A College Admission Essay, From a Boy with APD

After years of isolation, student can connect

March 11, 2011 By GRANT BISHOP/OC Register

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There is something about me not too many people know about, something I was born with and have to live with every day.

Just like the character from my favorite children's book, "The Cat Who Wore a Pot on Her Head," I too walk around with a pot covering my head and ears. In the story, the pot the cat was sporting caused her to incorrectly hear her mother's instructions.

Like the cat, I often misunderstand the language others speak. However, the pot I bear is called auditory processing disorder. With auditory processing disorder, the sounds that form words are not accurately distinguished by my brain.

For the longest time, my world did not exist beyond the confines of my own mind. When I spoke, people scrunched their brows. When others spoke, their words seemed to come from an alien language. My parents asked me repeatedly what was wrong, but my typical response was a blank stare.

No one knew that I was stuck in solitary confinement – a world in which the sounds of the English language were continually morphing into unrecognizable expressions.

Even simple phrases were difficult. "Do you want to be dropped off here?" sounded to me like "Kitty cat hair." I was so frustrated, I created my own world, one in which I freely conversed with the only person who understood me – my alter ego.

Although in my fantasy I was quite the talker – with many deep, meaningful ideas to share – in realty, the only way I was able to communicate was by screaming. I screamed when my parents asked me to eat my vegetables. I screamed when they told me to share with my sister. I screamed for no particular reason.

I spent years wandering, trying to figure out how to function with a pot on my head.
On my first day of speech therapy, I was introduced to a room full of board games, cards, bouncing balls, and makeshift carts. The room was breathtaking. And, along with the assortment of objects and toys, there were a variety of interesting activities I was to perform.

I was made to eat peanut butter and honey as a form of oral motor exercise. I was given headphones through which I had to listen to a person talking in the midst of background noises, forcing me to focus on the words and sounds of the speaker.

When I began speech therapy, the games and exercises were exciting. But over time I grew to hate the therapy room. The concepts they were trying to teach to me were like introducing an elementary student to calculus. Unaware of the purpose for the exercises, and having to attend continually, the room became a form of captivity.

I was in therapy up to three hours a session, three times a week, repeatedly doing listening exercises and going over the different sounds of letters, and the rules of the odd English language. Hours of teaching my brain to work in ways it wasn't wired to work left me exhausted. Often, on the ride home, I had a hard time even holding my head up, and I fell asleep knowing that soon I would have to start my homework.

Ironically, this speech therapy room, which felt like a concrete jail, held the key to release me out of my abstract prison. I went back to this room for years, learning how to communicate, and compensate for my learning disability. I worked through the mental torture because I knew it was the only way I would be able to expand my world from the confines of my own mind.

Over the past few years, I have seen the results; the pot over my head has loosened. Today, people don't wrinkle their foreheads when I speak. And after living so long in virtual isolation, I am thankful for the simple act of communicating and have developed a love for interacting with people.

When people speak to me, I am genuinely interested in what they are saying. Every person has some sort of story to tell.

Like me, their stories may be quite the opposite of their demeanor and presence. This knowledge has propelled me to be compassionate and accepting of all groups. I seek out different types of people in order to hear their unique stories and gain a new perspective.
Unlike the cat who wore a pot on her head, I can never completely take my pot off. Although I have taken many advance placement classes, the most difficult course for me has always been an average Spanish class. My brain has an especially hard time distinguishing the sounds of the new language.

However, I have developed into a great visual learner and rely heavily on written words and other visual cues. I do not let the pot over my head keep me away from what I love most – communicating and learning.

Ironically, the impediment that kept me from interacting with people has helped me realize my future lies in the field of communications. After spending my life compensating for my particular disabilities, I have developed a unique and effective way of communicating. I've had the privilege of being chosen to give a speech in front of over 4,000 people, and I've won my high school's controversial speech contest.

I'm one of four valedictorians at my school, Brea Olinda High. And, if I'm lucky, in June, I'll get to give the speech.

Bishop, a senior at Brea Olinda High, hopes to attend UCLA, USC or Pepperdine.