numbers.

Dyscalculia is defined as a “genetically-linked learning disability which affects a person's ability to understand, remember, or manipulate numbers or number facts.” (wikipedia…I know, sad source choice.) I was recently urged to learn more about this disorder by a good friend who wondered if my lifelong issues with math were caused by it. After scouring some websites, I was numb. My feelings can best be described as equal parts terrified, ashamed, and comforted. Imagine, growing up being told how bright you were, how intellectually superior even you were, “except…for math.” Imagine staring at your bank statement and your bills and literally not seeing any connections. Imagine being half-mocked for your sensitivity to loud noises and bright lights and never, ever realizing that had anything to do with anything and then finding this one disorder that encompasses it all. It was extraordinary. I’m still processing it, to be honest.

The basic premise of the disorder did get me to thinking, though. Essentially for someone with dyscalculia, numbers have no value. And frankly, I think we could all learn a lesson from that. Following are examples to explain my meaning…

Bank account. Salary. Credit limit. The number of years old your vehicle is. The number of dollars your house cost to build. I could harp on the evils of consumerism and greed. The sorrowful side effects of materialism. The tragedy of letting the bottom line blind you to the beauty of a blooming flower. I could even go into the all too real presence of disparities between the classes. The corruption at every level of society; EVERY level of society, the world round. But I don’t think it’s necessary. We all know these things are a sad mess. Furthermore, I do not feel qualified. As a member of this dysfunctional society, as a girl who literally cannot balance a check book or even see the point in it… well, I’m part of the problem in a way. By paying my bills late, I’m somehow hurting everyone.

Followers. “Friends.” In grade school it wasn’t so much how many friends one had as *who* those friends were. Popular or not; A-group or not. Whatever you called it. Ageing doesn’t change that too much, but somewhere along the line for all of us the amount of friends DID start to matter. Now more so than ever, thanks to facebook and twitter. Who cares if you have hundreds of spambots following you; it’s the amount that counts. What difference does it make if you friend every student at your State University as long as you appear to know them all. Back in college, if I saw someone on facebook had 800 friends, I was impressed. Legitimately impressed. Now I’m impressed by those who have fewer than one hundred. Even more so by those who have deleted their accounts. (Depending on motivations, of course.) More and more I wish that we/I could value friendship for what it is supposed to be; for quality instead of quantity (of course).

Weight. Numbers on a scale. Numbers in your jean and dress sizes. Numbers listed under the heading “Nutrition Facts.” Now here are the only numbers I can get behind; the only numbers I can understand and calculate. The numbers that haunt me and very nearly killed me. For that reason I do not own a scale. This decision was recently confirmed for me after a standard visit to the thyroid doctor. Weight is always taken. For the first time in months I saw those numbers. That digital dance as they climbed ever upwards. If only I had the willpower to look away from them. But no. I saw the verdict; and the loophole in my calculating deficiency sprang into action. 43 pounds heavier than I was five years ago. 43. That’s the kind of weight-number society applauds people for losing. That’s the kind of weight number that is qualifiedly significant. I don’t know if we’ve met in person or not. When people describe my physical appearance (granted, few actually know of my EDO past), they use adjectives like “tiny, skinny, so little.” Now do you see why I cringe at those descriptors? In my mind, I am decidedly NOT tiny. A person who is walking around with 43 pounds more body than they have carried and survived with in the past cannot possibly be tiny. I don’t care if I’m still in a size Small. I don’t care that my weight may seem higher than I look due to my low body fat/ lean muscle mass. Because when I see those Numbers on that scale; it takes every ounce of strength I have, every drop of Faith, to NOT register my value as a life form accordingly.

So.

Instead of thinking about the amount of money I make or don’t make, it’s time that I use what I do have wisely. That I find a way to conform to the rules of paying bills.
Instead of thinking about the number of people I know, be them acquaintances or “big names,” it’s time that I appreciate them fully consistently.
Instead of thinking about the number on a scale or inside a waistband, it’s time I think about the number of dance moves I’ve learned and can execute with my now healthy heart and body.

I physically cannot comprehend the way numbers work mathematically without a little more effort than the everyman. And given the ways numbers sadden me, as illustrated above, I’m finding this to be a strength.