Long ago, I was placed in special education classes. From around first grade to third, I was sequestered into rooms filled with kids my age, except they all had varying degrees of ineptitude. And during this time, I thought nothing of it, and I thought there was nothing wrong with these kids. After all, they were my friends, at least in some capacity, and they were the only 'normal' I really knew.
It was only after the fact, when my classes drastically changed in fourth grade (as well as moving from Arizona to Nebraska), did I realize that I had been treated differently, and far later when I was told that, yes, I was developmentally behind for a time. I didn't know what to think of myself.
Even worse when I found out that my great-grandfather, who died of cancer, would go on to his grave believing in his heart of hearts that one of his grandsons was mentally handicapped. When I learned of this, it crushed me. People interacted with me as if I were inferior because to them, I actually was.
That was until I was given the opportunity to read of my own accord. I started small, reading Hardy Boys books till my eyes fell out of their sockets and begged me to take a break. A year later, in fifth grade, I would move on to the Harry Potter series, one that, to this day, I have not finished. And yet another year would come and go and I decided to test my mettle.
I picked up The Lord of the Rings trilogy, a collection of books that the school library coded as being for seniors. I read them, first to last, then last to first, then middle-last-first. Then I swallowed Eragon (much to my dismay presently). My uncle would remark that I had caught up to everyone else rather quickly, and surpassed expectations. No, I didn't have a learning disability. I just needed a chance to get my feet on the ground.
And then I started to write. I was praised for it, even though I can tell you undoubtedly and without reservations that my work then was utterly terrible by any particular standard. But, alas, I loved it. In middle school, I tried my hand at poetry and crafted rather generic and basic poems. There was one period in my life that I wrote over 370 poems in a year, as well as a smattering of short stories.
Poetry earned me the affection of my wife.
And fiction earned me the respect I so desperately sought.
Reading became something I did for fun, something I loved and cherished and would never let go even if my eyes were stolen away and my ears were ripped off. I would find a way to read.
Yet my fiction writing needed work. It needed molding. When I entered college for the first time after completing my GED, I thought I'd pursue creative writing. And I did. I majored in English (or, at that time, to be more specific, I was an Academic Transfer). I enrolled at Doane College (now so named Doane University) where I majored in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing, then switched to a minor in Philosophy, and switched wholesale to English for Secondary Education, where I strived to be a teacher.
I soon dropped out, citing mental and physical health. Then my wife and I moved, and I enrolled at Grand Canyon University, thinking online classes were more my speed. In my haste to pursue a post-secondary education, I had overlooked the fact that GCU was a Christian-based institution, and thus many of their teachings revolved around thumping the Bible upon one's head. Though I'm not one to judge, it did become a bit maddening.
So I dropped out again.
I am in debt up to my ears. I'm also, at this moment, jobless. But something happened to me that I did not expect. I joined a writing group. I workshopped my fiction. And I improved (at least, I certainly hope I did). I fell in love with writing again and began reading voraciously after a good many years of not doing so.
Now I have a web serial project called Phoenix Ashes, where I'm in the middle of constructing the first chapter and planning the first arc. I have several separate ideas for novels. I have friends I respect and trust to give me an honest opinion on my work, disregarding my feelings on the matter, because I'd rather have my heart broken than be objectively bad at something I love, and the only thing of which I'm actually any good.
Reading and writing proved that despite my Cerebral Palsy, and despite outward appearances, my mind is indeed still very intact. The importance of these two activities cannot be understated. They have saved my life, time and time again, and I cannot be more grateful to the people who introduced me to them in the first place.