Overcoming My Invisible Illness

What does a person with a disability look like? In a world where people can be quick to base judgements off first impressions, it is easy to forget that disabilities exist and manifest themselves in a variety of ways. When I was three years old, my parents found out that I had a hearing disability; I was born with 75% loss in my left ear, and 25% loss in my right. Having a disability that is not immediately apparent undoubtedly made my life different than the average person’s. Although invisible on the outside, my condition is ever-present in my day-to-day life.

Photography by Morgan Chin-Yee

Due to the high possibility that I could become permanently deaf in the event of a head injury, my parents were told I could never participate in any sports or athletic activities. Because it was hard to fully comprehend the situation at such a young age, I did not understand the extent to which my diagnosis could affect not only my childhood, but also my future. Back in grade one, I remember the frustration I felt when watching my peers play soccer during recess. Every now and then they would invite me to join, but I always had to decline, despite not fully understanding why. A few years later, I fell in love with gymnastics. At that point, gymnastics became my passion and my source of happiness. However, my career as a professional gymnast was short-lived, and I was forced to give it up after a year due to the risks involved. I was left heartbroken and confused.

Fast forward a few years, I was sent to a summer camp. Growing up constantly protected and sheltered from most forms of physical activity, camp was a whole new world—it allowed me to participate in an infinite amount of activities I never thought I would be able to. One afternoon, I was sailing on the lake with a friend. That day, I was in charge of managing the ropes to make sure we would not tip over. If you sail, you know that the most important thing when managing the ropes is to ensure you are ducking your head during turns. As fate would have it, my friend spontaneously made a sharp turn, leaving me with little time to react. In a matter of seconds, a heavy six-foot metal rod, otherwise known as the boom, swung across the boat and hit the back of my head. The force was so strong that I immediately lost my balance and fell into the water. I started to laugh as my friend sailed away, thinking the situation was hilarious. However, panic ensued when I looked up to see my instructor in a motorboat five feet away. I realized something that I feared most—I couldn’t hear the engine. I could see my instructor gesturing at me and mouthing words, but I wasn’t able hear anything. I didn’t know this at the time, but the entire event unfolded in a matter of 20 minutes. The only thing I could hear was a persistent ringing noise in my head. In that time, I experienced a wave of terrified emotions that I never thought I would feel. This isn’t real, I thought. Am I actually deaf? My heart was racing at a million miles per second, accompanied by my sobbing as I sat there, shaking in disbelief and fear. When sounds finally started to enter my head, I was able to calm down. The amount of relief and happiness I felt solely from hearing the people around me was indescribable. In case you were wondering, I never went sailing with that friend again.

After that incident, I convinced myself that I would no longer view my disability as a fundamental part of me. I hated the risk, the scare, and the annoyance it brought to me and those around me. When I began middle school, I was determined that my disability would no longer be a problem, but even then I could not escape the daily struggles of my hearing loss. I spent three years denying that I even had hearing loss and refused to wear my hearing aids. Although at first I saw the sixth grade as my perfect opportunity for a fresh start, the following years were not at all what I had expected. It took years of constant exclusion and harassment until I finally realized that the mistake was in trying to erase my disability. It was a part of me, whether I liked it or not, and I was determined to embrace it, rather than continue hiding it. On the first day of high school, I walked through the halls, proudly wearing my hearing aids.

After a lifetime of feeling inferior because of my differences, I finally realized that being different is not a weakness. On the contrary, it has made me stronger and more determined to live my life the way I choose to. But most importantly, I have realized that my disability makes me special. I cannot escape it or pretend like it doesn’t exist; my hearing loss is a part of my life. Every time someone becomes frustrated or angry because I can’t hear them, my heart breaks, because I am just as frustrated and angry at myself as they are. I learned that it is easy for people to become desensitized to others’ daily struggles if they do not experience them firsthand. Sticks and stones may break bones, but words can hurt the most—choose them wisely.

By Emry Joy Tommasini