My aunt on my father’s side is a highly respected authority on treating learning disabilities using wholistic and yet effective methods. She spent decades exhaustingly researching and learning through experience as a teacher. When she would visit while I was growing-up I’d hear about adhd and dyslexia. Especially as I grew into my teen years.
She’d go on and on. Usually because she had been reading and highlighting a highly cerebral paperback book on the plane and wanted to discuss what she’d just realized. The connections she was drawing in her own mind. And…it was fascinating.
But I don’t spend much time thinking about it… Not on my own.
Yesterday while I was driving to a hike I started talking about how my brain is different than most other people’s brains. “Yeah! That reminds me of how people with dyslexia can see things other people can’t see…” And suddenly my ex-husband went on and on praising the genius of those with dyslexia.
It was random. We never have spent more than a few seconds discussing dyslexia in the over 10 years we’ve known each other. It’s come up a few times but only as a side-note. It was very sudden. I was impressed.
But he’d apparently been reading about it. And he wanted to tell me everything. And in a way he did. We ended the conversation on the note that I don’t apparently appreciate their innate greatness…but he wanted me to be made more aware. And he tried.
And this evening after posting my last post I decided to read reviews of a book. Just out of curiosity. I love reading reviews of things before I read them myself…
Guess who had dyslexia? I can’t bring myself to write it.
I can’t choose.
“Oh yes you can!” some possible ghost demands. Actually, they all mostly demand I decide. Who wins?
“No. She really can’t.”
“I don’t believe it!” says Jack seriously (in denial).
…And I can decide about some things. I know who I am. …But I hate ruining things. I worry I could make a grave mistake. I take everything extremely seriously. By nature. …And when it comes to deciding who I should be with in life as a human my only firm conclusion is that I belong to my kids. I belong to God. And I love the English. And when it comes to romance…it’s difficult to decide which man it should be.
I respect real goodness in all people. And…no…I can’t be a man. I’m not a man. I’ve never been a man and I have no desire to ever be a man. Ever. …And “deciding” becomes that for me and I tend to make mistakes. Even when I doubt I will.
But being a woman in a heterosexual relationship is about being loved. As Christ loves the Church. Not the other way around. And…that means it’s gruesome for me as a woman to “pick.”
Pick. Pick. Pick. …How do you cut apart a man’s soul and rip him to pieces to make him good enough to what? Win you? You’re a prize?! I’m not a prize. Romantic love is far worse and far better than that.
And I refuse to compete. Because it’s not a competition. It’s closer to war than competition. Love isn’t a game. It isn’t a bloody sport. It’s life and death.
At least to me. Right? Right? *wink*
…No. Harold Loeb had that right, in my opinion. At least for someone like me.
Who are you? Who are you really?