When I was a little girl, I couldn’t speak.

I was old enough; but for some reason, every word to pass through my lips was unintelligible. Over and over I would try – planning ahead, thinking the words out in my mind first, then slowly enunciating them more carefully than any little girl should.

All I needed – all I wanted – was to be understood.

I was not.

It’s a form of rejection and isolation that few can comprehend. There are people, right in front of you, speaking your language, and you can’t tell them you are thirsty, or sad, or that you think their dress is pretty.

Slowly, I moved from being desperate to be heard, to acceptance that I was not. I went up to my bedroom, and I stayed there. I did not try to speak to people anymore.

My mother was my savior and my lifeline – the one person with which I would attempt communication. She knew I had something to say – and I knew she wanted to understand what it was. We would continue to work together until we succeeded, even if it took half an hour for my simple sentence to be heard. I loved her so much and was so very grateful.

Because of this, I learned at an early age that I was set apart from "the rest of the world". I also was conditioned to feel inordinate levels of gratitude and love for anyone that was willing to listen to a single sentence that came out of my mouth.

My mother fought hard to get me into a special hospital program set up for children with problems such as mine. Three times a week she packed my brothers, my sister and myself into the station wagon to begin the over 2 hour round trip journey to the hospital, where she would amuse my siblings in the waiting room while I was working with the therapist. How can you ever repay a mother’s love?

I was 6 years old when I started the program, which was so powerful that it apparently would be considered a form of mind control; my parents had to sign special paperwork to allow them to use the technique.

My therapist’s name was Bonnie Light. She saved my life.

My speech did nothing but improve through the following years. Some sounds and words were harder than others. Finally, at the age of 12 while practicing with my mother in the car one afternoon, I was able to pronounce both "shirt" and "skirt" and have them come out as two different words. It was my very own graduation day.

By then, however, the next phase of my separation from the mainstream had begun. At the age of 10, I began to develop breasts like so many of the girls in my 4th grade class. Unlike the rest of them, unfortunately, I was missing a chemical that shuts off growth. By the end of that school year I was already in a D cup, and the isolation began anew.

It’s amazing how many different ways little girls can decide to "test" if another girl’s breasts are real or if she is stuffing her bra. Being approached by female classmates, typically two at a time, and asked to make some strange gesture or movement that would satisfy them I had not done the latter became a regular part of my day to day life. Each time I was asked I would perform their stupid human tricks, and each time it seemed to satisfy them – until the next time.

By the time I entered high school my breasts rested on my knees when I was in a sitting position. I used to fold them up, in a way I can’t even picture myself anymore. The end result was that the top half of the breast only (meaning the first half attached to the rest of your chest) would be in the bra; the rest would be stuck out the bottom of the bra, with my nipples pointing to the floor. When done correctly (and I became a master) the part in the bra would stick out more than the tip. Since my shirt was far enough away from my body, it would hide the fact that the second half was hanging down below. I still wonder sometimes if I could get cancer somehow from contorting tissue the way I did each day.

In the summer of my 22th year, I was finally able to have a major breast reduction. They had made me wait until then, saying we needed to be sure they’d stopped growing first. It was a huge success. For the first time in my life, I felt I did not stick out. I spoke perfectly, and now I looked like everyone else. I was ready to join the mainstream world of "normal".

Two months after the breast reduction finished healing, I went to the OBGYN for the birth control pills and was told I would never have sex. My entry request to "normal" was returned back to me, stamped "rejected". Strike three.

I’m sure there are various ways a person could respond to or cope with being told by age 22:

1. You don’t get to be heard like everyone else.
2. You don’t get to look like everyone else.
3. You don’t get to interact like everyone else.

My way of coping was simply to lower my expectations of my own life. I didn’t do this in a bitter or negative way; there was no indignation involved. Indignation would have required me to feel that I deserved more than I was getting, and my programming had started far too young for me to have any opinion other than I just didn’t "count" the way other people did. I could be happy as long as I didn’t get "uppity" enough to want anything I didn’t already have.

I became clear that my role in life was more that of "watcher" than "participant". Looking back, I cringe that accepting this was so easy for me.

After my breast reduction, my mother gave me a bottle of vitamin E oil. She had heard that it could help scars heal well, and she encouraged me to use it.

I never used it, despite several reminders from her. Finally, frustrated, she asked me why I refused to use the oil.

I explained that I had been given a choice; breasts that were huge, abnormal, and painful, OR regular sized breasts, covered in scars. I CHOSE the scars. That was my decision, and I felt I’d made the right one. I could live with it.

If I used the vitamin E oil, however, that meant I wanted the scars to go away – and then if they didn’t, I would be heartbroken. To avoid this pain, I had to tell myself I wanted the scars.

This is how I’ve lived my adult life thus far. Whatever situation I’m in, I just tell myself it’s what I wanted from the beginning. That’s been my recipe for being content. Don’t want anything you might not get, and you won’t get too hurt.

Amazingly, no one ever called me out on it – until this year, on a cold winter’s night in Brooklyn, when I sat down and played cards with Lo.