Growing up, I not only had severe OCD but I also suffered from dyslexia. I was terrible at math, and by terrible I mean horrid. It left me feeling stupid and frustrated. It took hours to complete simple multiplication. It hurt my head when doing algebra. I actually passed my freshman year of high school with a D- in math. I was thrilled. I worked my butt off for that D-.
In defense of my feeling stupid I decided that what I lacked in math I could make up in language arts. I would read big words and thoughtfully let them drop off my tongue. I would look up their definitions in the dictionary and try to equate them in any sentence possible. I yearned to be smarter and if I couldn't do the math route I could certainly appear to be more intelligent in other ways. I devoured the world of words. Tasting each one as I rolled them around in my mouth. The ways to describe my life, my attributes, and my pain. Words became my passion. I suppose it is no wonder that I would write at some point.
From this begat an immense desire of reading prose and poetry. After all, poetry is often just a slight of hand with words. A pun. A sarcastic prose. A gut achingly poignant set of verses to soothe the soul. Or to piss off. Whichever way you read it.
I became a lover of Sylvia Plath and Dorothy Parker. Two poets of which also suffered from mental illness. Here I found like minded company. The pages their books produced became my ledger. I had finally found a niche that understood me. Sir Walter Raleigh, Emily Dickison.....ect. Which was great because many times things I said seemed to be over my peer's heads. My English teachers adored me but that really doesn't get you popular now does it?
I never felt the need to dumb myself down so the boys would like me more. I had felt dumb all of my life and I would be damned if I acted like some twit just so my then crush would smile at me. Not going to happen.
So in feeling dumb most of my life, I have striven to do better. To be better. I learned how to make myself smarter in certain things rather than dwell on the things I am not good at. Words are my security blanket and numbers are my boogey-man that waits for me in the darkest of night under my bed.
As an adult, I have accepted that everyone is bad at something. Why hold it against myself? Albert Einstein couldn't tie his own shoes, and I am fairly certain he didn't feel like he was stupid or dumb.
So I will leave you with two of my favorite quotes from an amazing poet:
So many people are shut up tight inside themselves like boxes, yet they would open up, unfolding quite wonderfully, if only you were interested them ---- Sylvia Plath
I have the choice of being constantly active and happy, or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.-------Sylvia Plath