Who is ‘normal’ anyway?

‘Jessica Shore? Would you like to come through now?’ I handed mum my bag and scarf and grudgingly followed the short jolly woman across the room to the door boldly marked ‘assessments’. The room was claustrophobically small, just big enough to fit a desk, 2 chairs and one feeble looking shelf. We were forced to sit uncomfortably close to each other. I could smell her coffee breath infecting the air. ‘Right then Jessica, we are just going to carry out a few tests to find out what the problem is, ok Jessica?’ Her upbeat voice was beginning to infuriate me, why did she persist with this patronising tone and why was she saying my name like that? Does she think I don’t know my own name? Does she think I’m stupid?

It was an ear achingly cold morning as me and mum left the house, pacing towards our bright purple Nissan Micra. We had to leave five minutes early to scrape off the ice that had stubbornly welded itself to the front and back windscreens of the car. We sat in silence all the way to the assessment. I denied that anything was wrong with me. I wanted to convince mum to turn back but she was nervously concentrating on the early morning rush hour traffic.

Ok so I can’t dance. Elaborate movement just does not agree with me. I feel nothing but awkward and overly self conscious when in a club with my friends, desperately trying to control my gangly long limbs and shape them into some sort of movement in time to some sort of beat. I am envious as my friends effortlessly show off their ‘oh so cool’ dance moves, impressing the praying eyes of the opposite sex as I shy away into the darkest corner or flee to the bar to get yet another drink. I just don’t have rhythm! But that’s quite normal, right? I suppose it might not be completely normal that I find social situations intensely and embarrassingly awkward. I just can’t interact with new people and I unwillingly project an awkward and unfriendly persona. Who’s to say what ‘normal’ is anyway? Maybe I am just a warped version of ‘normal’...

‘Ok Jessica, thank you for completing that set of tests, I will write up a report and send it to you within two weeks, Bye Jessica! Safe journey home!’ I was relieved to leave that upbeat, patronising, constant name using woman’s office but now I had to worry about what that report would contain. Two and a half weeks later it arrived on my doormat. It was marked ‘confidential document’. I ripped it open.

‘SUMMARY’

‘The information gained during this assessment indicates that Miss Shore has the learning difficulty, ‘dyspraxia’.’

Great so now I’ll be known as the dyspraxia kid. The report continued on to a description:

‘The Dyspraxia Foundation describes the characteristics as follows: ‘Dyspraxia is generally recognised to be an impairment or immaturity of the organisation of movement. Associated with this may be problems of language, perception and thought’....’Physical activities are hard to learn, difficult to retain and generalise and can be hesitant and awkward in performance.’

The report went on to describe my childhood and why I may have acquired this ‘disability’. But it is basically unexplainable. Just pure ‘luck’.
So this is me. I now have a label. I am ‘Dyspraxia kid’.