When I was about 5 years old, my mom noticed that I would occasionally write words, letters, and numbers backwards. I was in kindergarten, and my teacher had noticed it as well. When my mom talked to her about it, she said that some kids just grow out of it, but it can be a sign of a learning problem. Not surprisingly, my mom
freaked out. This is her first kid. She wanted me to have all the opportunities I could in life. So she talked to a trusted friend who was a psychiatrist. He referred her to a psychiatrist who specialized in child therapy. Note here, that nobody has said the word "satanic" at all. It would be fun to reminisce about my 5 year-old exorcism (and that would explain a lot about me, really), but nope. No such luck.
They tested me for autism and dyslexia (from what I gather from a Google search I did on Saturday). According to the findings of that test, I supposedly had some kind of "irregularity" in my 5 year-old nervous system.
Check out the letter that was actually sent to my kindergarten teacher:
Highlights from the letter: I will have trouble remembering learned material, reading will be especially tough for me, and academic work will make heavy demands that I may not be able to cope with "gracefully." Um, ha ha! Right?
I was -.9 percent below average in one of the tests they administered. Despite being "bright and cooperative", I was doomed to a life of academic difficulty. The treatment they offered consisted of me playing at some weird playground in a psychiatric clinic once a week. For about $200 a session. My parents were working class, and my mom had to deal with my 2 year old brother in the waiting room during my hour long session. When my pediatrician found out about all this, he tested me himself and said that the psychiatrist was a loon and I'd be just fine. So I liked to write backwards, so what? My mom stopped taking me there, and the forms, tests, and this letter were shoved into a drawer somewhere until I found them in my 20s.
I have kept this little gem for years. Each time I moved files, I'd bring it out and laugh at how ridiculous it was, considering my near addiction to reading and my life path in academia. And yet, sometimes, when I wonder if I'm really cut out for this kind of work, if I can really compete amongst the academics that live and breathe their research, I think about this letter. Thoughts crop up. Maybe they were right. Maybe my refusal to adopt overly complex academic language isn't about me wanting to be more relatable, maybe it's because it's the kind of work I can't "cope with gracefully." Maybe, since the letter says it takes me a while to process what I see and hear, I just didn't think about how it actually makes sense until 27 years later. God, what is that about!? Once you lose the confident shine of your early 20s, man, it's like your 14 all over again. Like stuck-up girls in 4th period, my inner monologues can be downright nasty. It's like my brain is full of those girls in
Heathers.
Well, I'm not going to do it. I remember my pediatrician. He was awesome. If he said someone was a loon, they were loony, and that's that. Getting through grad school has taken me a lot longer than I thought. Mostly because I've gotten in my own way and let thoughts like those take root. I've got a plan now to move by June. I'm hoping a real, honest-to-goodness deadline kicks my ass in gear and gets this sucker written. I think that if I walk in my graduation ceremony, I'll send my picture to Dr. Ayres with a copy of this old letter. Well, probably she's dead. But in the movie of my life, I will write in Dr. Ayres as incredibly young when she administers my tests and types this letter, so that when I graduate I can send her my goofy cap and gown picture. Final scene? Me tossing my velvety graduation cap, Mary Tyler Moore style.
p.s. I'm actually kind of miffed at being labeled "cooperative."
