Greetings, my nemesis. You’re known historically as ‘Clumsy Child Syndrome,’ a title presumably given by someone who did not believe in youth self-esteem. However, day after day, your wielding power exerts beyond my physical coordination and dips unseen into planning, organizing and memorizing. You’re the mental fog descends when I look at a map, and the butter on my fingers as yet another mug slips through my grasp. “You seem so organised!” exclaim other people, as a phone full of lists, alarms and reminders beats in my pocket like the Tell Tale Heart.
We became formally acquainted in the office of a cheery educational psychologist when I was 19. I’d been referred there after walking into student services burnt out, under-weight, and showing bags under my eyes that could have carried all my textbooks for the term. University was going dreadfully, and I’d arranged a meeting with an advisor to discuss dropping out. Having pushed for more details on why I was struggling, the advisor booked me a psychologist’s appointment where, after an hour of trying and failing to put wooden blocks into prescribed patterns, your name was first uttered to me.
There’s certainly been times when having you around hasn’t been much fun at all. My most vivid early dyspraxic memory is learning to ride a bike at the local park. It took ages and ages of endlessly picking myself up off the tarmac with grazed hands, whilst my peers whizzed around me with ease. As a teenager, I lost so many sets of house keys that my parents eventually kept mine in the safe, requiring that I asked permission to take them out with me. Repeatedly failing my driving test wasn’t great either, not helped by the fact that people constantly tried to reassure me that learning to drive was ‘just like learning to ride a bike.’
If there’s one thing that living with you has taught me, it’s acceptance. As university rolled on, I realised that turning to my handbag five minutes before I needed to leave for class wasn’t working. Therefore, I started setting an alarm for half an hour in advance, with a permanent list on the wall of all my necessities for the day. At first, doing this made me feel stupid, thick and juvenile. I honestly hated myself. However, after years of mad dashes everywhere, I was now able to stroll cooly into class, ten minutes early with a Starbucks in hand. It felt fabulous and I discovered that accepting the allowances I needed to make for you in my life was definitely worth doing.
In addition, when I accept the negatives of having you around, I get to accept the positives as well. Although I will always be forgetful, clumsy and easily lost in a city, alongside this I will also always be empathetic, creative, and, after years of dreadful organization, able to apply a full face of makeup in two minutes flat.
To this day, I continue to find new strategies that help me get by (a post on that here). For instance, the Dyspraxia Foundation tweets some great organization tips. I also recently learned that Cara Delevigne is dyspraxic, which makes you officially trendy. Last year, I was given the most important memory-related task of my life so far. I was a bridesmaid at my best friend’s wedding and, when the Maid of Honour was unable to make the ceremony, I was put in charge of the groom’s ring. Nervous doesn’t even begin to describe my jitters on the day. I barely put the ring box down the entire time we were getting ready. However, on placing the groom’s golden wedding band in the vicar’s palm, I swear that I could hear teenage, keyless Carla applaud.
See you round, friend.
C x
Image by Karolina Grabowska