The people who loved me first.

I am like my Mom 

when I am in a group of people I don't know

when I tackle a problem

when someone needs me

when I fight for what I believe in

when I stay up all night reading

I am like my Dad

when someone needs cheering up

when I get mad

when I need to diffuse a situation

when my sense of humour shows

I am me.

I am most like me when I remember that the traits of the people who loved me first, who will love me always, are woven into the fabric of who I am.

Nature vs Nurture.  A pointless debate. 

They both matter.  From the day I was born, eight minutes before my twin brother, I was a flurry of activity. I had a mass of thick hair, just as stubborn as I was. When I entered a room, I commanded it, but on my own terms.  I've never liked big surprises.  I loved being around others, but when I needed to find peace, it was, and still is, found at home. I always needed there to be music. I always needed to be moving. I spoke fast, and I spoke often. I was, and still am, quite shy in new situations, until I am comfortable - then I'm the life of the party. I used to be afraid to try new things; now I relish it. My twin brother --a strong personality in his own way--was often caught up in the whirlwind that was me. He is still one of my strongest supporters.

The constant love at home was a safe haven for me, especially in the early years of school, when I was bullied horribly.  It didn't matter what school I attended, or what city I lived in. Bullies can smell a vulnerable person a mile away.  I was called Medusa, because of my wild and thick curly hair. Kids would pretend to be turned to stone when I looked at them.  I was punched, my clothing torn.  Called names. Had things thrown at me. I was thrown in the NIM bin.  A teacher who finally rescued me said "Why would you crawl in there?", choosing not to believe that someone had put me in there when they heard the collection truck coming.

You know when it ended?  In Grade 8, when I stood up for my friend, who endured bullying as well.  Enough was enough, and I shoved one of the bullies in a locker.  She ended up stuck in the locker, her head and arm wedged in its narrow confines.  They had to cut her out.  I'm not saying it was the right way to act. But she punched my friend, and I had to make this girl, who was easily 6-8 inches taller and 40 pounds heavier than us, STOP. No one punches my friends.

At home, I was accepted for who I was, and taught to embrace my uniqueness.  I was taught to fight for what I want and to always give my best, but never to hurt someone else in the process. That it was okay to make mistakes.  That I was ok. That everything in life is a choice.

As a young girl, I was diagnosed with severe learning deficiencies.  At the time, it was a less sophisticated system.  "Borderline Retarded", they said. She'll never go to University, and she will be lucky to finish high school, they said. My parents said nothing to me. They never told me, so I didn't know. I knew I worked hard, but just assumed that was what I had to to.  A couple of years later, when we moved from Quebec to Ontario, they refused to allow my school records to be transferred. They would not allow the stigma to follow us.

I didn't know I was "dumb". I didn't know that I wasn't supposed to graduate.  So I did. I graduated from High School. I graduated from University.  By the time I was in high school, I knew I was different, and I had help, but it was ME that defied the odds.

They never told me, so I didn't know.

They chose to let me go on believing that all I had to do was work hard.  And man, did I work hard.  What took the average person 1 hour to complete, took me 2-3 hours. I had to relearn math skills over and over and over, because it never stuck in my head.

The result of their love and support, is that without even knowing it, I learned two very important lessons.

1) Anything worth doing, is worth working hard for. 

If you really want something, you figure out what you have to do to get it.  Then you do it.  More than once, as you go along, you will probably have to change what you are doing, but you keep your eye on the end goal. Changing your goal isn't quitting, its part of life.

2) You can accept the diagnosis, but you don't have to accept the prognosis

My learning disability is a fact. The scope of the learning disability is also, fact.  A rigorous testing, finally done when I was in University, shows the facts in black and white. The difference between my lowest IQ score (pattern recognition) and my highest (memory), is 136 points. Those are the facts.

Years before, my parents had chosen not to believe that I couldn't attain what anyone else could, so who was I to think any different.

This served me well when at seventeen, I was in a terrible car accident.  Even unconscious, I fought.  I fought to get better.  Then, when I was out of hospital, I fought to play flute again.  Then, I fought to walk without assistance. One doctor said, "At the rate the muscles in your leg are deteriorating, you'll be in a wheelchair by your mid thirties." So at 38 I ran a marathon.

If I had been unsuccessful; if the doctors were right, and I couldn't have played flute again, or I was typing this from a wheelchair right now, I would be okay with this.  But I wasn't going to just accept a fate that someone else decided for me.  It was, and always will be my choice to fight.

Some have said "Wow, that's some luck you have!"

They are right, I am so lucky. I have the greatest parents, I am alive, I can walk. To anyone who thinks that what I have accomplished is incredible, I must remember to tell them:

I am who I am because of the people who loved me first.