I imagine myself sitting next to a window on a cloudy day feeling completely at peace. Its raining and I stare outside at the mass of trees whose structures slowly fade away and all that's left is a thin, cloudy blanket of water. There is nothing solid to hold on to and I am left alone with my thoughts as my companion. I think about how much I love my life. I'm living it. I'm tasting bits and pieces of everything the world has to offer and there are times when I just sit back and smile at all that I have done and all that I have left to look forward to. But it wasn't always like this. There was a time in my life that made me want to die.

When I was little my parents always made me feel normal. I mean I knew I was different but this never really mattered because I was with them. And when I started kindergarten all I could think about was how exciting it would be to meet kids my own age, and initially it went well.

I was about five years old when I entered first grade and it was the year that I discovered what being disabled meant. I don't remember much but the one incident that has stayed in my mind is the one that has affected me all my life. It started on a regular day like any other except this day was picture day, and of course I wanted to take my picture. Usually every class had a certain time to go and get their picture taken, and the students went as a group. I was the only person missing from the group that day because my teacher decided to keep me locked inside the classroom. I wasn't normal enough to be with everyone else. I couldn't even leave the room when I needed to go to the bathroom because no one was there to open the door for me. It was the first time in my life that I was introduced to humiliation, and I believed that I deserved everything that came my way. She had truly made me feel like a freak and I believed her. What normal person would ride a scooter to get around? What normal person had deformed hands which couldn't be raised to ask a simple question? I wasn't normal. And like the child that I was, I went back to the teacher the next year and told her it was my birthday, and I accepted her gift because I felt as if I had to like her and respect her because she knew who I truly was. I was a freak.

I never even told my parents about the incident until my senior year of high school, and its still a pain that I carry and will always carry. It wounded me and, maybe that is why I still have such low self-esteem. It made me feel so lonely and there were so many times that I felt like a burden to my parents. No one could understand what I was feeling. I wanted to die and all through middle shcool I thought about going to the kitchen and grabbing the first knife I could lay my hands on. I could end it so easily, go out into a secluded part of the neighborhood and slit my wrists. But alas, I have no tolerance for physical pain so I didn't do it.

The essay I wrote on my application for Notre Dame was about a certain song that saved my life. The lyrics to Return to Innocence by Enigma showed me that it was ok to be me. Growing up is so hard to do, especially if you are searching for your identity. When I heard that song I finally realized that I was normal and that people were just going to have to accept me for who I was. I am a living, breathing human being with feelings that can easily be hurt. I am not a freak. I am me.

Disabilities will always leave one open to the cruelties of the world so the best thing any parent can do is love their child. And if you are not disabled then be careful what you say. Someone else may not be as strong as me.