Someone I am coaching mentioned the series ‘The good doctor’. I generally don’t prefer hospital series, but I ended up watching this.
Watching the doctor who is Autistic and how just to manage everyday “normal” functions, which for most people is so obvious, takes so much, brought up a lot of stuff for me.
I had, have Dyscalculia. A learning challenge with numbers and mathematics. And I remember having severe anxiety pangs during maths class. I just could not see numbers. It started when in class two I forgot a table and the teacher, Miss Raman, pronounced me as “Being bad at Maths”. That stuck. I Became someone who was bad at maths.
Dyscalculia, as a term I only learnt about 15 years ago. Till then I struggled with the Unknown. Unknowingly also unbeknownst to others.
Dyscalculia is a term referring to a disability with a wide range of difficulties with maths, including weaknesses in understanding the meaning of numbers, and difficulty applying mathematical principles to solve problems.
I couldn’t write ‘within’ the squares of an arithmetic book.There were red pen circles all over, I was told I was rebelling and being difficult. I wasn’t. I had difficulty counting. I got confused with directions. I fell down a lot, because I could not gauge the distance or height. I got shamed a lot for using my fingers to count , still do, because I could not do mental math’s. I would get mixed up with dates and time, and often couldn’t tell big and small comparisons. I laughed, pretended to ‘not care’ and moved on. It did hurt. It got increasingly difficult to explain I was not being difficult I had difficulty. It was easier to accept I was rebelling. That way atleast others thought they “Understood” what was going on and left me alone, to get on with understanding myself.
By the time I got to engineering, it was a nightmare. The differential equations, Laplace transformations where extremely overwhelming. But because I loved engineering I had to find a hack. I started to “memorize” the sums as text, I thought of them as Poetry. I took extra care in writing the sums decoratively. I wrote the sums as if I was drawing. This way atleast the numbers didn’t visually jumble and I was not sweating with Panic. I can see where this hacking comes from. I also encountered numbers in my most favorite subject Physics, and to ‘manage’ numbers I had to approach them through various ‘corridors”. I started to make up ‘stories’ to represent numbers and their relationship.
To cut the long story short, Arts, Beauty and Stories saved me from drowning in the sea of numbers.
I would also memorize steps, like Shawn from the Good doctor, to gauge distance in routine spaces. And had a library of “space images”. I had to be very aware of where I was. And constantly take in ‘changing information’ in the environment. To not fall, stumble or run into something. I was someone who always had band-aids in my bag. I still say things like, I need to file this away for future reference or have a static memory loss. I get admonished for saying it. I am not a computer, I am reminded. I know. But I had to do it to survive long before I knew what a computer was, I want to say. But I let it pass. Perhaps that is why I unconsciously chose computer engineering.
Even today, while crossing a busy street, with too many moving parts, I feel the panic. And my sister or son will often hold my hand. They don’t really know the extent, but I guess intuitively they do.
Even now, I use props to count too many variables. I have to represent them visually to make sense. My colleagues and I laugh when sometimes, I literally had to explain with using five apples and seven bananas as a method. It does not ‘define’ me anymore.
It made me think and reflect on the Gifts of this ‘condition” – My hacks actually made me explore and see the beauty and balance of forms. Be more creative in telling stories about numbers and put them into context. It made me not really understand “comparison”. It made me see and notice my environment very minutely. This was a way for me to “survive”, what today gets called being an Artist, Storyteller, Mindful, etc, were coping mechanisms.
It made me think fractals were better than fractions.
Not being good at Mathematics, made a poet, a storyteller, artist and a polymath out of me.
Makes me wonder, how often do we look at the labels that someone gives and then take them on. How often we are stuck in a cage of memories with the door wide open. How often we find it more comforting to “Stay” in the judgement than to move out. How often we don’t see the rest of the story of the unfolding. Why do we then stick to this ONE story of who we are – who others are?
And also, how quick we are to judge other people, because something comes easy to us. How we use comparison as a way of wielding ‘power’. “It so simple, why can’t you get it –you must be stupid is said quietly” . How bullying happens in such insidious ways and what impact it may be leaving on the minds and hearts of people. How sometimes, making others feel bad about themselves also can be a coping mechanism.
Years later in a school reunion, when we went back to school and met old teachers, we met Miss Raman. She didn’t feel so scary. She even laughed. I didn’t remember her like that. She told us how she really wanted to be a Historian, she loved History. But for money she had to take on teaching Math’s, which she did not like. Just listening to that story instantly freed me from the label that I was unconsciously carrying. She as not angry at me, she was angry at herself. I was not, ‘bad at maths’ – she felt she was not good. Labels that are not owned get transferred.
We all suffer, we all deserve some kindness. And less ‘labelling’. It makes me wonder, are we free to be free? What is the price of freedom? What is the cost of labels?
Perhaps, if we saw these “conditions” as a setup for our “gifts” we may finally stop blaming our parents, teachers, circumstances, situations and finally choose to grow up. And change the narrative?
I know of friends who have children who “suffer” from Dyscalculia and, their anxiety and saying it’s OK, is understandable, and gives away their fears that it is not. And that puts added pressure. I want to say, It is ok. They are finding ‘other’ creative ways of being with the world, and it’s not a problem till you say emphatically – “It’s Not a Problem “ – Parenting , relating is hard.
Problem is an over-glorified term. Sometimes, somethings are just that, I am sure a slug does not think her slime is a ‘problem’. The Minute we label it like that it becomes something to ‘Solve”. People and ourselves are sometimes puzzling but we are not puzzles. We don’t need solving and fixing. Perhaps we need to accept we cannot understand what the others really go through, heck we barely understand what we go through and So it may not be fair or kind to ‘expect’ that from ourselves or others. If you get it, awesome, it’s like sunshine, bask and be grateful. If not, find a slug or a tree, they always understand. I promise.
Everyone has some story, of hurt of being misunderstood, of not being someone or something. And it’s not a comparison. Perhaps if we didn’t add ‘extra’ dose of good intentioned solving and helping, we would actually see that different was ok. That different was even beautiful. That comparisons were not necessary. A magnificent Oak tree and a blade of grass are the same for Nature. Perhaps we need more Kindness with ourselves and then the world. It Counts.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.(Excerpt from the Poem Kindness – by Naomi Rye)
7 Comments