My third-grade teacher announced our math quiz scores. “Thomas ~ 10, Julia ~ 9, Albert ~ 10, Marilyn ~ 0. “Why can’t you do simple percentages like Barbara! She gets all A’s,” Mom said. My older sister was popular, never had to study, great at tennis, softball, and cheerleading. The only student who received consistent zeros, I was an easy target for bullies. Some were teachers. My teachers did not seem to care or have the resources to help me with math, writing, or reading. In that era, dyscalculia and dyslexia were rarely known terms. Educators did not appear to understand the learning difficulties I had. Barbara, 12–years old at the time, pointed out the reversed ‘D’ I wrote during a homework assignment. Ashamed and humiliated, I wished to be Peter Pan who lived in Never Land and had wonderful adventures. Teachers discussed my grades with Mom and Dad. Marilyn is listless and daydreams in class, they said. I felt like Cinderella who endured abuse and was treated unfairly. Drawn to Grimm’s Fairy Tales, I empathized with “Little Match Girl,” casted aside, cold, hungry, starving for love and acceptance. Dad bullied me about my difficulties counting coins, paper currency, and figuring out how much change we would receive when shopping and buying gas. Attacked by two dogs, I had a breakdown before my senior year in high school. I stayed in my room all summer convinced I was dying from rabies. My days were filled with panic attacks, fearing the sight of water, and contracting lockjaw. A tiny red change purse with a yellow smiley face sat in the top dresser drawer with my tee–shirts. Like a monster, it hurled vicious words at me. Haunted by night terrors, I woke up clammy, my heart threatening to implode. Dad rarely spoke to me. Without warning, he barged into my room, pinched my shoulders with his huge construction worker hands, shook me, and said, “Get over this nonsense!” That did not work. Despite placing in the poor readers group, books became one of my coping skills. I dreamed of being a pirate on Captain Hook’s ship, The Jolly Roger, and journeys on the Mississippi River with Huckleberry Finn. From ages 6–14 my parents sent me away to sleepaway camp in the Catskill Mountains. Last to be chosen for softball, soccer, and tennis teams, I was sad and lonely. After a classmate died from leukemia, I was sure to die next. Obsessed with catching germs, I tucked a hand under my tee–shirt, grabbed doorknobs, and turned them. I did not use public bathrooms. I washed my hands until they bled. Mumbling my obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) and anxiety symptoms to the family doctor, he prescribed Valium. He laughed and warned Mom and Dad about teen–age hormones. He never mentioned Agoraphobia. My sister Barb predicted I would never leave home, destined to live a life of failure and despair. She provided the motivation I needed to plan my escape from home. “You’ll never pass your driving test or make the grades to go to college,” Mom reminded me, over, and over…. You’re living in a fantasy world.” Mom’s dreams of becoming an oil painter and living an independent life died when she married Dad. The valium worked. At summer’s end, I studied and struggled to pass my New York State Regent exams required for college. I overcompensated for my dyslexia by ruminating over each word on the test while stressing out on the time limit for each exam. Barely passing math, I scored better in Spanish, History, and Science. I went to driving school and passed my test the first time, proving Mom’s prophesy wrong. After graduating from high school, I commuted to a state university by car for one year. Higher education institutions did not provide learning disability services at this time. Still, would I have sought out help and suffer through the stigma attached to my needs? I maintained a C average, transferred to a private college, and moved into the dorms. Struggling to function on my own, I created coping skills. When my test scores were low, I asked professors for extra credit term paper assignments. Besides books, writing, and learning became my passions. Still, I had mini breakdowns during those years. Pressured to succeed and show Mom was wrong, I was obsessed with getting all A’s. I majored in education to support other students and parents navigating the learning disability maze of services and lack thereof. Graduating Cum Laude with a Batchelor of Science in special and elementary education, I earned a Master of Science degree in education, as well. After Mom’s death my fear of dogs escalated to dangerous proportions. I darted between parked cars and stepped into moving traffic to avoid loose and leashed animals. I ran away too, not a great reaction since dogs enjoy the chase. My boyfriend Ed grabbed me and pulled me to onto the sidewalks. Filling the hollowness I felt from Mom’s death, I overate cookies, cakes, and candy, gaining 60 pounds. The stress of my first job in the education field, coupled with difficult co–workers, I had another breakdown. Driving became a trigger. I stopped using my car. I did not leave the house except when Ed took me to the therapist and doctor appointments. Diagnosed OCD (obsessive compulsive), anxiety disorders, dyslexia, and dyscalculia as an adult, the psychiatrist prescribed anti–depressants and medications for anxiety. Desperate for relief from the mental torture, there were many days when hospitalization seemed to be my only option. My dad spent three months in a hospital for depression. I was determined to not be him. Pushing through the darkness, I received treatment at home for agoraphobia anxiety, and OCD. For eight months, under a therapist’s care, I walked down the stairs of our apartment, touched the doorknob, and climbed back up to safety. Taking small steps in my recovery, finally I opened the door and stepped outside. Another four months I walked one block. Then two and three blocks. Ed was worn out from caring for me. I realized he needed a break. Terrified of being left alone, I took the risk and agreed he could go on a sixteen–day tour of Ireland and Wales. I was jealous and determined to live a full life. Yet, dog fears threatened to stop me. I had Exposure Therapy with a trained psychologist. After six months of taking small steps toward the docile Labrador Retriever, then backing away, finally I pet the dog’s coat. My first experience with the dog was a success. Then, we stopped therapy. I should have had more sessions, but the therapist was afraid to retraumatize me. Vacations and moods stir up this trigger. If I am feeling confident and less stressed, small dogs look cute and non-threatening. Still, large dogs terrify me. Despite this trigger we have traveled on 25 cruises to the Caribbean, Mexico, Canada, England, Cuba, and France. COVID was excruciating. I still mask in the airport and go through lots of hand sanitizers on the plane, wipe the phones, TV remotes, and doorknobs in hotels. Last summer we went to Marina del Rey, California. We arrived on a Sunday. After checking into our hotel, lunch was next. Holding my cell phone, I searched the streets for dogs, while walking across the street to the restaurant. Taking pictures of these animals proved I did not get bitten when they came near me. Large and small dogs were everywhere. Yes, I knew that California was one of many dog–friendly states in the US. Dogs sat at the dinner tables beside their humans, ran off–leash throughout the shops, swam in the hotel pool and bay, and sunbathed. Deep breathing, exhaling, and looking at the sparkly water, boats, and perfect summer sky, I managed to distract myself from the triggers. After lunch we went back to our hotel. Exhausted, I watched the sunrays ripple against the water before taking a nap. Resting is another coping skill. On Monday, we took a short walk to a coffee shop. The streets were empty except for people going to work. I distracted myself from the dog fear with taking pictures of flowers, trees, the bay, and the architecture of various buildings. Instead of running, from the triggers, I stopped and observed them. Today, I am stable and living a full life. I am a successful small business owner for 34 years, published writer and author. Teaching creative–writing to adults and teens, I provide encouragement, support, and resources to students needing assistance with written language skills. Following through on a weight–loss program, I lost 60 pounds after one year. My weight fluctuates between a 3-pound gain and loss, which is normal for maintenance. I must use a calculator to add and subtract. My reading and writing have improved. In October 2023 I earned my Peer Support Specialist certification. I am a peer group facilitator for DBSA (Depression, Bipolar, Support Alliance California). Peer Support Specialists are not therapists, doctors, or nurses, and do not prescribe medications. We offer support and resources through our lived experiences. I am not “The Little Match Girl,” starving for love and acceptance. Peter Pan and Captain Hook inspired me to dream. I married Ed. We celebrated 38 years of marriage in 2023. Every day I practice self–care by eating healthy food, exercising, listening to guided meditation, and using my coping skills in stressful situations. Courage, perseverance, therapy, peer groups, physician prescribed medications, and facilitating has spurred me on to achieve a happy life despite my fears, phobias, OCD, and learning disabilities. About the author:
Marilyn June Janson's dyslexia, dyscalculia, OCD, and anxiety disorders were diagnosed when she became an adult. Still, with courage, determination, and reliance, she earned a Master of Science degree in special and elementary education. Ms. Janson teaches creative writing, won three awards for nonfiction, and is a published author. She lives in Phoenix, Arizona with her husband Ed and Bella Rose, a cat.
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