bullybones

I’m dyslexic. Yeah, go ahead, laugh…I know a lot of people will joke about themselves if they’ve made a typo or spelled something incorrectly, saying they must be dyslexic…but it’s true, I really am. I remember it being really difficult learning to read and write. I struggled so much, and I was embarrassed that I wasn’t as good at reading and writing as my other classmates. First grade was a nightmare! I always tried my best, but I still remember the horror of sitting at my desk, pondering which direction to write each letter and in what order. It didn’t matter how long I sat…I got it wrong. Back then (you know, in the prehistoric Stone Age time) there wasn’t a formal name for the learning disability…people with this “problem” were usually labeled slow and were packed up and shipped to the “slow learners” class. I don’t know what tipped my mother off to this issue I was having, but I vaguely remember a teacher’s conference and papers being brought home.

My mother showed me the papers, red marks all over them. I just shrugged my shoulders and got tears in my eyes. I wasn’t getting teary because I thought I was in trouble, though – I felt helpless. I just wasn’t getting it. She hugged me and told me to brush my teeth and get ready for bed.

The next day after school I was given my usual snack and then my mother told me we were going to sit down and talk. She sat down next to me and said, “I know you might feel like you’re stupid because you don’t know how to write or read very well right now, but you’re not stupid. I used to have the same thing happen to me when I was your age, and we’re going to work on this until you can do it with confidence.” I was pleased. I had no reason to doubt her - - much - - I mean I knew she was smart, but I just wasn’t sure how I was going to pull this off. It did seem impossible.

We sat down that night and she helped me read through a book. It felt like hours. It may have been hours…and it wasn’t a long book. I remember toward the end of this first session I was squirming in my chair and whining that I didn’t want to do it anymore. She made me sit there and finish…and it wasn’t over yet. I then was given a pencil and a piece of paper and was made to write words and letters as my mother patiently helped me. When we were done I felt so drained. The next day she wanted me to do the same thing. I resisted a bit, but I did eventually sit down and I let her help me. It was certainly more help than I had received from my teacher at school, and my mother seemed to be employing methods of teaching me that made things easier for me to understand. “Now remember a “B” is a line down with two boobs on it and they face this direction,” she’d say, pointing to the right. She made up funny little things like that for every letter, and something was really starting to click. To make a long story a bit shorter, I still struggled for years with certain things, but my mother had started me on a road where I was able to compensate enough for my disability that I was no longer afraid of reading and writing and started to get more and more things right as I went along.

I still have bad days sometimes where everything will look a jumbled mess, and days that I have a tough time writing and spelling, but for the most part I’m doing okay. I’ve been able to conquer this “disability” enough to become a published poet, and enough to have worked as a stage actress, memorizing and reciting lines in front of thousands of people at a time. I’m not afraid of mistakes anymore, because I know they will happen, but now they are usually the ones that could happen to anybody, not just this “slow learner.”

Dyslexia is hereditary…I got it from my mom who got it from who knows who in my family tree. Unfortunately the majority of my children share this same disability that my mother and I share. My mother and I would literally have to hold my oldest daughter in a chair to get her lessons out of the way. Seems harsh, maybe, but she fought tooth and nail…she just knew she couldn’t do it and wasn’t going to try. Eventually she calmed and resolved herself to the fact that she was going to have to try. She is now almost 18, and is also a published poet, with a scholarship to a local college upon her graduation early next year.

My middle daughter learned to read very quickly. By 4 years old she was picking up books and reading to me! I was amazed, and happy that she wouldn’t have to deal with the same struggles.

My young son, who just turned eight, is another of my brood who is “afflicted.” He’s struggling even now to read and write. But I know that with a little time, and a little patience, he’ll do okay. It is a challenge for him every day. I see the familiar embarrassment on his little face. He was just told not too long ago what he has. He seemed relieved to know it had a name, and that he really wasn’t all that different from some people, and not that different at all from many in his own family. He’s more relaxed now, and that will only help in his battle to conquer this monster that has stood in our paths. He’ll do it…and he knows grandma and mom are on his side rooting for him all the way!

Oh, yeah, and he is “all boy”…he particularly likes the letter “B” for some reason.

This entry was posted on Saturday, March 10th, 2007 at 12:37 am and is filed under Education/Learning. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.