I have a learning disability.
In 1992, my mother was dying of cancer. She wanted to die at home, which meant I would be staying home and looking after her. I don't think it was what either of us really wanted. But it was what was best.
I don't know who told the hospital social worker that I was LD, but she got the idea I couldn't read, and decided mother should spend her last days in a nursing home. After all I couldn't read a phone book, or read the pill schedule.
I do just fine with the phone book, thank you. I read the pill schedule for the first couple of weeks, until I had it memorized. My only problem was that I couldn't pronounce the name of the stool softener. Neither could the visiting nurse, or the pharmacist. We all called them the big, brown, pills. It was a useful memonic.
I had one of Patrick O'Brian's books in my lap when the social worker talked to me. I'd still like to know what she thought I was doing with it. (I've read all 22 of the Aubrey/Maturin novels, and "The Golden Ocean".)
In high school, I delt with a youth pastor who decided I was retarded. It wouldn't have been quite so bad if he hadn't also decided that the best way to communicate with me was by shouting in my ear.
Again, I was going to a very good prep school, with a tough curriculum. I wonder what I thought I was doing there?
I am reluctant to tell people that I am L.D. because they decide, immediately, that I am either retarded, illiterate, or insane. I avoid anyone with a background in education or psychology, because they know all about my disability, and don't bother to learn anything about me.
Perhaps other people could d have experiences like mine and not become defensive. I'm a bit brittle on the subject, I suppose. But every now and again, my sister forgets herself and calls me a a spaz.