“They are just words on a paper,” I thought to myself as I jumped in the shower, brushed my hair and then got dressed. Getting an intellectual disability diagnosis is a hard pill to swallow and makes my heart ache.
It has me wonder why my brain had to bleed when I was a preemie. But at times I think to myself that it is just a phrase in the report.
It doesn’t specifically say how I fought to breathe after birth. It doesn’t tell how I graduated high school and walked the stage feeling accomplished and felt normal.
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