Turning Trials Into Triumph

By Roger L Wade

Realizing at age sixty I suffered from attention deficit disorder, I embarked upon my healing journey. Through years of counseling and reflection on my entire life, I began to understand the reason for the challenges I’d faced, but more importantly, that I’d conquered them all. I realized that not only did I heal, but I learned to thrive. I felt a deep desire to share my experiences, so I decided to write this book. I share my life story to bring hope, a little humor and much needed support to those who may be struggling with this disorder, or any other, and for those who support them. Believe in yourself and your talents, ask for God’s help and guidance, and know you can overcome your challenges and live your heart’s desire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887512228

Book preview

Chapter 1

My Early Years

I was born on July 14, 1950, in Kern General Hospital, Bakersfield, California. Because I was born with curvature of the spine, most of my younger years were spent on the chiropractor’s table, attempting to help me walk properly. One hip was lower than the other, making it hard for me to walk. It’s something I overcame with time. Another challenge I discovered in 2009 was being diagnosed with a severe case of attention deficit disorder. It is one of the reasons I am writing this book. If I can help one person faced with overwhelming challenges see the difficulties I faced and overcame in my life while having ADD, I’ll know I have achieved my purpose.

I have two older sisters, Joyce and Martha, and an older brother Michael. Martha was the tomboy while Joyce was the prissy one. Mike was not around the family much. In his early years, he lived with our grandpa, and when he grew up, he joined the army. After his time in the service, he began working as a police officer in Ridgecrest, where we lived. I guess you could say Mike was the only career man in the family until I was older and started playing music. I have been playing music over sixty years—that is a long time! Everyone in our family is still living and doing well, thank the good Lord.

Growing up was very difficult for me. I always had a hard time concentrating, and at school, things were even worse. Most people haven’t the slightest idea how hard it was, just living day to day, feeling so different from all the other kids. It took me longer to learn basic things, like reading, writing, spelling, and arithmetic. When I tried to read a book, I would read the same lines over and over, not knowing what I had read. I couldn’t comprehend what was being said in class.

At school, I’d get in trouble because my teachers thought I was not paying attention. It was hard for me to sit still for long periods of time. My mind would start to wander as if I had no control over it. I’d stare off into the distance, not thinking of anything, just looking blank. I’d get so frustrated that I felt I was on fire inside. I got mad and sat there looking around the room until the teacher came by, smacking my desk to get my attention. Most of the time, I was made to stay inside while the other kids went out to play. I always felt I was being punished for something I didn’t do. The other kids in class made fun of me, calling me names like stupid and retard because I had to stay in the classroom. I felt like the class dummy. It wouldn’t be until I was in high school that one of my teachers tried to help me by sitting and working with me one on one.

There were days I would go home after school and sit on the edge of my bed in my room, trying to understand what was happening to me. I was falling into a deep depression. Why was I being punished for things I couldn’t understand or had no control over? Why didn’t anyone know what my problem was? Why didn’t anyone try to help me? Why did I feel so alone most of the time? My mother tried to help me as much as she possibly could. When she came home after work, she would sit me down in front of her and read to me out of the encyclopedia, showing me pictures to help me understand what things meant. After a while, you could say I started understanding things by looking at pictures. My father and sisters didn’t help—telling me how stupid I was. I thought that was all part of growing up.

Having a learning disability doesn’t mean you are stupid, or you can’t learn to do the things everyone else can do. I’m not a writer, but I’m writing this book, and I haven’t the slightest idea how to write a book. Yet here it is—my life story. Spelling is not one of my strengths, so I am thankful for the spell check program on my computer.

I’ve been able to read two books in my entire life, so imagine how hard it is for me to write a book! But if I can accomplish my goals, so can you! All you need is determination and a vision.

I know there are those in this world who have a difficult time coping with life and have no idea which way to turn. Watch for the signs. Pay close attention to what your loved ones are doing and how they act. Having a hard time reading doesn’t always mean you need glasses. Just take a little more time and help them. Be patient. Be understanding. I can’t stress enough how important this is!

I would love to travel and help people like me. It’s sad that most people have a difficult time understanding what attention deficit disorder is. Life as a kid would have been so much easier for me, and for millions of others like me, if people understood what ADD was all about. All I ever wanted was to be like everyone else—to be able to think, to understand, and to feel normal. Normal is getting up in the morning and going to school or work without that burning feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. Normal is not having to face humility every time you step outside your door because you don’t understand the meaning of life and how things are supposed to work. Deep frustration occurs when you try to read something, and then read it over and over—only to find you still have the same problem each time you try to read, each day—you can’t make sense of anything.

Chapter 2

Home Sweet Home

Roger's Life (12)

Joyce, Roger, and Martha

My first home was in an officer’s tent behind my grandpa’s house on his farm in Pond, California. We lived there for six months. I don’t remember much about it—I was too young. Sometimes the smell the fresh grown alfalfa that grew around his place takes me back to that time. We eventually moved to Sunnymead, California. When I was two years old, my mother put me in my playpen while she was doing her housework. I guess she didn’t realize my playpen was right next to her dresser where I could reach her lipstick. I grabbed it and did some fancy artwork on myself, my playpen, and the surrounding walls. Mom wasn’t too happy when she walked into the room. I can still hear the song playing on the radio at the time—This Old House.

We moved again to a house behind the railroad tracks in Hemet, California. My sisters would take me outside to play in our front yard, which wasn’t far from the tracks. We didn’t have a fence around the house, so I guess you could say we didn’t really have a yard. Martha would tell me hobos were going to carry me off and eat me if I didn’t stay away from the tracks. She was always trying to scare me. And you know what? It worked! I never went near those tracks!

Chapter 3

The Hog Ranch

Roger's Life (7)

Dad and me at Grand-Pa’s place

Our new home was another army tent on a hog ranch up in the mountains outside of Hemet. This one had a wooden floor with a gas stove in the middle of it. I remember one day, Mom and Dad went up the dirt road to see my aunt and uncle, just a couple of houses away. They were only gone about thirty minutes. My sister Martha turned on the gas oven and then went to find a match. Plug your ears! That’s right—she opened the door and lit the match. Kaboom! She was lucky. All she got was singed hair and eyebrows and didn’t blow us to kingdom come.

The place where we lived had Brahman bulls wandering loose around the property, and they’d come right up to the front of the tent. Every time I went out to play, they were there.

One day, I took my brother’s BB gun outside to play with it, which I wasn’t supposed to do. I had no idea how to use it. I put the barrel on the ground and proceeded to pull the lever down to cock it. I got it cocked, and with the lever still open, I just had to pull the trigger. I pulled the trigger, and it slammed back on my thumb. The bad thing was that it cut my thumb and hurt like the dickens. The good thing was I never sucked my thumb again. Now I have a nice long scar on my thumb that will always remind me to shut the lever before pulling the trigger.

Some days, my dad would take me with him when he fed the hogs. There were hundreds of them! We would drive down the road, putting slop in the troughs. The smell was awful!

Every morning, my mother would drive my brother and sisters down the mountain to their school, and almost daily, she would run over a rattlesnake or two.

We moved again; this time to a chicken ranch near Hemet. There were all kinds of animals—chicken, turkeys, cows, and skunks. Mom worked in the incubator room, checking the eggs before they went to market. She separated the bad ones from the good ones. Then she’d take the eggs with the chicks in them and put them in the hatchery for hatching.

One day, while Mom was at work, a skunk came running in. It didn’t take Mom long to get out of there!

I had fun opening the door where the chickens were. As soon as I stepped inside, I’d slam the door and watch the chickens pull their heads back in their cages. I’d wait until they stuck their heads out again, and I’d clap my hands. I thought that was the funniest thing I’d ever seen. Now I realize how cruel it was and how it upset them.

When Mom said she was going out to kill a chicken for dinner, we’d all go out and watch her cut off the chicken’s head. Then she’d let it go and it would run around in a circle until it dropped dead. Yep, my mother the chicken killer. Back then, that’s how we survived.

A little boy named Kevin, who was my age, and I played together. His parents owned the ranch. Kevin and I would climb the hill behind our house and run up to a big pile of rocks. In the middle of the rocks was a big hole with water in it, full of crawdads. We’d take some string and bologna and try to catch them. When we got back home, we got in trouble. Mom said, One of these days you’re going to fall in that hole, and no one will ever find you! We stayed away from the hole after that.

Some days, we’d go out and try to ride the calves in the pen, with not much success. Once every two or three months, the ranch hands would hang a cow up by its hind legs and butcher it right there in the field. The smell was so bad it made me sick to my stomach.

Next, we moved to McFarland, California. This was a short stay. I think we lived there four months, but during that time, a lot of things happened. The six of us lived in a very small apartment—just a living room with a hide-a-bed, one bathroom, and small kitchen area.

One day, we went to a park that was down the street from our apartment. My sisters were chasing me around the park. As I looked back to see how close they were, I turned around just in time to kiss the end of a picnic table. Lights out! The next thing I knew, I was in the hospital. That really messed up my mouth for a while. If that wasn’t bad enough, a month later when I was climbing tree, I slipped and fell out of the tree. The worst part was hitting my mouth on a limb on the way down. Back to the hospital! Oh, I’m not finished yet—I saved the best for last!

All of us kids were playing hide-and-seek one night. As I ran around the corner of a house, another kid was running toward me with a stick in his hand. It went right through my arm at the elbow bend, right below my muscle. Where did I go? You’re right—back to the hospital!

It was time for us to move again. I think it was time for me to stay out of the hospital!

On the chicken ranch; I’m the one with the hat.

I loved Davy Crocket.

Chapter 4

Trouble with the Law

The first time I was in trouble with the law was when we lived in a mobile home park in Oxnard, California, not far from the beach. A friend and I were playing jet pilots in the back of my dad’s pickup truck. We were dropping dirt clod bombs on toy army men on the ground, watching them