I’m Special (4 page)

I just wanted to find a friend who was like me, someone I could commiserate with about drooling all over myself and being terrible at sports. I imagined conversations that went something like “Hey, isn't it the worst when you're walking somewhere and lose your balance for no reason and just fall? Ha ha, it's awful! Or how about when it takes you twenty minutes to figure out how to put a key in a lock because you have poor hand-eye coordination? I hate it when that happens!” But I couldn't find that companionship, and I left every experience feeling more guilt and shame about my disability than before.

I thought I could be close to someone just because we had something in common. Growing up, you're always looking for things to define you, to tell you what you are, because you aren't able to figure it out on your own yet. Some people join an organized religion, sew their pants up with dental floss, or smoke pot just to make a connection, so I suppose hanging out with a disabled kid in Thousand Oaks doesn't actually seem that radical by comparison. Still, what do you do when you can't find that one person who makes you feel not so different? In my case, you retreat. After the disappointing experience with UCPLA, I swiftly went back into my disabled shell and was certain no one would ever understand what it felt like to have one foot in the world of cerebral palsy and one foot in this “normal able-bodied” life. I continued to play the Special card at home with my family while hiding it from everybody at school. By now, I was perfect at knowing how to hide the wrinkles. People would only see what I wanted them to see.

It's been over a decade since I've worked with UCPLA and tried to keep my disability on the DL, and I've got to tell you: it's a full-time job keeping the two worlds separate. There's a point that comes in everybody's life when you have to stop denying the things that make you different and start to accept what you've been given—even if what you've been given is embarrassing, ugly, and prone to drooling involuntarily on people. So no more lies, no more bullshit: this is what it's been like for me to have cerebral palsy in a generation where every person is treated slightly special to begin with.

Number one: people will think you have more brain damage than you actually do. My high school guidance counselor, for example, thought I was a Grade A retard when, at best, I was only a Grade C or D. Whenever I went to talk to her, she fawned over me like I was the boy in the bubble.

“Good tooooo seeeeee youuuuu, Ryan,” she greeted me one day. “Are you getting along okay?”

“Um, yeah; I'm fine. I just need to switch out of AP Government. I'm not even planning to take the AP test, so it's just a waste of my time, you know?”

“Okay, okay, I hear what you're saying, but tell me what's really going on. Is the course moving too fast for you?” She placed a reassuring hand on my arm and gave me “I care” eyes.

“No, I get it. I got an A on the last pop quiz. To be honest, I just hate the teacher. She gives us tons of busy work, and I feel like I'm not learning anything.”

“Is she not accommodating your needs? She knows you're allowed extra time on tests, right?” Even though she was acting sweet, I just wanted to punch her in the face. Being treated like a retard is only beneficial at places where you get to skip the lines, like the airport, the DMV, and Disneyland. Everywhere else just feels cruel.

“I don't need more time on tests. Have I ever needed it? I just want to be placed in regular Government.”

“I'm going to talk to your teacher and make sure she's aware of your special situation.”

“But—”

“Ryan, you've come too far to cheat yourself now. Even though you have some limitations, I really believe that with the proper adjustments, you can really excel at AP Government. Have a good day and come back to visit me if you're still not getting the hang of it, okay?”

And that was that. I was shooed out of her office, my request denied. I didn't get it. Shouldn't I get taken out of AP
because
I have brain damage? It's like my guidance counselor adopted me as her personal pet project and was determined to save me from underachievement. I could just imagine her going home to her husband after work and being like, “Oh my God, I have the sweetest student with cerebral palsy. He's slow with certain things, but I'm not going to give up on him, dammit!” It's an admirable goal, but she neglected to find out if anyone had given up on me in the first place.

Number two: people will assume you're wasted when you're actually stone-cold sober. Once, I ran into an acquaintance at a party and we talked casually for a few minutes before I left to go home. The next time I saw him, he was like, “Dude, do you remember seeing me at that party a while ago?” Confused, I responded, “Of course I remember. Why wouldn't I?” Then, pretty much screaming in my face, he explained, “Because you were wasted! When I saw you, it looked like you could barely walk, man!”

Oops—guilty as charged! It's just my limp. Bouncers at bars have gone so far as to give me the stare down and ask my friends, “Is he okay?” before letting me in, insinuating that I appear to be totally fucked-up. Seven point five times out of ten, though, I'm completely sober! When people accuse me of being drunk, I'm so mortified that I just choose to go along with it. “Man, you're right,” I'll say sheepishly. “I was out of control that night. I'm sorry. Did I do anything super embarrassing?”

Number three: people will assume that you must have just gotten into a terrible accident. I learned this when I decided to be an accident victim for Halloween and walked down Santa Monica Boulevard in nothing but a hospital gown. (It was my interpretation of a slutty Halloween costume. Most people would either be a lifeguard or Tarzan if they wanted to show off their body, but I figured that since I already had a limp, why not expose my ass in a flimsy hospital gown and splatter fake blood on my face?) Unfortunately, my “costume” backfired when four drivers stopped by the side of the road to ask me if I needed to get to a hospital.

Number four: people will make jokes about cerebral palsy without knowing you actually have it. This happened to me at a gay bar, of all places, and it was completely traumatizing. I was flirting with some guy and we were playing this game where you arbitrarily identify things as being '80s, '90s, or millennium. (For example, minifridges are so '80s, whereas having a gluten allergy is very millennium.) Things were going so well at first. We were laughing and drinking and giving each other “I'm going to fuck you later and only regret 22 percent of it!” eyes. But then all of a sudden, the dude says to me, “Oh, I got a good one! Cerebral palsy is sooooo '80s.”

Ha ha—wait, WHAT? Did the words
cerebral palsy
just come out of this boy's mouth? Rewind the tape! Oh damn, there it is in slow motion: “Cereeeeeebral pallllllsy is sooooo '80s.” Fuck me. Here was this cute guy who was most likely going to sleep with me in two hours and he makes a joke about a disability he doesn't even know I have. I was so shocked that I just laughed uncomfortably and quickly moved the game along by adding, “Uh, yeah. What about scoliosis? I think that's pretty '90s.” If I were a braver soul, I would've said something like this:

Me:
Hey, jerkface!

Boner Killer:
Yeah, babe?

Me:
I have cerebral palsy and I can definitely say that it's not '80s. It's very today! Haven't you seen
Breaking Bad
?

Boner Killer:
Um, no.

Me:
Well, there's a major character with CP on it. So, in case you were wondering, my disability is very on-trend. It's not like I have polio or something!

Boner Killer:
Okay, babe.

Me:
And you were probably going to get to see me naked in a few hours and receive a fairly adequate blow job! But now you won't! Now you have to go home and jack off by yourself! So bye!

Boner Killer:
Bye, babe.

Me:
Wait—do you still want my number?

Boner Killer:
 . . .

But since I'm neither cool nor well adjusted, I had to settle on having one more awkward drink and hightailing it back home in a cab so I could watch episodes of
Breaking Bad
on Netflix to feel better about my situation. I was pissed. Sex was within my grasp, but one joke about people who limp ended up giving me a limp dick. What's even more sickening is that it gave me a sense of pride knowing that I had successfully fooled him into thinking that I was able-bodied. Whenever I meet a cute boy, there are certain tricks I use to conceal my limp. In a bar, it's easy because I'm mostly sitting down, and on the off chance that I have to stand, I can just lean against something. Then, if we actually (gasp!) walk to the front of the bar or the back patio, I make sure to always walk behind the person a little bit so they don't see me limping. I'm like a disabled magician, except it's less magic and more tragic.

Number five: people stare. A lot. Even when I lived in New York—a place that proudly ignores both celebrities and stab victims—people would do a double take when they saw me limping toward them. It's especially confusing when a cute gay boy is doing it. Sometimes my friends will inform me when someone is checking me out, but most of the time I think they're just staring at my hunchback. This is a terrible thing to assume, but when you grow up with small children looking at you and then asking their parents, “WHAT'S WRONG WITH THAT MAN?” you become a little jaded. That's why I'm never sure a guy is actually into me until they're actually putting their dick into my ass. And even then I'm like, “Really? Are you sure? There's still time to back out!” I'd like to think that I have healthy self-esteem when it comes to the way I look. I see myself in the mirror and think, “You're cute, funny, and smart. I get why people might want to give all their love and genitalia to you.” But when it comes down to actually pursuing a crush or getting ready to have sex, I feel a little shocked when the feelings are reciprocated. “This sexy able-bodied person is willing to have sex with someone who has a disability? Wow—they're a great person. I don't know if I would do that if I were in their position!” I shouldn't feel so honored whenever someone wants to sleep with me—and I don't all the time. Sometimes I definitely feel like I'm the one doing the person a favor, but oftentimes I do feel lucky. I just can't fathom why someone would be with me when they can be with someone who can have Cirque du Soleil sex and go on bike rides with them and climb ladders to fun rooftop parties and stick their legs up in the air for long periods of time.

Number six: some people think you're in a lot of pain. One of the things I get annoyed with the most is when I fall in public—which happens a lot—and people act like it's the JFK assassination. Strangers swarm over me and ask worried questions like, “Are you okay? OMG, can you feel from the waist down?” When I get up and assure them that I'm okay, they see that I'm limping and start to really freak out. “Dear God, you're limping! We need to get you to a hospital!” Then I have to explain to them that I've always walked this way, which leads to an even bigger upset. A disabled person who fell? It can't be! By the end of the whole debacle, I'm the one consoling
them.

Sometimes I wonder if I had been born with cerebral palsy during the baby boomer era whether I'd be left alone. There would be no guidance counselor treating me like a five-year-old, no people stopping on the side of the road to ask if I need to go to the hospital, no parents hovering over my every move. Right before I left my small beach town for college in San Francisco, I figured this would be my chance to start over and become someone less defined by my disability. I started over, all right. Just not how I expected to.

Getting Hit by a Car

(and Other Amazing Things That Can Sometimes Happen to You if You're Really Lucky!)

IS THERE ANY WORSE
possible time to be a human being than during your freshman year of college? The personal transformation you undergo is startling. You leave your hometown feeling mature and ready to tackle independence with gusto, but then the second you set foot on campus, you regress into a beer-swilling nightmare. Gone are any goals of taking an 8:00 a.m. class and joining a feminist study group. You just want to have fun, make out with people you hate, and puke.

College is about figuring out who you are, and in order to do that, you need to become a lot of people you aren't. It's about reinvention. Since you're far away from everything and everyone you know, you have the opportunity to become the person you weren't allowed to be in high school. You're not living up to anyone's expectations anymore. You have the freedom to do whatever the hell you want.

After I graduated from my Future #Blessed Millennials of America high school, I went to San Francisco State University, where I realized pretty quickly that I had no idea how to live without my parents' guidance. At eighteen years old, I still didn't know how to do laundry or cook or clean. I was so desperate for help that I began giving weed to this girl on my dorm floor in exchange for cleaning my room. But as terrifying as it was to live on my own, I was excited to start over. I didn't know a single person at school, which might've seemed scary for anyone else, but I saw it as an amazing opportunity to become something more than the gay gimp I was in Ventura. Unfortunately, a change in geography did little to change my circumstances. At college, people would still look at me like, “Uh, there goes that flamboyant homo who walks like a ninety-year-old man!” Meanwhile, everyone around me was exploding with change. The first friend I made at school, Stephanie, came to college untainted, all smiles and getting tipsy off two bottles of Mike's Hard Lemonade. Then, after a few months, she tried her first line of cocaine, loved it, and was gone, baby, gone. Reinvention isn't always synonymous with growth. Sometimes it's just about letting go and becoming the worst possible version of yourself.