Emotionally, there is an overwhelming feeling of failure and frustration as you live your life trapped in a body that doesn’t work properly.
A friend of mine recently asked me to describe to her how my dyspraxia feels, which is a difficult thing to do. Emotionally, there is an overwhelming feeling of failure and frustration as you live your life trapped in a body that doesn’t work properly. Your brain understands what you need to do and the basic principles of how to do things, but when you try to implement the theory it is impossible and it feels like only you don’t know why.
An example of this is learning to swim. From the age of six people attempted to teach me how to swim. I understood the basic principle, you lie on the water kicking your legs and moving your arms in a scooping motion to paddle through the pool. Despite this it took an additional five years, and hundreds of pounds worth of group and private lessons for me to even achieve five metres of basic doggy paddle, by which point my 10-year-old peers were on their 25 metres badges using front crawl – a stroke I still haven’t managed to conquer.
At school, my teachers labelled me as lazy – which feels ironic given that I had to work twice as hard as other people to complete basic tasks. This is particularly the case for those who struggle with organisation and memory problems. At secondary school (11-16), for example, I remember it was particularly difficult juggling nine subjects. I’d constantly lose text books, forget equipment such as P.E. kits and pencil cases and even though I’d do all of the homework the teachers would never receive it as I’d forget to bring it when due.
Despite all of this, I did quite well academically at school, and eventually returned to University to get an English Literature degree, followed by a journalism MA. I now make a living doing a job that I love. But the low self esteem associated with my dyspraxia persists; the psychological ramifications of years I spent being told I wasn’t good enough still remain. Following years of bullying from my peers for being clumsy, I still struggle to trust people. I’ve also got an intense phobia of being watched.
Not being able to co-ordinate my body is still something I’m always incredibly insecure about but my response to these anxieties continues to evolve.
These days, my condition is manageable thanks to the support I received from healthcare specialists, and the understanding of my family once I’d been diagnosed. As well as counselling to help control my anxiety and depression, I also received occupational therapy support from a neuropsychologist. In attending monthly sessions I was not only able to identify when the symptoms of my dyspraxia worsen (when I’m tired, stressed or angry) but was taught how implementing basic routines can help minimise the most difficult of symptoms such as forgetfulness and disorganisation. These routines can be as simple as making sure keys always remain in the same place, and taking fifteen minutes in the morning to plan what I need to do with my day.
I’m still clumsy, and it appears there’s nothing that can be done about that – but the support available helped address some of the more frustrating limitations of having dyspraxia. Not being able to co-ordinate my body is still something I’m always incredibly insecure about, but my response to these anxieties continues to evolve and I no longer feel stupid.
I'm not able to tell you where I would be if my problems had been recognised sooner. But I can’t understand why diagnosing dyspraxia – and other cognitive problems in young children is being criticised. If additional support is being made available to learners from a younger age, support that prevents them from going through life feeling stupid and worthless like I have in the past, well, surely that can only be a good thing. If I had a message for my younger, as yet undiagnosed self it would be this: you are not stupid.