Do you know someone who needs her story told? I do. Her name is Martha.

Hi, My name is Martha, and I am a twin. My sister and I bonded in our mother's womb, and we kicked and played like any normal kids, despite the fact that our mother suffered physical, emotional, and verbal abuse and despite the fact that she even fell down on the porch in her eighth month of pregnancy.

It's been said, she was huge and we were a heavy burden, but she was proud to be having two of us, despite the fact that he worked late hours and sometimes stayed out all night after the restaurant closed. I could taste the bitterness of stress whenever she was upset, but after all was said and done, the three of us survived. 

I was born first and my sister followed, and all seemed well, but it wasn't long before they realized, something was wrong.  My speech wasn't developing, and I couldn't follow instructions when I was given something to do.  My appearance was normal (I think I looked prettier than my twin sister but she was pretty, too). My body was perfect. I had strong legs and a perfect shape for a little girl.  

My sister and I played and made cooing sounds in the baby bed all day and sometimes at night. We'd awake and one of us would start cooing, then it was both of us, then one of my big sisters along with my big brother would arrive to change the sheets, change our diapers, and feed us a bottle of milk while our mother tried to catch some rest. Those were the glory days, the land of milk and honey with a mother, father, and a houseful of kids who played with us and fed us when our mother was too exhausted.

Then one day it happened. I had to go away because I couldn't attend school and my mother had to work while the other kids went to school. They said I would never achieve more skills than a four-year old, even if my mother followed the doctors' instructions and treated me like any normal kid. But my mother didn't because she couldn't force me to do what didn't come natural. Even though I was just as big as my twin sister and old enough in years, I was still a baby in my mental abilities.

So they sent me away and my mother visited every week until I had to move two hours north. Then she saw me once a month. I'm fine, now and if you let me tell it, I don't think anything is wrong. In fact I'm better than many kids who were damaged at birth because at least, I don't know I'm mentally retarded (or mentally "disabled" is what they like to say), and at least I don't know about being normal coming out of the womb when that inexperienced intern applied too much pressure and used the forceps incorrectly as I was being delivered.  We didn't find this out until it was time for me to be admitted into my new home at age nine. My mother read the new doctor's report and cried, but I never knew why.

That's my story, and I think people like me need to be heard about. I can't write. My sister writes for me, but if you know someone who needs you to write their story, you can write it anytime. They'll appreciate it as much as I do.
Post her story here or at www.emomastery.com. mhjohnson