The Truth About Talipes: My Story, Your Story

The Truth About Talipes: My Story, Your Story:

I APOLOGIZE TO ANY INDIVIDUAL WHO MIGHT HAVE ACCESSED THIS BLOG FOR MY USUAL ECONOMIC-RELATED POSTS.  I SIMPLY DON'T KNOW HOW TO SEPARATE THIS ONE ON MY GOOGLE ACCOUNT.  PLEASE IGNORE IT IF UNINTERESTED.  
AGAIN, I APOLOGIZE FOR ITS INCLUSION ON MY BLOG.  I  SIMPLY LACK THE ABILITY  TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO SEPARATE IT FROM "ECONORAMA".   I'M SORRY. 

 

Well, as I said earlier - I was an identical twin born with a club left foot. The only way people could distinguish me from my identical twin brother was through my deformity.

This absolutely destroyed my self esteem during adolescence and young adulthood in the 1960s. It may or may not have contributed to my bipolar condition. I most definitely was
impacted by cyclical depression, but experienced no manic phases until my forties. But at the time, I simply didn't realize what the depressive episodes were - they seemed
just part of my life.

I grew up in a supremely athletic, competitive family. I also had an older sister and a younger sister. Both were excellent swimmers. They broke records at our local swim club and had their names on the records plaque above the locker rooms.
Everyone but me were the type who always won the first place ribbons and medals at swim meets.

My parents have told me that the family obsession with competitive swimming actually originated with the decision that swimming would be excellent therapy to maintain flexibility
in my club left foot. That this would help me in life.

Never did they consider the devastating emotional impact it would have. Never. My twin brother was a champion at his events. I would be striving to come in in third place if I
was lucky. I continued swimming until the distance changed from 50 yards (2 laps) to 100 yards (4 laps). My basic performance in freestyle was to be behind after the initial dive into the
water as I couldn't match the distance of others. I would then catch up somewhat towards the end of the first lap. I had a very strong arm stroke, but very poor kicking technique
as I could never properly extend my left foot. At the lap turn, swimmers used what is called "flip turns". My flip turns were a disaster as my feet never coordinated properly to push
off from the wall. So I would again fall behind and try to catch up. Normally I never quite could and ended up in 3rd or 4th place while my brother won.

My swimming coach wanted his team to win at all costs. I remember occasions when there were only two entrants in a the butterfly or backstroke competition. That left the third place
ribbon and points for the team open. My coach would summon me to "get third place for the team". I was terrible at these two styles. I swam the breast stroke and freestyle. But I would
enter as told. Sometimes the opposing coach would size me up and direct another of his own swimmers to enter the event. Now I'm either going to come in third or last. Probably half
the time i came in fourth. So I was humiliated by being forced to swim an event "for the good of the team" only to be embarrassed and get no points. I got out of the water and tried to
keep the tears inside.

So this was a great part of my life from age 10 to about 17 or so.  Not only did I swim competitively in the summer, but also in winter swim clubs (YMCA and otherwise).  I lacked the fortitude and confidence to simply tell my parents that I wanted out.  That this was killing my psyche.   That it was devastating to my self evaluation.

Instead, I was compelled to accompany my brother to continual swimming workouts at a place called "Suburban Swim Club".  This was a facility whose purpose was to mold champions.  Only the best members of my swim club went, along with the best from the area.  So what was I doing there?  I wasn't among the best and never could be.

It was psychological torture.  The coach hated me.  He knew I had no business being there and had less than zero compassion.  It was not in his nature to do otherwise than develop champions.  That was his job.  Not to put up with a swimmer who shouldn't even be there and was holding up progress.

I remember doing laps where we used only our feet to improve our "kicking" for events.  I could not keep up with the others and cheated by also using my hands to not slow practice down.  The coach would actually scream at me for this cheating.  Berate me in front of the others.  I just held back the tears again.

Toward the end of the swim seasons, they would divide championship competitions into top flight swim meets and other meets for the lesser talented ones.  My father would drive my twin brother to the top meets while my mother would take me to mine.  I guess my father didn't have the time or interest to fool around with second rate competitive events.

Oddly enough, what I considered to be one of my very best performances took place at one of these winter swim meets.  I was entered in the breast stroke 50 yard event.  There were a total of six people in my heat - all of whom generally had about the same best times.  So basically we were about even in skill level.

I got an excellent start and pulled away from the field.  I won by a mile and felt great.  I then asked my timekeeper what my time had been thinking it might have been my best ever.  He ignored me and looked away.  I asked again thinking he might not have heard me.  Again I was ignored.  When they gave the results it was announced that I had been disqualified for an "illegal kick".  Even though I had swum breast stroke in this fashion my whole life, the official thought that my left foot kick was illegal and disqualified me from the race.

Hey man, it was just another blow to my self esteem.  I wasn't even mentally strong  enough to get angry.  I just internalized it.  Tried not to think about it.  Just go on.  I'm not even sure my father even cared enough to ask how I did that day.  He was probably bragging about how my twin brother beat one of the top swimmers he had competed against.  I also have never forgotten the reaction of my mother.  On the drive home, she never really addressed it with me.  Almost as though she had to take me to the meet and was reading a book or something instead of watching.

I mean, what's the difference anyway?  The only reason I was swimming was to increase the flexibility in my left foot.  Who cares how I did or how I felt?  It didn't make any difference.  Not one family member cared or understood for one instant about the impact this had on my psychological development.

But I now look at this as a life enriching thing - something that contributes to the quality of one's existence as they age.  Although it nearly destroyed me at the time, ultimately I'm glad it happened as it made me grow as a person.  Life is a strange thing to live through, you know.

Birney K. BrownMoneyloser1@google.com