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When I was a little girl, I couldn’t speak. I was old enough; but for some reason, every word to pass through my lips was unintelligible. Over and over I would try – planning ahead, thinking the words out in my mind first, then slowly enunciating them more carefully than any little girl should. All I needed – all I wanted – was to be understood. I was not. It’s a form of rejection and isolation that few can comprehend. There are people, right in front of you, speaking your language, and you can’t tell them you are thirsty, or sad, or that you think their dress is pretty. Slowly, I moved from being desperate to be heard, to acceptance that I was not. I went up to my bedroom, and I stayed there. I did not try to speak to people anymore. My mother was my savior and my lifeline – the one person with which I would attempt communication. She knew I had something to say – and I knew she wanted to understand what it was. We would continue to work together until we succeeded, even if it took half an hour for my simple sentence to be heard. I loved her so much and was so very grateful. Because of this, I learned at an early age that I was set apart from "the rest of the world". I also was conditioned to feel inordinate levels of gratitude and love for anyone that was willing to listen to a single sentence that came out of my mouth. My mother fought hard to get me into a special hospital program set up for children with problems such as mine. Three times a week she packed my brothers, my sister and myself into the station wagon to begin the over 2 hour round trip journey to the hospital, where she would amuse my siblings in the waiting room while I was working with the therapist. How can you ever repay a mother’s love? I was 6 years old when I started the program, which was so powerful that it apparently would be considered a form of mind control; my parents had to sign special paperwork to allow them to use the technique. My therapist’s name was Bonnie Light. She saved my life. My speech did nothing but improve through the following years. Some sounds and words were harder than others. Finally, at the age of 12 while practicing with my mother in the car one afternoon, I was able to pronounce both "shirt" and "skirt" and have them come out as two different words. It was my very own graduation day. By then, however, the next phase of my separation from the mainstream had begun. At the age of 10, I began to develop breasts like so many of the girls in my 4th grade class. Unlike the rest of them, unfortunately, I was missing a chemical that shuts off growth. By the end of that school year I was already in a D cup, and the isolation began anew. It’s amazing how many different ways little girls can decide to "test" if another girl’s breasts are real or if she is stuffing her bra. Being approached by female classmates, typically two at a time, and asked to make some strange gesture or movement that would satisfy them I had not done the latter became a regular part of my day to day life. Each time I was asked I would perform their stupid human tricks, and each time it seemed to satisfy them – until the next time. By the time I entered high school my breasts rested on my knees when I was in a sitting position. I used to fold them up, in a way I can’t even picture myself anymore. The end result was that the top half of the breast only (meaning the first half attached to the rest of your chest) would be in the bra; the rest would be stuck out the bottom of the bra, with my nipples pointing to the floor. When done correctly (and I became a master) the part in the bra would stick out more than the tip. Since my shirt was far enough away from my body, it would hide the fact that the second half was hanging down below. I still wonder sometimes if I could get cancer somehow from contorting tissue the way I did each day. In the summer of my 22th year, I was finally able to have a major breast reduction. They had made me wait until
