I was 45 when I learned that dispraxia had a name.
Forty.
Five.
And when I finally found out there was a term to describe my life long struggles with doing basic tasks I wondered why it had taken so long for me to discover it. Was it just not a thing in the 80s? Was it because we were a working class family trapped in the endless maze of HMOs that made seeing a specialist so impossible? Or was it because I was a quiet well behaved girl doing well at school and that meant I couldn't possibly have ADHD or Autism or any of the other things that would make them think to diagnose me with a condition seen only in conjunction with those neurotypes?
Whatever the reason, my struggles got overlooked and dismissed. It was my own little medical mystery. Just one more question mark over my head as I bumper-carred my way through life.
They told me my brain was just growing faster than my body, and if I was patient my body would catch up as I got older. In the meantime, try a little harder, practice a little more. I'd be fine.
I was not, in fact, fine. Far from it. But I muddled through. In fact they taught me to not even consider myself "really" disabled. I was actually very bright I just needed to work a little harder. But I was so advanced as it was, I really couldn't consider that a disadvantage now, could I? Not as long as it was "easily in my power" to overcome my "challenges" as long as I "applied myself".
Is gaslighting still gaslighting if they don't know they're gaslighting you?
The world may never know.
Sometimes I wonder if would have even made a difference if it'd gotten braces and therapy and a bit of grace instead of scolded and scoffed at. From a practical standpoint, possibly not. Emotionally, on the other hand, I think I might be a pint saner if I'd had the right support and that would probably count for something.
What's done is done, though, and all there is left to do is carry on.
And so I shall.
I'm done cringing. I'm done hiding. I'm done wallowing in self conscious guilt and shame.
My name is Leyna and I paint music.
My hands are shaky, my lines are wobbly and I DON'T CARE!
I don't need more practice. I practice plenty. Practice just isn't going to change or fix anything.
Because nothing needs fixing.
My wobbly lines are part of the authentic truth that defines me.
And there's fine just as they are.