My body always seemed just out of whack with my brain. When I ran—which I did sparingly, usually in the direction of an ice-cream-truck jingle—I never knew what to do with my arms, so they’d dangle uselessly next to my torso like an ostrich’s scrawny wings, flailing in the wind. I had poor balance, and tipped over easily. And my limbs seemed to grow at a pace that apparently my body hadn’t prepared for.

I went to the doctor to complain about muscle cramps and aches, in secret hope that he would absolve me from physical activity for the rest of time. Dr. Keith was his name, and he was himself an overly tall, gangly, and balding man. I’d hoped he would take pity on me as a fellow victim of his own body’s apparent desire to outgrow itself. But no. “Growing pains,” he told me. “Perfectly normal for a boy your age whose body is getting bigger.”

I was ten years old, so I probably just said, “OK, thank you for your counsel, elderly sir.” But I should’ve said it was fucking bullshit, because that’s what growing pains are. Pain is supposed to be the body’s way of telling your brain there’s a problem. But what exactly was the problem? My body was . . . what? Growing too fast? Growing too big? Growing at all? I never really got an answer.

He did tell me I was flat-footed, which apparently contributed to the aches in my legs and hips. But that’s just more bullshit. Since when are feet too lazy to be in the shape of feet? What hope does the rest of my body have if the things it depends on to stand can’t even do their job properly?

Growing pains and flat feet aside, my brain and my body still found ways to conspire against one another.

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