TASH keynote, Peyton Goddard, December 11, 2013, Chicago
Greeted as “irregular, incompetent, and broken,“ I saw a life I’ll never want anyone to teach as acceptable for any human being. Understated and devalued, I was segregated and secluded, walled-in for controlling decades, and repeatedly traumatized by bullying abusers. I’m awed mad, sad, and terror-feared full, silenced, with no way to tell. Everywhere opportunities nil. Locked in special education from age two yielded no real education, no fortune for friendships, no chance for a purposeful future. The real in me evaporated out as the quotient of my life factored in fears of being zero.Try to understand my pity. It wasted me. The pity I’m poisoned by operates in the hopeless way I feel wherever you, world, power out I’m not WITH you. I’m LESS to you. Could it be you need to feel better about your life by looking down on mine as one you consider not worth living? Each wounding torture upped my pity of me. I was lured to believe I’m no one. I’m looking like a real person but I’m treated not as one. Ethered by a world errored by fearing differences, I’m less. I’m freak. I’m throwaway trash. Daily, for decades, I try but cannot be the person you want me to be.
Yearns in me longed for you, world, to see me as worthy to be your child. Yet you poignantly pointed to I’m less than what you wanted. Your answer was to fix me, to change me to be what you feared not. To cure me of being ME. I reply that YOU were less than I needed. Your compassion, your pure support to help me fear not, I needed. Instead, I’m estimated unworthy of nurturing. Hourly, in my poked life limited as less, my weeping heart breaks. My youth was ruptured, and tears fell that others could not read.
Waste is quietly, barely tolerable. When life clips your hopes another, another, another, and another yet time, you despair. Each day is an eternity to survive. Mulling this destiny forever became unbearable for me. Tired, cased in pity and beswept by tears, I wanted freedom. Pity pouting distresses in me shamed my heart and stripped the reason to live right out of me. Peace I saw as unpossessable. Rest I sought in death. I’m hungry to repose my septic, edited self in the arms of my Creator, free from the traumatic piercings of this world. I found a strangely solaced peace in teasing life. Fearing life and seeking death, I was greedy to fret here no longer.
At age 18, neared dead, “included“ I was by parents eager to ease their worries over sorrow-filled me. Jungled I was. Ired I was. Scared I was. Esteem lit zero, pitier me, I’m now immersed among “others,“ a guttered freak inserted to be re-tortured. Rest was rest not. I’m ordered umbrellaed no longer as my casket is opened. Including me ignites the numbed festering frights of my jittery heart breaking yet again.
Wedded to my own tears of pity-filled hurts, I sweepingly study the “others.“ After decades segregated from them, I see they were very greedy to rest also. Trapped they are in their loopings trying to test not as “different.“ Pointed they are to “hurray“ be, determined to appear perfect. I realized that they pout too, awed by their hurts. Years, I was aware nothing, that their hearts breaked too, terrored by their fears that they are treasured-not. In their re-tortures I see mine. Wedded we were in our pity under our masks, piners worrying we will never be freed to be accepted as our real selves. I vowed to stay alive and teach that treasures awesome are in all people. Wisdoms are in all. And I point to eases for all when we journey together in openings of heard love. I will loudly love them in trying they loudly love me. I will help the world understand we are all better together.
Though impassioned, for four more years I remain powerless. I am a bottom person in a worrisome world. I tread in gutters. Silenced still, I have no voice. Trapped I am by the nutty neurons of a befooling body that most often cannot move as my mind requests. I’m not understood. Frustrations flare, emotions overflow. How can I help when I need so much help? I’m very tired. I’m losing hope things will ever change. But, widening wisdoms whisper “hang on.“
Finally, at age 22, with supported typing, my motor madness was accommodated, and I gained a dependable mode of communication. Facilitated communication was my salvation. It allowed me to realize a real education and pursue my passion to help this worrisome world. And it was typing that freed the pertinent words flowing from my terrorized, gored youth onto the damp-with-my-tears pages of my memoir titled I Am Intelligent. Ultimately I am trying to teach that each person is vastly valuable. Ignited in I is hope you wept no pity-tears when hearing my truths, but were pointed to help out the thousands wasting in ripping ghettos of prisons. They wait there tropic, tired, and deeply depressed. Living lives unacceptable for any human being, they utter, “Peace, please.“ Let us understand they too warrant being freed to be their each treasured self.
With pure support and proper opportunities, cherubs wired differently can succeed in making their valuable contributions to society. Important is YOU, parent and professional. In your best, be the butter for their best. It eases all. Terror cherubs never by greeting them as broken. Confirm you celebrate differences. With all your heart emanate, “I’m believer in you.“ Topple their jitters by feeding them dear assertions you know they are trying, wedded to your sweeping support. See intelligence is in under their fears. Treasure them. Support them to respectful including. Know in your heart that in each child there are pretty gems to be mined, waiting to be dug up, sweetly polished, and mounted in jewelry. See they don’t need to be cured. Deter not their carat weight by certifying them by their flaws. To those who say some jewels are more precious than others, I answer jewels togethered make all jewels precious. Nurturing all jeweled children will change worrying about greeting them in gutters gyred by wasted lives. Important is you.
Each day I’m trying journey to heal. Heart-healing is mightily hard. My truths were told, but rash rages still tried me. I’m hung up by messed thoughts of replying with retaliation to ogres who poked me. Their hassling, hated deeds heated me red, paralyzing me in fear even as I struck out, hitting unknowing others. In my rages of anger, hungry for revenge, my red rage only grew. I saw that my poking back in hatred rendered outing my anger impossible. My estimates to hurt them only hurt me more.
Then, I’m pointed to compassion. I lined up my abusers one by one, and told them I understanded. I reasoned they hurt me to ease their own hurts. I understood they were like me, thinking their red hurts could be kissed away by hitting others. Years try I to rid torturers, until I see they affect me ill by my anger to them. Then I let them go, one by one, gyred no longer by their poison. I’m rest lured finally, greeting pointed to peace. It is joy. Estimate I that red rage in this pesty world is because pierced persons think hurting others will strip their own hurts away. But revenge hurts most the person storing it.
Segregation is the beast whose bite cheats us all. The isolation of people different renders you and me strangers. Reality is that you are me and I am you. We are in human union ONE. How can we be truly together in compassionate understanding of our joys and sorrows if we are not WITH each other? “Different“ is equated to fear and pity. It should = love. Difference is in all of us. Fear it we do not need. Ones needing support are everyone. It is wepted ignorance of each other that will cheat us all. In the awe of togethered lie golden, poignant possibilities.
I am praying deeply for peace in the hearts of this world. I’m worried, of late, over thinkings of pierced persons upping cryings that “wedded we are not.“ In the world’s theater, tunes I hear are “I’m angry, so eased I am to hurt you.“ With each red, angry conflict warring, I fear peaces will not be written. Only as we are joined together can we munch peace. Wedded we are under our differences. Peace can be our reality if we truly, purely are hungry for peace. That is the great quest I’m determined to teach.
As I am journeying to be me, my sometimes still-trepid heart needs verses assuring “I’m deared by this very looking world. I can be ME. My heart need caw no longer.“ There my joy is heard. There I am freed to be limitless.
I am beginning to like me. I’m now tasting talk; to speak again is my dream feat and my hungered determination as I journey to healing. Each dawn I try to fear-not gratefully treasuring the me I was born to be, and to go forth doing what I came here to do.