The Writer Inside

“Follow your dreams.” That was always a statement I held close to my heart. Growing up as a disabled person, much of my life had been spent alone, and I would often regress to the one thing that brought me comfort...writing. I would spend evenings at my desk writing stories just to pass the time. At first, this was merely an activity that passed the hours. But as the years unfolded, it developed into so much more.

As a child of seven or so, I would sit and watch my pen glide swiftly across loose-leaf, chuckling softly at how grown-up I thought I was. Song lyrics covered the pages of my journals. Smiley faces and stick figures were drawn at the end to accompany the text. The pages of my diaries were filled with childhood dreams and my innermost feelings.

Nearly two years later, I found myself coping with a physical disability. My AVM had left me with a number of disabilities. I had acalculia, a learning disability which impaired my ability to do math. Hemiplegia plagued the left side of my body.

When I finished high school,educational advisors cautioned that college would be extremely difficult and almost impossible to manage, because of this. But the idea of giving up filled me with dread.

I entered college with the intent of becoming a social worker. Somehow I wanted to change the lives of others who had been in situations similar to my own, people who were coping with doubt and uncertainty. I beamed with delight at my newfound dream. Having suffered from panic attacks myself, I thought that I could easily relate to those I would be working with. I bought the DSM-IV and various other books related to the field of psychology and even considered submitting articles to magazines related to the field. I took almost every psychology course offered during my first three semesters of college, trying to convince myself that there was nothing else I would be successful at.

My psychology instructors said that I had a promising future in the field. I eagerly took on book reports on psychological disorders, but the mere thought of actually becoming a therapist provoked more fear within me than anything.

By the end of my first semester as a full-time student, I was enrolled in four classes. After receiving my report card, I was surprised to find that I had a 3.69 grade point average. Not bad for someone who would never succeed in college.

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