, t-shirts/sweatshirts, and sneakers everyday, all often too big for her. Given the choice, I’d be right there with her (and am when I can). Quite simply, it is often difficult to find clothes that fit correctly if you are a woman with Turner Syndrome.
A few years ago, I tried on a top while shopping with my mom. I loved the color, the style – everything – except the fit that wasn’t quite right. I came out of the dressing room to ask her opinion. My mom almost mumbled under her breath: “Damn Turner’s body!” I found it hysterical because that is precisely what I was thinking. I just needed it verified. As much as I love the button-downed look, I could purchase blouses three sizes up and still suffer from gap-osis. Sadly, fashion is a struggle at times.
At the end of the novel, I can’t help but root for Gwen. She is so fed up with her family members’ actions and reactions to the life she has created for herself and the fact that she finally met someone that she runs off to the Caribbean to be with her new boyfriend. Considering how her family treats her and reacts to different aspects of her life, I can’t say that I blame her. Her new life in the Caribbean sounds fantastic.
I admit, I am extremely guarded about my personal life as well. It is just that I’ve always needed space. Throwing infertility into the mix is never easy. The idea that someone you love would have to give up having biological children of their own to be with you … Well, unfortunately, that is reality in many cases. I pray that it will get better with age, and in some ways, it already has.
When I finished The Condition all those years ago, my immediate reaction was one of wonder. Did Jennifer Haigh have Turner Syndrome herself? Did her best friend? Who did she interview to get into our heads so well – or at least my head? I loved the title of the book. One may think that “the condition” references Turner Syndrome, but in reality, in the book, each member of Gwen’s family battles demons of their own, even without a diagnosis.
I am a firm believer that everyone has something – some huge hurdle he or she needs to overcome in life. Everyone has a story. As The Condition lingered in my mind, I couldn’t help but feel “seen” in a way I’ve never experienced in a book. As a teacher, it reinforces the need to expose students to as many diverse books as possible. Unfortunately, when we talk about diversity in literature, we too often just focus on race, religion, and sexuality. The reality is that there are so many other stories out there and so many other ways to view diversity. This is one reason why I wish everyone would share their story in some way, shape, or form. No one is ever truly alone.
By the way, if you happen to be the parent of a girl with Turner Syndrome, I can’t recommend the National Turner Syndrome Camp enough. I attended two years, and it allowed me to meet others with Turner Syndrome for the first time. It also boosted my confidence in a way that nothing else ever has.
Over the last several weeks and months, I have finally recognized how important writing and reading is to my quality of life and my sheer happiness. No joke. If I have a writing project, I am happy. As a student, I loved writing assignments. Even if I didn’t love the subject, the book, or whatever it may be, I could always count on myself to do well.
Some of my earliest and best memories of elementary school are of creating “stories.” As I learned to write, my “stories” became less picture/drawing based and included more writing. I love the fact that writing plays such a prominent role in my earliest educational memories. By the way, I still can’t draw.
What I’ve come to realize over the last week or so is that I didn’t value my early writing much. When I say early writing, I am not talking about childhood or even adolescent writing. Those journals are safely tucked away never to see the light of day. No, I am talking about the writing I did from 2005-2012. During that time frame, I published dozens of throw-away articles for a now-defunct website called Associated Content. As a writer for Associated Content, I wrote articles on all kinds of topics – reviews, how-to, and more – for a small upfront payment and then residuals. Page views mattered! After a couple of years, the site sold out to Yahoo!, which eventually shut it down. Even though I had ample warning and could have saved my hundreds of articles, I didn’t. I didn’t care enough. The content just didn’t interest me enough.
While I don’t regret not putting in the time and effort to save my work with Associated Content, I do regret not saving my JamsBio work. Unfortunately, I didn’t have much notice. JamsBio, a now defunct online magazine, paid writers to discuss their memories as it related to music. I only wrote ten blog posts, but it was the most fun I ever had “working.” Even though I wish I had those articles, the ideas planted by writing those pieces live on. I will eventually write something similar here.
The reason why all of this came to mind lately is due to different projects I am currently working on. I just wrote my first piece for the Macbeth Post and had my first podcast published on Spartans Helping Spartans. In fact, I am in the middle of writing a series of posts on study abroad for Spartans Helping Spartans as we speak. All wonderful stuff that I will share here.
That’s just it. I need to share some of my other work here. There is an infamous piece I wrote on the Witchy Wolves of the Omer Plains for Michigan’s Otherside. It is probably the earliest writing I did online or close to it. I’ve toyed with the idea of a rewrite, but people keep finding it and sharing on Facebook. Then there are a handful of articles I’ve written for the Huron Shores Genealogical Society Genogram. I’ve long meant to share them here permanently. I just haven’t taken the time to do it yet.
As writers, we need to take care of our work and not let it become lost to time. I wish were better at taking care of my own work. On a fun note, I came across an old online journal dating back to 2003. Interesting doesn’t begin to describe it. It brought back memories long since forgotten. It is time for me to take better care of my own work.
I’ve been meaning to write a post about infertility since this past fall – September, in fact. On a perfect September Monday evening the stars aligned, and I had the greatest time catching up with an old friend over dinner. This particular friend and I are almost exactly the same age, and frankly, we are old enough to have been through some serious garbage. Even though she is married and has a wonderful young daughter, she still knows exactly what it is like to struggle with infertility. Over dinner, the conversation naturally turned to foster care, adoption, and infertility. I will never forget what she made me realize that evening.
First, know that I’ve known that there is virtually no way I’ll ever become pregnant since I was 10 years old. I am not going to be one of those women who adopts and then miraculously wakes up pregnant one day. In fact, that is another topic I will discuss shortly. What I failed to realize, and what my friend made clear so eloquently, is that having a biological child doesn’t automatically “heal” infertility or change everything. It made me realize just how many women I know who don’t quite have the families they envisioned. My friend’s daughter is an only child, and that was not the plan. Another good friend has two beautiful little girls and wanted a third child. I could go on.
I once read that no one ever quite gets over infertility. It is a process – and there is no end. One day he or she may be fine, and the next, it all comes flooding back. In fact, you can read my response and the original article here. So true. So very true.
Somewhere along the line, I think society makes this expectation that infertility is somehow “fixed” once a person adopts or becomes a foster parent. “You can always adopt.” I am not exactly sure where that comes from, but it is completely inaccurate. Women who struggle with infertility and have a biological child (or even children) don’t even register. Yet, they struggle just as much as the rest of us for whom biological children won’t happen.
There is hardly a day that goes by that I don’t wonder where I went wrong or what I could have done differently. Maybe if I had been more clear with my ex, he would have been more open to adoption – or I would have moved on much earlier. For the record, I told him before we ever really dated (we were friends first), so none of it should have ever come as a surprise. Maybe if I had done x, y, or z, i would have adopted by now. Frankly, I need to stop beating myself up. But I also need to acknowledge that not a day goes by that these thoughts run through my head. They are at the heart of what keeps me going and keeps me fighting for the family that I want so badly.
Unfortunately, our society and even some well-meaning people do not help. I am tired of being told that “it will happen” one day when he or she knows nothing about my medical history. Nosey, but usually well-meaning, people seem to ask the most intimate of questions. As I have said before, not being asked when I will get married and/or have kids is one of the absolute best things about being single. I am tired and frustrated by assumptions that seem to be everywhere. All of us need to be more careful. Unless we know the details, we have no idea what a person is truly going through at the moment.
And then there is religion. For years, my cynical nature made me skeptical of anything having to do with organized religion. By the way, I am completely comfortable separating organized religion from my personal belief in God and Jesus Christ. I am not angry with God; I know He has a plan. I am angry with how insensitively we treat anyone in the church who isn’t a part of a traditional family unit. My views toward organized religion may have changed somewhat, but the church can and should do better. It doesn’t have to be related to infertility, although that is what I will discuss here.
Again, well-meaning Christians may tell those struggling with infertility that he or she is praying or that “miracles happen all the time.” Both are absolutely well-intentioned; however, what if she doesn’t get her miracle? What about cases of infertility that cannot be remedied by current medical science? What about the woman who is alone and plans to adopt on her own? What about the woman who is still struggling after she and her husband do have their miracle baby? What about men who struggle with infertility? I could go on. Instead, we just need to try not to jump to conclusions. Yet, it is so easy to do.
I finally decided to discuss infertility yet again thanks to a jaw-dropping blog post that discusses the clash between infertility and foster care. With the exception of the author’s discussion of her daughter Lil Red, I could have written this article, especially regarding pregnancy. I expect that once I do adopt, I will feel much the same way she does towards her daughter. Her post touched me in a way that I can’t fully explain. You can read it here. I am so glad that I live in a time where women can truly express how they feel towards topics such as infertility, loss, pregnancy, etc. I can’t imagine not being able to express all of this.
I am not other. I am not sick. I am definitely not less-than.
As a child of the ’90s, this will always be a line from “Closing Time” by Semisonic.
It is strange to think that everything tends to happen at once, but at times, it does. Right now, I am facing a fresh start in my career, my personal life, and pretty much everything else. It is exhilarating to think of all the possibilities ahead. I know that I have talked about fresh starts ad nauseum here – in fact, one of my favorite writing instructors pointed out that it is a consistent theme in my writing – but there are a few things I have learned over the years. That is what I want to focus on here: what I have learned and the future.
First, it is time to let some things go. They no longer fit into the vision I have for my life. Now is the time to put them to rest and focus on what’s ahead. For me, that means letting go of experiences that left me feeling less than. I won’t detail them, but I have had my share in both in my career (business and education) and my personal life.
Enough. I can’t hold on to any of this anymore. I am forced to forgive people who may not even how deeply they have hurt me. I doubt that I will ever get the opportunity to discuss the issues in person. Even if I did, I could explain my perspective until I am out of breath and he or she may still not get it. It doesn’t matter. I lost sight of my worth and that is entirely on me.
Second, it is time to act. Finally. It is time to act. Over the last few years, one thing or another stood in the way of acting in different parts of my life. There isn’t anything holding me back anymore. Nothing. In fact, that’s been true since this past summer. Unfortunately, that fact took its time to fully sink in.
I recently read Girl, Wash Your Face by Rachel Hollis per my sister’s recommendation. Actually, it all started with the meme above. I then found out that my sister loved the book. Of course, it immediately moved to the top of my to be read pile. I love the fact that I belong to a family that shares and recommends books!
Here are a few gems from the book and my thoughts. There are many more I could share here, but I will leave you to discover them yourself. I highly recommend the Kindle version of the book as it allows the reader to highlight important passages without defacing a physical book.
Sometimes choosing to walk away, even if it means breaking your own heart, can be the greatest act of self-love you have access to. – Page 53.
This just seems to sum up the process I put myself through this summer. The sad part is that I should have definitively learned this lesson years ago. I wish everyone, women and men, knew this before heading off to college – or shortly thereafter. It ultimately would have saved me so much time and heartache.
I knew I was letting my fear control me, that the worry about giving my heart away again only to have it stomped on kept me from taking a next step. In the midst of such heartache, it’s hard not to worry. I cried so many tears, thinking, Lord, why would you put this desire on my heart if it wasn’t ever going to come true? And, God, if we try again, you’re not actually sending my heart out to be slaughtered, right? – Page 108.
Oh, have I been there! More than once. There are times when I still wonder how I will ever be able to trust again. It is not easy to pick ourselves up and try again. Yet, we must.
I want you to see someone who kept showing up again and again, even when it was tearing her apart. I want you to see someone who kept walking in faith because she understood that God’s plan for her life was magnificent – even if it was never easy. And even if it wasn’t easy, she was bold and courageous and honest even when the truth was hard to share. – Page 173
I admit, lately I have struggled to have faith that God does indeed have a plan for my life. I am currently slogging through it all to figure out exactly what that plan is. If I am meant to have a family of my own, why haven’t I been able to make it work yet? Why is that the big unnegotiable of my life if, indeed, it is impossible? I ask myself questions similar to this all the time. Ultimately, it is not my timing, but God’s. It will eventually work out. Until then, I just need to be patient and keep working. It will never be easy.
As you can see, I loved the book. It is a great example of a book that came into my life at the exact time I needed to read it. I happened to read it just as I was struggling with these questions. While I would recommend the book to every young woman I know, it doesn’t mean I think the book is perfect.
If fact, in one sense, the book left me feeling unsettled. It is a feeling I get whenever I get too involved in anything related to religion. What no one seems to address in organized religion – and Rachel seems to unintentionally fall into this – is that not all women will end up married and become mothers. Singles in the church, particularly those no longer in their twenties, seem to get left behind. Whether explicit or implicit, the focus always seems to be on marriage and family.
While I think Rachel was right to spend much of her book focused on marriage and motherhood – after all, this book shares her life experiences – she doesn’t address what happens if you do end up alone. She doesn’t even seem to acknowledge the possibility even though she goes out of the way to address situations not her own. This may not be true, but it appears she assumes everyone will end up married and a mother. A simple acknowledgement would have served the book well. Then again, maybe I am reading way too much into this and too sensitive. It doesn’t matter. The book itself is great, and I highly recommend it.
By the way, I love how she addresses adoption in this book. I am so glad I read this book before I started the adoption process. Her family’s story related to foster care and adoption is not an easy one, but it does have a wonderful outcome. In the end, that is all that matters.
Due to a variety of circumstances over the last few weeks, this subject continues to be in my thoughts. It is so disturbing to me how it is permissible in our society to treat others so differently based on something so arbitrary as height and weight. Why is this acceptable? I am so sick and tired of people not realizing that there are many complicated factors that play into eating disorders such as anorexia, bulimia, and obesity. There isn’t a quick fix. Food can be an addiction just as powerful as drugs, sex, alcohol, or gambling. Bullying just makes things infinitely worse.
I’ve discussed it before, but I was relentlessly bullied about my weight and height early in elementary school – grades K-3 – particularly in gym class and at recess. At age 5, classmates commented daily on how short, fat, and ugly I was. The funny thing is that while I may have been a stocky child, I was not fat at the time. At some point, I started to believe them. How was I ever supposed to feel good about my body?
Later in elementary school, I learned that I would never have children naturally. I refuse to say children of my own. When I do adopt, my child (or children) will most certainly be mine. At age 10, it devastated me. To make matters worse, one boy in my class found out about my diagnosis of Turner Syndrome and what it meant. He proceeded to call me a deeply disturbing name as a result, making it clear to me that he knew what I perceived at the time to be private.
It changed me. I vividly remember balling as soon as I came home, refusing for a time to even tell my parents what had happened it upset me so badly. Today, looking back at what he called me, it is almost funny – at least from an adult perspective. After that incident, I owned the fact that I had Turner Syndrome. While I didn’t go around telling everyone, I did explain when asked what it meant. I didn’t hide from it anymore, even though I had only recently learned of the diagnosis myself. Unfortunately, it reinforced the shame I felt towards my body.
As an adult, I find it difficult to deal with my body image issues while dealing with the emotions that come with infertility as well. I can’t deny it: I don’t know when I will ever be at peace with my body when, in my mind, it has fundamentally failed me in what should be a basic function. Somehow, I will have to come to terms with it. I just don’t know how.
In the meantime, I am done. I am done trying to please anyone other than myself. I continue to refuse to play the games society demands of women young and old. There are way too many young girls today who feel as if they are not enough, that their worth is determined by their weight (and/or height). That is why I am sharing something so deeply personal. I want anyone struggling with body image to know that he or she is not alone. Weight and diet are not as simple as we make them out to be.
It breaks my heart to see my Facebook feed full of beautiful women struggling with body image and eating disorders and mothers at a loss on how to help their child rebuild self-esteem through bullying. I see it daily. Frankly, this topic scares me the most about parenthood.
Enough. I have had enough. This past week, I received some test results that made me question why I ever listened to anyone who could not see my worth as a business woman. It is pathetic because I have struggled most of my life to be taken seriously as a business woman for a variety of reasons, and there it was, in black and white, that I had slowly over the years begun to believe all the garbage thrown my way. My ex used to get in my face about it and accused me of giving up on my business career all too soon. I absolutely hate to admit it, but he was right, in a sense. I had all but given up at that point. He may have had ulterior motives and never understood my need to become a teacher, but he was right. In spite of everything I’d been taught over the years by my parents, my dad in particular, I’d let others’ opinions of me matter when they should not. I just needed to get on with it and do what I need to do.
I feel as though I’ve been fighting an uphill battle since kindergarten. Until then, I didn’t realize that my body was that different from other girls my age – or that my self-worth in school (at least when it came to peers) as a female depended upon society’s arbitrary perception of physical beauty, athletic ability, and precious little else. I eventually made peace with the situation and focused on my education. I foolishly thought that things would change once I entered the workforce after college. The focus may not have been entirely on outward appearances, but it was still there. When combined with perceived notions of power and society at large, I really didn’t have much of a chance. Their loss, not mine.
Fortunately, I am meant to be a teacher. I hope I do have the opportunity to teach business classes. I also hope to teach my students, no matter what subject, that character counts. Practical and theoretical knowledge matters. It isn’t all about outward appearances. I will also teach them to have faith in themselves and not to let others damage their self-worth. It is too important. Everyone struggles with insecurities. Don’t let them define you or stop you from doing anything. Life is simply too short.
The thing is that I knew all of this back in high school, and yet, I allowed myself to be worn down by an awful economy and a lack of professional guidance, among other things. I began to doubt myself when I needed the self-confidence the most. Never again. I am done letting others define me, whether as a teacher, a business woman, a writer, and eventually, a mother. Only I know my whole story. Until you do, don’t judge. I firmly believe that everyone has a story. I just wish more people recognized this and were not so quick to judge.
Ramblings of a Misguided Blonde 