Stairs and Stereotypes

The world is flat - or so many of us may think when it comes to equality, fairness and accessibility for those living with disabilities today. We certainly have more ramps, electronically operated doors, accessible washrooms and elevators than were seen in this country a few decades ago, but even so, physical barriers remain. The government's goal of creating an accessible Ontario by 2025 will be an easy one if these are the only barriers they take into account.

Something far more pervasive and insidious than physical barriers stand in the way of a truly level playing field for those of us who are differently abled. Stereotypes and negative attitudes are much more difficult barriers to remove, and these stand in our way in every area of our lives.

Often, even the services put in place to minimize barriers seem blind to their own oppressive practices. For instance, a disability job search agency is allowed to offer unpaid work terms to employees with cold feet regarding hiring a person with a disability. These terms can last for up to one month depending on the employer's preferences. Essentially, the message to the individual is this: your resume, intelligence and accomplishments are worth nothing until you can prove to me that you will be as valuable a worker as someone without a disability. Inherent in such requirements is the assumption that a person with a disability is likely not to measure up to their 'able-bodied' colleagues. Until you disprove this stereotype, your work has no value.

Of course, the job search agencies make the unpaid work term sound much more positive. "You can get a firsthand look at how much you like the job, and then decide if you want to keep it." It only takes the modification of a few words to encapsulate the appeal of this arrangement from the employer's perspective: "You can get a (free) firsthand look at how the person compares to others, and decide if you want to keep him/her." Because of an employer's skeptical attitude regarding my abilities, I have to sacrifice a paycheck to prove myself worthy of working alongside others who may not be 'disabled', but who nonetheless have limitations of a less visible kind.

I want to see a world where my intelligence, talents and personality speak louder to potential employers than my wheelchair does. It should not be tolerated that those without disabilities can be hired with pay from day one, simply based on a resume and an interview, while a person with a disability must prove something more. I am able to receive so much more respect and admiration in the social and academic levels of my life, but the ramp does not yet extend to the occupational level. This must change.

The subtle, but thriving stereotype that a differently abled person is lesser than a person without a disability must be done away with. I'm thrilled institutions are building more ramps, elevators, and automatic doors. But this will not make our provinces, communities and institutions truly accessible. As long as this attitude is held by any institution, corporation or person in power -

you
are not
accessible.

Just in case love has wings...

"She said the locket looks empty, but that she filled it with her love"
-- Mom

I may never meet you. It's the strangest thought, not to meet you, but the second strangest thought is the exact reverse. What would I say? I feel a complete blank when I really think on what you would say to someone who should be of so much significance, but whom you don't know at all. And yet, when I think of all the things that will remain unsaid if I never did meet you, I feel an overflow of things I would want to say, and things I would want you to know.

I kept that locket, and considered it as my greatest treasure. As a child, I chose the safest place I could think of for it -- my sock drawer. I may have grown up and changed in many ways since then, but in at least one respect I haven't. Nestled among my socks and pajamas, is a blue box that holds my most mysterious possession.

You gave it to me, whoever you are. I wish I could capture the feeling of curiosity, excitement and wonder I always felt when I would take out that locket as a little girl and look it over, how I clasped it in my little fists, and imagined what you were like in a thousand different ways, with a new interpretation for each stage of my life. My one consistent shortcoming through all my imaginings was that I made you too much like me. I simply can't imagine you without that serious, wistful soul of mine that's most true to itself in moments of reflection like these. I can't imagine you without a love for language, a shy smile and a sensitive heart, or a strong imagination. I simply cannot imagine you as someone who does not imagine what I am like. Maybe that's why that response came as such a shock.

If I never meet you, I won't say I'll be incomplete. No one who has been loved as much as I have can think their life is so. Not meeting you may have only this advantage: that I can continue to imagine you as the person I want to become, with the traits I lack built into my mysterious genes. I can inherit traits you may not have, without fear of history repeating itself from your generation to mine. And yet, it has some looming disadvantages: I can't thank you, and let you know that you have been in my thoughts and prayers for my whole life. I can't give you closure. I can't tell you just how much that one little gift, filled with love, meant to me.

But if I could tell you anything about my past, I think it would be this. I was so careful when I opened that locket. It was filled with your love, my mother told me. It looked empty, but it wasn't. Filled with love... it was the most mysterious and wonderful idea to me. I used to open it, imagining what love looked like, if only I could see it... but I'd close it as quickly as I could, just in case love had wings. I imagined love to be like tiny silver butterflies that only your heart could see. I pictured them with their delicate translucent wings, flitting about the room in silvery gossamer ribbons, brushing against my cheek in their flight. I was afraid that if I opened it too long, all the love would float away and the locket would be empty. After all, it was what was inside the locket, not the locket itself, that was precious to me.

Thank you for giving me an amazing life by making the hard choice that you did. It's a curious thing that even though I have no memory of you, I've never forgotten you. Every now and again, I find that blue box, take out the locket, and open it, just for a second. Just in case love has wings.

Gary. Explained in a letter to a friend

Thank you so much for your encouragement, love, and even for the simple blessing of writing that wonderful letter in all those lovely bright colours. I confess that where I'm currently at has made me a little colour-blind. I still see hope, I still know it's there, but my world feels just a shade dimmer at a time when all I want is to be able to thrive in the brightness and joy and hope that I know is there. I won't write too much about the negative stuff I'm feeling, because I find describing it too much seems to open the door to those feelings, and for the moment I've successfully shoved them out on the back porch to shiver and be miserable without me. My anxiety issues are there still, but worse than the anxiety is this... shadow. I'll name it Gary so that I feel less threatened by it, since Gary is a silly name and invokes a lot more lightness than words like 'shadow' or 'depression'. Bear with me, I realize that changing words like this may sound pretty hilarious and change the meaning of my words entirely, but most importantly, it will change their tone, which gives me a better chance of keeping my smile as I write this.

So anyways, about Gary. I've met him before. He's a rather heavy-set gentleman, and let me tell you, he weighs a TONNE when you have to give him a piggyback, which I've been doing on and off for almost 2 weeks now. Usually he drops by a bit before the anxiety comes, tells me a load of lies that sometimes I believe (because he can speak so forcefully... man, it's hard to think anything else when Gary's doing his storytelling. You feel his words in your bones, you feel their pain). When I do listen to Gary, I panic. His words swirl around my mind so quickly that I can't stop them, and my body goes haywire -- hyperventilating, sobbing, the whole bit. It lasts about 10-20 minutes, and when it's gone you feel like a hurricane just blew over, took out your whole town, and left you alive (barely) and shaking like a leaf. Then Gary hangs around a little while to survey the damage (probably with a smug, satisfied look on his face), and to make me think that I'll never, ever have the strength, determination, know-how or even the energy to re-build the town again. Those are the times when I just want to leave everything -- school, even friends, and just withdraw and live as a hermit or something. Eventually though, people's love and caring for me, and my own sense of optimism, eventually rally me and I slowly (and perhaps slightly unsteadily) get up and start to pick up the debris and make sense of everything. I get a flash of insight, I see a problem that appeared insurmountable before as suddenly solveable. It takes courage to show my face around town again, but I take a deep breath and do it, and am always glad that I did. What I'm afraid of when I don't want to go to social gatherings or see other people or be asked "How are you?" is the pity. Those words that I know come from the heart and are meant so well, but just feel so... (can I say it?) trite. I mean, my town just got destroyed for Pete's sake, and I'm not always ready for the Romans 8:28 (even though it's my favourite verse), or the "It'll pass", and so on and so on ad infinitum. But I go out, I find the comfort of real and sincere friends, and I start to heal. And most notably, Gary leaves. And things move on, even if he does come back in a similar way from time to time. After all, it's always hurricane season in Leannetown.

This time it's a little different. Gary doesn't feel like leaving. He's skulking around the windows as we speak. His presence is always noticeable, he's not just hanging around before or after the storm, he's settling in, right at the time when I'd like to evict him most. So I go to the doctor about Gary. Gary is too heavy, Gary casts too big of a shadow, Gary eats joy and peace for breakfast. He makes everything black and white, he makes it take ten times the energy it used to just to walk from one room to another, he makes me want to sleep all day, yet not be able to sleep at all. Gary makes food lose its taste, and makes concentrating impossible. I'm worried Gary's last name is Depression. It would be a fitting surname anyways, it sounds dark and heavy enough. But I'm afraid to know Gary's last name. His possible surname carries so much weight and sounds so ominous that I'm afraid just knowing it will make me feel worse, or will make me think that those bad feelings are coming spontaneously, when really they're coming from the ideas that intimidating last name unconsciously puts in my head. Hence why I'm calling him Gary. The doctor, thank God, does not tell me Gary's last name. No labels, just changing medication schedules. He increases my dose of sleeping pills, hoping to get rid of Gary, my insomnia and anxiety with a higher dose of one pill. It's too early to tell, but it really feels to me like Gary is liking this new plan. The medication coupled with Gary's top-of-the-world feeling are combining to make it almost take too much energy to talk much, to listen, to dream. I wrote a midterm today. It took me 4 hours. Good thing I warned my prof about Gary and could get more time! It was just so hard even to write a sentence this morning. But don't despair! As you can see, I can write now, and I'm feeling a lot more like myself. It's not always that bad; it's just that when it is, it feels like it will always be that bad. I have great friends, and that's a blow to Gary. I have a great family, and that's a blow to Gary. I have the best fiance, and that's a blow to Gary. I am a daughter of the King, and that's the biggest punch Gary can get. He's still there, and he's still feasting on all the joy and energy I want to feel, all the concentration I want to have, and a good deal of the hope for the future that I want to experience. It's the worst when I think of my wedding, and all the joy and expectation and longing that I know I feel somewhere, that I want to feel, all the smiles my face wants to really, sincerely wear. Sometimes when I think of my wedding, and of Marc, I cry. If I can feel joy about just one thing, one person and one day, I want it to be that. It should be that. But I'm learning, thanks to the wisdom of friends, to stop thinking how I should feel, or what's right and what's wrong in my thoughts and feelings, and to stop judging and guilting myself about it. To observe my thoughts, recognize them, and let them come (because they inevitably will), but infinitely more importantly, to let them go. By dwelling on them, I become a prisoner of that thought process, but by observing them from a distance, I can let them come and go without dragging myself down their all-too-familiar path.

I will get through this. Or rather, God will get me through this. It's not my fight. Gary's about 100 weight classes above me, so he's out of my realm. It's not a fight at all, actually. I just have to be. To learn to rest, and to learn to wait. This is where God has me, and it's not a divine error. I am loved, I am precious. I am me. And whatever Gary's last name is (if he has one), that will not change.

Love Lea (Just Lea, no Gary! Hooray!)

Journal of an Anxiety Addict?

What worries you masters you -- Haddon W. Robinson

We have been taught to believe that negative equals realistic and positive equals unrealistic-- Susan Jeffers

I'm sure most of my small readership is aware of what I've been going through in the last few weeks, but I thought it might be best to give a bit of an account of my experiences, since they've reshaped my life in many ways, though surprisingly, only the minority of these changes are truly negative.

It's been about three weeks since it happened -- my 'first' real panic attack. However, as I look back into my childhood, I'm beginning to realize that many of those horrible times of fear and anxiety I often experienced when left alone, which were at the time labelled by myself and those around me as 'Leanne getting worked up', were actually panic attacks in their own way, and precursors to the anxiety which took me by storm on March 16.

It all began with a simple case of writer's block, something I've endured and overcome countless times, almost as many times as I've taken up a pen or turned on the computer to begin to write. At these times, my mind is always swirling with ideas faster than my brain can interpret, but on any usual occasion, the cyclone in my mind would eventually blow away the mental chaff, and blend the remainder into a coherent idea, finally breaking into a rainstorm of inspiration. This was the process in which art, whether academic or personal, would come into fruition. I must confess it's been a long and dry time since I felt the refreshing waters of inspiration flowing over me. I've been living an artistically arid life long before this storm hit -- a storm in every way different from all the others, but long overdue.

Sometime shortly after entering university, I felt myself drowning in a sea of demands and pressures. This was no refreshing and inspirational cloudburst. This was an ocean of tasks and papers and stressors, one in which I could barely keep my head above the waves. I quickly learned that I must keep up a continual output of work, writings, papers and whatnot if I was to keep myself from drowning. I found that my schooling crammed me with information, and required me to digest and regurgitate it again and again, all the while leaving me with no refreshment. School kept taking and taking, without leaving me any fodder for my forgotten artist's heart. Writing, once my joy, once my familiar realm in which I was extremely confident, became a chore, a source of dread, and even of sorrow. With all the weights of academic demands, I was forced to cast off any unnecessary weight. I forsook that creative spark, already dimmed and emaciated. Nearly extinguished already, it seemed pointless to carry around such a dead weight when I had so many pressing demands to meet. The previous post contains the very last creative endeavour I had time to record. The others that followed never reached any medium, and are lost in the recesses my memory.

After this point, papers became more than discouraging and tedious, they became absolutely terrifying. The starving artist within me still wanted to fill each assignment with inspiration, but without a spark, and without the time, my artist's expectations were always disappointed with my work. I had always doubted my own abilities, but never to such extremes as I then did. Any work I did was a failure in my mind, until it was returned to me marked with an 80%, 90%, 95%, or, rarely, 100%. Then it would magically transform into a wonderful piece of work in my eyes -- but only if the mark fit in to the range listed above. I was a slave driver to myself.

My friends could estimate how many papers made up my workload by the length of my fingernails. Long -- I had no papers. Short -- I had one paper in which I was somewhat confident. None, with gnawed and bleeding cuticles -- I had many papers, and I lacked any confidence in them whatsoever. They urged me to relax, to take things one step at a time, finally, to see a counsellor. I recognized the sense in what they were saying, but couldn't put it into practice. I had created a monster. Unrealistically high expectations without regard for extenuating circumstances had walled me in. I taken prisoner by a perfectionist. Let's call her Superleanne.

Superleanne's expectations were soon to be disappointed more than they would normally be, with her usual fare of 'slightly less than acceptable' 83's and such. No, she received a 67.5% on an essay, in her intended minor no less. She may as well have been shot in the chest for all the wailing she did over that grade. I say 'she', because even then I could hardly see myself in who I had become. This grade pushed Superleanne to new heights of woe and to new and higher demands to atone for such a shameful assignment. The next essay would make up for it -- a tall order.

And when the next essay came, I hardly needed the extra pressure to succeed. I still had nightmares about the previous essay, and in my mind (and sometimes even whispered, barely audible) I would apologize to my taskmaster again and again for it, begging Superleanne for forgiveness. It was under these stifling conditions that I attempted to write the essay that would bring on the inevitable.

I wish I could say that I at least began the assignment optimistically. But right from the start, I had convinced myself that I must face this 'realistically', by which I meant pessimistically. I had nearly failed once, and having established myself as an unsatisfactory student in my history course, it would take nothing short of pure genius to bring myself up through the ranks to my 'rightful' place at the top. I wouldn't recommend this strategy to anyone who doesn't want to end up hiding in the shower in the dark believing that the doors could shut the screaming voices of failure out. Because that is how I ended up, after the first violent storm of panic passed.

And yet no storm comes without rebirth and cleansing, especially in the desert. And no storm lasts a lifetime either, though I had 'realistically' (again, rather pessimistically) convinced myself that it would. The rain showers, thunderstorms and bursts of panic and despair eventually gave way, although the process was painstakingly slow. My first prescription medications convinced me that I was no longer myself, and as such that I had no responsibility to feed and clothe this stranger. How strange indeed, since I had been a stranger to myself ever since I cast off my creative heart in the name of academics, and had failed to truly realize and address this. However, my solution at this time, made during the night when I was alone, was (I kid you not) to rename myself, since I 'lied' when I called myself Leanne. Luckily, that medication was replaced, my name wasn't changed, the skies began to clear, and without the stresses of school, which I still was unready to face, Superleanne's hold on me began to weaken. I could see her for what she was, a hollow craven fool, who chased ceaselessly after a phantom named success.

I had been a desert, but as the clouds rolled back and the rainstorms ceased, my heart again began to bloom with the rapidity of an arid land that sees rain too seldom not to rejoice in instantaneous and frantic regrowth. I still struggle with feelings of fear regarding my schooling, but it's more of a fear of being caught in the midst of a storm I can't escape than one triggered only by fears of failure. Superleanne still isn't entirely vanquished, but help in the form of counselling, prayer and lots of loving support will, in time, convert that perfectionist spirit of mine into a more sympathetic one, and will, I believe, help me to overcome my anxiety.

It's true what I wrote. Even amid the storms of anxiety and those few moments of despair, hope is so hard to crush.

Wings

An explanation is likely required here. This piece was written last term when I needed to tell a story using stream of consciousness, a form of writing with blatant disregard for the conventions of syntax, and also for the 'logical' way that a piece of writing is expected to flow in the eyes of the majority. It was a stretch to write this, and it's still a far cry from true stream of consciousness, because even now it makes too much sense. However, I'm not ashamed of it, and having recently been a bit poetically inspired, thought I'd post this here for anyone who cares to read it.

Remember the day I got the letter. Ride home after the service. Something to ask you. Don’t worry, good thing. Butterflies all day. Used to watch them flutter in droves across Huron in autumn. February now, but the same fluttering inside. Many splendored thing? Rather multifaceted. Not sure whether to laugh or cry. Don’t worry. Don’t breathe as easy. Sinking to the bottom. Trapped. Hands reach for me. Arms too short. Fighting not to breathe water like air. Roaring, drowning, struggling, waiting. For? Good thing. Break the surface. Breathe again.

Something to ask you. Sit in my class, counting on shaking fingers. 9 hours. 540 minutes. 40,500 heartbeats. Now more like 60,000. 7 plus or minus 2 times. Numbers unfeeling. No heart in it. Rather solve another question. Ask you. About some other girl? Weather? Misunderstood intentions? In love with me? No. Surprise better than disappointment. Hope is so hard to crush.

For I know the plans I have for you. Wish He’d tell. Surrender. Trust. Wait. Hour left. Fly or fall. It all depends on the question. His arm brushes mine. Butterflies. A hundred pairs of wings, translucent in the sun. Something to ask. Could be a ruse. Root vegetables or the like. Yes, I don’t mind potatoes. More important surely. Thy will, not mine.

Over at last. Not so sure I’m ready. Maggie and Susanna whispering. Afraid Marc will hear.

- Have fun! Tell us everything! Good luck!

Pretend I don’t follow. Cheeks feel sunburned. It’s time now. Out the door and down the steps. Can hardly walk. See rainbows in puddles. Halos around streetlights. Silver moon sparkling. Reflects in his eyes. Look away. Click the seatbelt in place. Dreaming? Pinch. No. Deep breath. Silence.

- Something you wanted to ask?

- Yeah. Been waiting for this all day. Had it all planned. Now I can’t remember a word.

- Don’t be afraid.

As if I’m not. Grip the door till it hurts. Heart in my head. Deafening. Then:

- We’ve been friends for a while, but now we’re becoming something more. Do you see it that way?

Root vegetables! This is much better.

- Yes! Of course!

- How long have you felt that way?

- A year.

Winter. Spring. Summer. Fall. Most was winter. High precipitation. Endless night. Used to be afraid night wouldn’t end.

- For lack of better words, will you go out with me?

Daybreak now. Filled with fluttering. Could fly in the dawn with wings like the sun. Nothing will melt them.

An answer to my prayers...

"This too shall pass.." - My mother

I wasn't always adrift. I didn't always live in the valley. Once, I was on the mountaintop with God, and everything seemed so clear, so infused with life and hope and joy. I felt God's presence every moment, and He brought so many things to my attention that my eyes couldn't see. I wish I didn't have to leave, but life derives its meaning from a sojourn in the valley. Before I left the mountain, I prayed, "Lord, cure me of my pride. Soften my heart to those who call the valley their home." I thought it would be an easy lesson, but the wonderful thing about God is that He's not afraid to teach you, even if its a painful thing to learn.

For many months after leaving the mountaintop, I thought it was my fault, that I had done something wrong to force me to leave the heights and come crashing to the depths. I lay awake, restless and longing for more, aching to feel God's hand over me again.

I feel so worn, yet perhaps that's not so bad as I once thought, for although my strength is waning, my pride is as well. I strain my eyes to see in the dark, losing hope. I call out to God, and He lights a single star in the heavens for me, a beacon. He teaches me that this faith is about so much more than feeling, but about living out the reality we know. He is never so far that He cannot reach you. Have faith - He would never stand back unless He knew that you were strong enough. Even when you doubt, He believes in you.

Eventfulness again

It's been a long time since I last updated, and I felt as though I should recount a few joys to accompany the sorrows of late. However, there was nothing particularly interesting to write about; I'd mainly been just going through life without too much incident or triumph worthy of noting, but today sticks out now as different from the blur of days which have made up this past month.

Today after school, my former Educational Assistant, Anna, came to visit me. She'd been home in bed for weeks, as she had a high risk pregancy that left her bedridden. I was overjoyed to see her because I thought that perhaps it was safe for her to get up again. Unfortunately, she was there because she lost her baby, a girl, and was weary of being home in bed recovering. Even through all her pain, she still thought of me, of how I was doing and what was happening in my life. Anna is quite possibly among the kindest, sweetest and most selfless people I've ever met. Even through all this sadness, she had so much hope and strength. I can't imagine what she's been through this past little while, yet she's so concerned about me. I hope God will see that and bless her as richly as she has blessed me.

My mixed emotions regarding Anna left me feeling confused about how to feel. I mourned the loss of the child she'd loved so much even before she'd seen her, and yet something about her strength and hope wouldn't let me mourn long. I can't understand why God lets some things happen, but I know he only lets these things happen to those strong enough to bear it, and I know Anna can, with the help of her loving son.

When I got home, I found out something I definitely hadn't been expecting so soon. I got accepted to the University of Waterloo! It's really cool, because I wasn't aware I could be accepted so soon, and this is the university I was really wanting to go to. I'm going to wait a while and pray on it to make sure this is what's right.

It's exciting to see my future becoming a little clearer, but I know that life is far from predictable. I just pray God will guide me through this journey, over the smooth and rough spots, and crossing over the mountains that are sure to be ahead.