There is a word for that and it isn't "every-inanimate-object-in-the-world-is-against-me". For years, I have been referred to as clumsy. I even refer to myself as clumsy. It is not uncommon for me to drop my keys at least three times while heading out the door. Not every once in a while, not once a day. Just about every time I walk out the door. And, it would not be out of the ordinary to have me knock something over on the counter in an attempt to pick my keys off the floor. It's like a Buster Keaton movie without the hours of choreography. I mean, I blew out all the tendons in my right ankle by simply trying to walk out of a building with a small entry way step. It would have been better if I broke it, the doctor told me. Don't worry, that may happen one day. When people asked me what happened as I hobbled up on crutches, I couldn't even begin to explain. "Well, I was walking and there was this step and..."
The people who know me well know I mumble. What do I mumble? Mostly, under my breath, "Goddamnit!" Or there is a running commentary like, "Why can't I just open this bottle of peanut sauce without half of it ending up on the floor, in my hair, and in my ear?" My husband once told me, "If there is a way to figure out how to drop something, you'll do it." Now, that could sound like some sort of put down to someone who has their panties in a bundle. But, said in the right way... at the right moment, it is gospel. Exasperated from just spending five minutes chasing and picking things up off the floor that I had dropped, I agreed.
I once told someone that when I walk through a door, I can always manage to bump into the door frame. It's true. I am also a professional when it comes to walking into objects which have been stationary for months or even years. I've broken my toes more then once. And, once very badly. Although it has been a while, I spent a great number of years stoving my fingers on larger objects I was trying to manipulate, like basketballs.
I played basketball in grade school. I was tall and slim. Therefore, in everyone's mind, I was a basketball player. I liked learning the rules and strategies of the game. But, physically, I am sure I would have fit in better at an ostrich race. I loped along, running from one end to the court to the other. Doing my best to be a forward, catching rebounds and praying to god I would pass the ball somewhere near another team mate. People said I was half-decent. But, height was my advantage, not grace.
I also ran cross country. I ran cross country until we started practicing inside the school. That involved running up and down the stairs. I have trouble navigating stairs on a daily basis going slowly and being mindful. Running? Out of the question. I stopped going to practice and eventually quit.
Who can forget the day my best friend in high school tried to teach me to play tennis? I can't, because I got pretty badly injured in the first fifteen minutes of my attempt. Somehow or another, I managed to trip myself with my OWN tennis racket. This ended badly with my face and knee being firmly planted on the tennis court. Bleeding, the effort was abandon.
What kind of gymnastics does a near six foot woman on the spectrum like myself master? The answer is NONE. One of the handful of times I was almost kicked out of my all-girls Catholic high school revolved around my refusal to participate in gym class. More specifically, gymnastics. I made it through soccer, even though I kicked a few of my classmates square in the shins. I made it through square dancing. But, walking a straight line? No. Walking a straight line on a thin, raised wooden bar? Absolutely NOT! It was being seen as defiant, as usual. But, I had gone into self-preservation mode. I knew what would happen. It would be ugly. It would be tangled. So, I hung out on the bleachers with the heshers-- the metal heads, the "bad girls". They were the ones who never hassled me much. They saw my resistance as more than futile. They saw it as anti-authoritarian. I saw it as nothing but frustrating. I had bigger dragons to slay than cartwheels. Of which, to this day, I have never completed a single one.
By now, I am sure you can imagine I was no Isadora Duncan in roller skates. Growing up in the late-Seventies and early-Eighties meant I had my fair share of roller skating parties. I hated them. I couldn't skate. And, when I attempted to skate, I looked like a thirsty man with two broken legs crawling to the poisoned well. But, that's were the action was. I would come home stiff, sore, and with blisters. Having someone ask me to "shoot the duck" carried as much hope as me climbing a ladder to the moon.
Thank god for swimming, skiing, and hiking. Swimming was the most natural thing I had ever experienced. Feeling the currents move past my body and discovering my own buoyancy was magically relaxing. Skiing was smooth. I got it. I wasn't the best, I wasn't the worse. But, it let me redirect some of the static energy inside of me. And, hiking took some this same energy and exchanged it with my surroundings. There is something about being outside that makes me feel very comforted. I can pick up subtle differences in air temperature and air pressure. I can judge the amount of moisture in the air. I can hear the trees cracking, the leaves crunching, the insects humming, and the animals running. These were activities lead by my senses, not my muscles.
We must also consider the finer details. Things like I previously mentioned: manipulating keys, bottles, pencils, etc. The best I can do to describe the sensation is this: your fingers are made of rubber, they want to tie in knots, and you have to press harder to feel the object or move it. I once wrote about the curious condition of everything being too hard. Walking too hard so it seems you are stomping around everywhere. Or pressing on a pencil too hard. Or pounding on a keyboard too hard. When I write with a pen or a pencil, I press so hard just trying to form the words that I create a crater-sized divot in the pad of my finger and thumb. And, usually, the force used on the pencil itself makes each word appear like a canyon on the sheet of paper-- and the consecutive five to ten sheets beneath it. I have been told by coworkers that I hammer on keyboards. But, I dismiss that. I can still type faster than them, even if I do sound like a one-woman drum circle.
Sometimes, I feel I am having trouble distinguishing where I end and an object begins. And, this can make taking a plate down from the cupboard a potential circus act. Yet, I have come to term with it. I realized it was part of who I am before I was even diagnosed on the spectrum. Except now, I have a word for it: DYSPRAXIA.
Dyspraxia, as defined by the Dyspraxia Foundation, is a life-long neurological condition of the "impairment or immaturity of organization of movement." It occurs when messages to and from the brain are not being properly or completely transmitted. Although, many feel it can be confused with certain aspects of autism, from what I have read, I simply view it as a possible co-morbidity. Strangely, the incidence of dyspraxia in females mirrors the ratio of autism at closely one female to every four males diagnosed. The two main elements are ideational ("difficulty with planning a sequence or coordinating movements") and ideo-motor ("difficulty executing a plan, even though it is known"). Again, like autism, the earlier the detection occurs the earlier and more successful the intervention. Dysparaxia can manifest itself in difficulty with speech (making sounds and sentence structure), handwriting and pencil grip, fastening buttons, opening jars, locking doors, using knives & forks, timing, balance, walking, running, and jumping to mention a few. Also, there are problems with combining movements, judging speed, and spatial awareness. Issues with short-term memory and oversensitivity to some stimuli or moderating sensory information have been noted also. Yet, certain strengths have been documented like the ability to switch dominate and preferred hands. And, superior long-term memories have been in some dyspraxics.
Last April, when preparing to participate in a panel of adults on the spectrum, I started to review a pile of school documents-- some over 35yrs old. Most of it reads like an article possibly written by Tony Atwood himself. However, in the realm of dyspraxia, things like this stuck out. In kindergarten, my teacher noted I need improvement distinguishing between common sounds , locating source of sounds, matching the direction of a design, and USING MY HANDS AND ARMS.
My daughters love to dance, especially Sine. However, it is more interpretive and free-form. She does not excel in the midst of her dance class. She gets distracted by the mirrors, the din of the other little dancers, and the music. She usually spins away from the group to her own corner, happy as all get out. Cosine, on the other hand, isn't as interested in following directions as she is getting the teacher's attention to point out mistakes of her fellow dancers or to relay her most recent diatribe. I am pretty sure the dance class is a free-for-all. But, I figure the physical activity and socialization is necessary for their age. There is a part of class referred to as "tumbling". Watching my girls during this unit is like trying to watch someone fold a wooden board like a bed sheet. Yet, as long as they don't seem miserable, they will finish out the year.
I recently signed them up for swim classes. The difference was immediate. The girls seemed more at ease and relaxed in the water. They were both able the execute the tasks at hand with more control. However, Sine has an issue straying from the class. She needs constant redirection-- she doesn't realize when someone is talking to a group, they are also speaking to her if she is in said group. But, that is a topic for another day.
I do a lot of work with them on writing and coloring. It seems like I am taking all the enjoyment out of the task by repeatedly repositioning the crayons and pencils. But, it is necessary. With this extra guidance, the girls are excelling! Sine moves from left to right hands frequently. She is able to convey her ideas and complete her NUMEROUS books without fatigue. And, Cosine is able to write lists of rhyming words and compose letters with confidence. We also spend time string beads, cutting with scissors, and using glue & tape. Time on the computer using the mouse is also becoming more frequent. Not only is dexterity important, but the ability to relate their ideas, thoughts, and emotions is one of my primary goals with them.
Giving them the opportunity to run, swim, and dance may not prevent them from one day dropping a pot of saucy gnocchi on the floor causing an explosion and subsequent splatter on the ceiling, but it will help them understand and direct their own bodies better. Giving them constant access to pencils, crayons, and markers not only allows an artist outlet but it builds mechanical skill. These are things that should not be taken for granted.
I will be more then happy to share an sources if asked.
Good day.
