As a child, I was often punished for being clumsy and breaking things. I was physically awkward and had trouble running, riding a bike, and swimming. I was always last in any race.
I had trouble dressing and grooming, so I always looked messy. Around my family, I either talked and interrupted too much or said the wrong thing at the wrong time, a trait that was a constant source of embarrassment for my parents.
At school, I was socially awkward. I had few friends because I wasn't good at conversation. I avoided new challenges for fear of failing. My dad sometimes said I was afraid to do right for fear of doing wrong. The kids at school thought I was odd. I've often thought that should have been my middle name: Odd.
Although I was self-consciously inarticulate, I found I could express myself in writing. Eventually I was hired as a newspaper reporter. My clumsiness meant I sometimes spilled coffee on the computer keyboard, but I was surprisingly good at interviewing because I wrote down all my questions in advance.
Over the years I've devised my own remedies, working around problems rather than tackling them head-on. For example, I keep a list of polite phrases handy whenever I'm in social situations. Conversation doesn't come easily, so I memorize a few topics that can help me start one. I always think about what I'm going to say in advance, and if I determine that it might cause offense, I don't say it.
In my mid-sixties, I read an article by a man who discovered he had dyspraxia. [Dyspraxia is the name used in the United Kingdom for a movement disorder that affects fine and gross motor skills, coordination, and grooming. In the United States, this disorder is referred to as developmental coordination disorder.] Much of what he wrote resonated with me. I did some research on the condition and read that it used to be called clumsy child syndrome. That sounded right. The irony amused me. At age 64, I learned I had clumsy child syndrome.
I'm glad I wasn't diagnosed as a child. It might have limited or confined me. Instead, I've been resourceful and practical. For instance, I always tackle any task requiring manual dexterity very slowly. Over the years, I've developed a handwriting style that disguises my shortcomings. When I draw, I concentrate on color rather than line and use bold strokes.
Having lived relatively successfully with dyspraxia for more than 70 years, I actively seek out fresh challenges. I celebrate what I can do and do it to the best of my ability. I still look like a bag lady who dresses in the dark—but on the upside, no one expects me to run a marathon or even walk gracefully. I know I'm different, but I also know I'm no better or worse than anyone else.
Mary Cook is a freelance writer who lives in Lincolnshire, England. She enjoys singing traditional folk songs and spending time with her husband, Nigel, and rescue dog, Kamu. She and Nigel are practicing Buddhists.
