The injustice of it all
There’s a photograph of me as a child that I often find myself peering at. I don’t know how old I was but I must have been about 8 or 9, sitting on a chair on my knees in a blue and white gingham dress with the window to my back garden behind me.
This photograph sits in my lounge. I love this photograph as it shows an altogether different me. My smile wasn’t a smile, but I understand why now. I’m not looking at the photo in terms of how young I looked, but it was the look of innocence in my eyes. I trusted back then.
I wasn’t aware of my spiritual prowess or understand exactly how my spiritual beliefs worked, but those beliefs must have played their part: because I believed others had the best of intentions and never stopped to question their motives.
But as I began to grow, I began to understand more and began to believe less. Knowing I struggled mentally and emotionally and knowing nothing was being done to help me, it was easier for me to see the cracks in others’ handling of me and a disability I didn’t know I had.
It was clear and obvious I had physical problems. My left leg was smaller and thinner than my right and my left foot wasn’t a normal shape. I didn’t know about my arm at the time or what the diagnosis was, let alone the right diagnosis.
Although I was bothered about all of those things my main concern was not knowing what was wrong with me and having to live and struggle in my own secret world.
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