Laura Ellen
There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just be blunt. The way you see—you know, with that sunspot-like-thing that blocks your central vision? That’s not normal. In a few days you’re going to go to the eye doctor and he’s going to tell you that you have an eye disease called macular degeneration.
Okay, stop freaking out. It doesn’t mean you’re dying. But it does mean that you have a label now, “visually impaired,” which will affect how others see you—and, unfortunately, how you see yourself.
I won’t lie. Life is about to get really hard. At times it will downright suck, especially when you discover there are things others take for granted that you just can’t do. Like drive, or read regular print, or see faces unless you’re really close up (and even then you’ll have to look at their ears to see their eyes). Weird, I know.
But seriously, who cares? Most of the people in New York don’t drive, and there are audio books and magnifying glasses and ways to make print really big…. It never gets easy staring at ears, and there’s no surefire way to deal with the jerks who embarrass you by looking all around before asking, “Are you talking to me?” And yes, all of that stuff will make you feel flawed and “abnormal.” But normal is boring. It’s predictable and monotonous. “Different,” though, different is cool and intriguing and way more fun.
Some of your teachers will try to pretend you see like everyone else, however—because being different means more work for them. They don’t want to type their tests, because they’re used to handwriting them at the last minute, and they don’t want to print their lecture notes in advance, because they actually don’t have any notes; they usually just wing it.
But try to understand: Their refusal to help has nothing to do with you. They’re tired and overworked and set in their ways. They’ve lost sight of the fact that their job is to teach. They see your request for accommodations as annoying and time-consuming, rather than what it is—your only way to access the material.
Shake their behavior off. I promise, for the handful of rude and ignorant teachers that you’ll have to deal with, there will be so many more who will go above and beyond for you—like the school nurse. She’ll spend hours enlarging Emma and other novels for you on the school copier whenever a large-print version isn’t available.
Like I said, don’t let those other people stress you out—but don’t stand for their ignorance either. You aren’t being difficult. It’s your right to ask for those accommodations. Don’t sit red-faced and silent when that history teacher hands you an illegible, handwritten test for the twentieth time. Don’t cower in the corner when that Spanish teacher writes the entire exam on the board and doesn’t let you get out of your seat to read it.
Stand up for yourself.
I know, as shy and timid as you are, it’s hard to imagine pushing back, but do it. If you don’t, no one else will. Those teachers are banking on your passivity, so that they can continue to sit and be passive themselves. Don’t let them get away with it. What those teachers are doing, or not doing, is wrong. And when they humiliate you in front of the class with their insensitive remarks, not only is that wrong, that’s bullying. And it’s not okay.
So…
Open your mouth.
Say something.
Refuse to accept it.
You’re not a second-class citizen; don’t let them treat you like one.
This whole thing is a lot to hear, and I’m sorry if it’s a bit overwhelming, but I need to tell you a little more. As your eyes get worse and you find yourself battling ignorant, insensitive individuals on a daily basis, you’re going to become angry and frustrated, and very, very confused. Everyone suddenly treats you differently, but you don’t feel any different. This will make you wonder if they see someone else when they look at you. You’ll start doubting yourself, hating yourself, and yes, you’ll even contemplate ending your life.
Stop.
Take a breath.
Write.
Listen to music.
You can do this. I promise.
I know you feel lost. You want to talk to someone about it, but you feel like your family and friends don’t understand—and, well, they don’t. But neither do you, right? This whole thing is new to everyone, and no one knows quite how to act or what to say or what to do. Don’t let all that confusion stop you. Tell them how lost you feel. Let them help you.
And try not to trade your friends for those idiot boyfriends I can see creeping up. Once upon a time—okay, just a year before you were first diagnosed—you were interested in sweet, decent guys. But when your confidence began to plummet and you started doubting yourself, you left your friends behind and started gravitating toward losers.
I get it. I do. Things with your friends have gotten a little weird. You hate that they always have to drive you around and read the menu to you. You feel like you’re a burden to them. Meanwhile, those guys make you feel wanted. Normal. And they never ask you any questions about your eyesight, which comes as a relief—even though your friends are only asking because they actually care (which is more than I can say about those guys). So instead of drowning yourself in the loser brigade and getting hung up on what you can’t do, focus your energy on what you can do.
Stay away from the guy who acts like you have to be with him every waking moment (he cheats on you when you’re out with your friends). Run from the guy who demeans you, insults you, and throws your eyesight in your face like it’s something shameful that no one but him would ever put up with (that’s emotional abuse—and he has no right to treat you like that). These guys know they don’t deserve you, but they also know your eyesight has made you insecure and self-conscious—weaknesses that losers like them are looking to prey on. You’re not a loser, so don’t date guys who treat you like one. Having an eye disease doesn’t make you any less of a human being.
And the other guy? The one that you think is so different from the others? I know how nice he seems—and he is nice. He doesn’t call you names or put you down, and he always puts you first. But he’s also using your eyesight as a crutch, as an excuse for his own shortcomings. Anytime he fails at something, he says it’s because he has to help you. Because you’re “disabled.” You’re not disabled, and you’re not a fool. Walk away, girl. Just walk away.
You’re a capable, strong, creative, and intelligent girl. You don’t need some guy to define you. You need to define yourself. All this turmoil that you’re about to go through—as unfair as it seems right now—is going to teach you to be self-reliant, confident, and strong. But most importantly, it’s going to turn you into a survivor—and those survival skills are things that you can turn around and teach to others, too. And in the meantime, all that writing that you’re doing right now (because you’re the only one you can talk to who actually understands)—keep at it! It will actually turn into a career someday. Seriously, it will. So do what you want, be yourself, love yourself. Once you do, I promise, things will start to fall into place.
Stay strong.
P.S. PLEASE stop pretending you don’t know the answers in math class! It’s okay to be smarter than the boys. Really. They’ll get over it.
Laura Ellen used her experiences growing up with macular degeneration to add powerful authenticity to her debut thriller, Blind Spot (forthcoming), a suspenseful and emotional page-turner for teens. A former language arts teacher and special education aide for middle and high school students, Laura Ellen now writes YA mysteries and thrillers full-time from her home in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where she lives with her husband, three children, and her dog. Visit her at LauraEllenBooks.com.