Notes From My Desk

Yep, that only semi constructed desk space, known as my desk.

 It’s a tedious process to transfer everything from one place to another. I feel like I’m going to forget something important, probably because I already have, multiple times.

I’ve also run out of space on one of my thumb drives, which just adds to the fun, so I’ve been moving even more files around.

I recommend having a good filing system from the beginning. You’ll save yourself a lot of time and confusion later on. For example, have all resumes and cover letters in the same place (as I now do).

I’ve rediscovered the treasure trove of application essays I wrote after college for all of those long term service applications.

I’m really bad at talking about myself. Thank God people were able to see past that and take a chance on me.

However I should probably review and update some of those essays in the event I could use them again. That missionary bug hasn’t been fully squashed, yet.

 On a break from all of the file reorganizing a tweet caught my eye.

If you’re considering book-writing as a career, I’d implore you to consider it as a last resort. This nonsense is SO EFFING DIFFICULT.

— Nish (@NishWeiseth) June 17, 2013

I’ve unearthed a lot of unfinished projects.

 Blog posts.

Articles.

Essays.

Speeches.

Presentations.

Resource lists.

Novels.

I basic account of my life I can only assume I had planned to turn into a biography at some point.

Writing is difficult. Getting any message from your brain to anywhere else can be difficult. But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.

 I have a lot to finish, revise, and possibly combined together (who knows).

 I’m hoping my shiny new office supplies holds some surprises that can help me be more organized and stay focused enough to finish a long abandoned project (or two, or all of them).

 Maybe I’ll start by finishing and publishing a few unfinished posts. It seems like the most obvious, and possibly best, place to start.

Here’s another piece of advice, it’s not a good idea to wait nearly a decade to upgrade your (these days basic) technology. Going from XP to W!ndows 8 isn’t for the faint of heart.

Here’s a confession, I don’t mind not being tech savvy. It’s one of the best leftover gifts of simple living. I don’t care that it doesn’t make my life “easier.”

 Here’s a random piece of information: Yesterday I burnt my left hand on a cup, and then I tripped in the driveway and fell on the same hand.  It’s a predicament, one that made typing this post challenging.

My burnt (and scrapped) hand and I are going to do some reading (holding the book in my right hand)

Why Friends Matter

Last week I received a letter from a good friend. It was a welcome surprise actually, attempting to transition to a somewhat full time career has been challenging. Since I’ve decided to call myself a writer (at least more often) I’ve written very little, or anything that could be included in the life file labeled “Writing Career.” It’s further proof that God does indeed have a sense of humor, if you ask me.

About the letter.

It arrived shortly after I published my thoughts on Why Family Matters when you have CP. I realized I completely neglected to mention why friends matter when you have CP; friends are the family you get to choose for yourself after all.

I sent some friends a post I had written during CP Awareness month that I’ve been thinking about turning into a presentation, of some kind. I wasn’t expecting anything back, just sharing it on a bigger scale was accomplishment enough.

And then the letter.

As luck would have it (or God, depending on your preference), recently my friend was given the opportunity to learn a few things from a professional speaker and debater on how to give good talks. She could’ve just told me about it. Instead she sent me a copy of her notes, because that’s what friends do.

Friends also give you a window into what people think of you. It’s been well documented what my best friends think of me. It’s not something I like to shine a light on often but there are times when exceptions are allowed. 

The gift of friends is that they start out as strangers. First impressions are important, but often wrong (from my experience).

I know people in the special needs/disability community often worry about making friends (mostly parents worried about their children). I’ve always found the root(s) of the worry interesting, although I think I’m beginning to understand it.

 It’s true many of us are bullied & that we often don’t have as many friends as able bodied peers. However there’s one aspect that I believe many people over look, the quality verses the quantity.

 Friends are the people that choose to be part of your life; that can be a big deal if you have a disability. Friends are the people who are there to prove to you that you’re worth it; that the world is a better place with you in it, even if you think everything else is telling you otherwise.

Friends matter because they’ll tell you how it is. They’re not who you’ve spent your entire life with but they’ve been around long enough to tell you the real deal. Friends pick up the “slack” when family just doesn’t work as well.

My Two Feet

A few days after I was casted for a right sided hinged AFO (sometime in ’07, best guess) I went to T@rget looking for socks. I’m not one to wear to-the-knee AFOs with short socks. It’s just gross. Feet sweat, and even more so when covered in plastic. “Thou must have dry feet,” is practically one of the missing commandments from The History Of The World Part 1.

If I was going to be stuck in a brace again I was going to own it. People were probably going to stare so I should probably give them something good to look at. One pair had stripes the other more plain but still had stripes.

Up until this point I only owned white socks. I bought the same socks for years. If one got a hole I just threw it out and paired it with another white sock. It all ended up evening out at the end of the school year, except for the number of pairs of socks. I turned low maintenance into an art form, at least for a while.

By the time I packed up and headed to the great Northwest I had build up a stock pile of socks. I was careful not to get any holes in them for fear of not being able to find replacements. But somewhere along the way I stopped being so careful, some have gotten holes, gotten sewn, got holes again, and then were thrown away. Others have started to show ware but with proper rotation most are still in tact, or at least I thought so.

“Why are the toes of your socks so filthy?”
(Usually asked by my mother after doing a load of laundry)

 It happens. Socks get dirty. Just how they get that way often varies greatly.

“I wore those in Montana.”

Montana “defiled” a lot of my socks. But in Montana’s defense I think I forced the issue. All of our ventures to The Treasure State were communal, as in we traveled as a group and functioned as a larger group. I, always knowing that I’ll leave some sort of impression on people brought my “best” socks.

There’s only one problem with bringing your “best” to Montana. Montana is like New England on overdrive. Don’t like the weather? Wait 5 minutes. It’s often damp in places. Damp places make for dirty socks.

The great thing is my socks didn’t just get dirty in Montana; but Oregon, Idaho, Washington, Missouri, North Carolina, and every state that makes up New England (and that’s just the short list).

Dirty socks mean I have stories to tell (which you already know since I have a blog). Dirty socks mean I’ve lived; that things got messy and I’ve come out on the other side. Dirty socks mean I’ve celebrated victories and occasions of all sizes & had a good time doing it. Dirty socks are pretty great when given a chance.

I get a little upset when I’m down another pair of socks, but it’s because I’m having trouble securing another supply. Other than that, I’ve never been so happy to have a drawer full of well worn, some slightly dirty, socks.

The Mondays

Mondays are my worst day.

Every Monday I wake up & swear I’m never going to do this again; “this” being getting up at 5:30, if not a little before.

My day ends around 10pm, usually.

Sometime in the afternoon I sleep.

I have no interest in proving that I could be next in line to the energizer bunny.

Nor am I 19.

At 19 I had an “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” mentality.

Now I want to sleep so I don’t cause myself an early death.

Funny how life works like that.

Isn’t it?!?!?

I never intended on going to the gym at 6am, even once, never mind once a week.

I told myself it would be a short term arrangement.

That was in January.

It is now June.

I hate it just as much today as I did the 1^st day in January.

Every week I tell myself that it’s not worth it.

I should quit this crap.

Or maybe I should just stop working Mondays?

Anything to make the day shorter.

Then I remember what it feels like when I don’t go to the gym.

I like not having to go to the gym, at first.

Then I feel the effects of my decision.

I wonder why I didn’t just suck it up and go to the gym.

If that doesn’t happen I usually read something that makes me wish I went to the gym.

Especially if Ronnie (or Mandi) rolls out a Workout Wednesday (for example).

I’m like the tin man.

If I don’t keep things moving it’s harder to get moving.

Eventually I’ll stop moving altogether but I’d like to actually be old when that happens.

Instead of just feeling old.

I feel like I’ve been up all day already.

The joke’s on me since my day isn’t even half over.

I could use a nap.

I swear I will not go to the gym at 6am ever again.

Why Family Matters

Today is my cousin’s birthday. She’s one of my favorite cousins. The best bonus of heading south last month was getting to spend time with her (and her family).

In honor of her birthday I thought I’d talk about a family’s impact on someone with Cerebral Palsy.

She’s the one who first put it in my head that I could go away for college. It’s what she did so it made complete sense that I would as well. I didn’t follow though on the meet the love of your life and get married portion, but that was the optional part.

The good thing about being an only child with a gigantic extended family is you don’t have anyone to compare yourself to on a daily basis but role models aren’t in short supply, CP or no CP.

During my time with my cousin there was a good amount of time to talk, and we did, it’s what she and I do, even when we’re not together.

Family dynamics have changed a lot in the last few years so it was only a matter of time before we started to look back.

 We talked about college, specifically how shocked people seem to be when I tell them that not only did I go to college but I moved away & graduated (for some reason those three factors together seem like the Holy Grail, for everyone else).

 I told her the college part always felt like an assumption, as did the graduating part. (She agreed).  The moving away part was a bonus. (We both agreed on that point. A LOT)

Family time is when I learned the majority of life skills, mainly the simplest things that people take for granted, like navigating stairs, grass, games that required hand eye coordination.

Most things I learned with family were things most kids just know how to do or things learned in school. I’m not saying that certain things were ignored completely in school; it was just thought that it would be “better” for me to have help or something different altogether.

The best thing, for me, about learning from family was that I was free to learn on my own. I’m not saying that everyone slapped me on the back and sent me on my way; in fact it was quite the opposite. Having a big family means you have anywhere between 10-75 pairs of eyes on you at once.

There were plenty of times I got hurt. There was no way to avoid it. Kids get hurt. The good thing is I learned to get up, and more importantly try again.

Family gives kids (who later become adults) the chance to be a kid first before the diagnosis. It also gives kids a chance to “model up” to the behaviors of their role models, no matter how big or small.

Family is where I learned being different is O.K; doing things a little (or a lot) different than my peers (especially outside of family) is O.K. The important thing is that you do them. The bar was never set lower because I was different or because someone thought I couldn’t do it. I’m sure a few wondered what my life would be like; I do the same now with family members.

Certain things were expected, not dreams hoped for. I have my family to thank for that.

It starts with the family. Set your expectations based on your family, not what you read, what you’ve heard, what you’ve been told, or anything else. It shouldn’t matter any more than how you’re treated within your own family.