Embracing Dyslexia

Grant me the Courage to Accept the Things I Cannot Change:
Embracing Dyslexia and Overcoming ‘You Can’t’

I still remember the first time anyone ever thought there was anything wrong. I sat quietly in the back of Mrs. Smith’s class. The lukewarm sun barely grazed my skin and the rough carpet scraped my skin raw as I squirmed uncomfortably waiting for the day to finally end. We were scattered about the decaying rug, most of us eagerly looking up at the massive picture book before us. The words below the vibrantly colored were printed in an intimidating solid black. Mrs. Smith had called on Gen, Josh and Susie to read aloud. It would only be so long before she forced my hand in an attempt to me to decipher those black squiggles. When the time came, I remember my cheeks burning red, the color of the hideous carpet, much like they also did. I pretended not to hear her the first time but there was no avoiding her crushing stare the second time. I swallowed my collected nervous spit hard. My mouth opened, dry and quiet, as I began the most painful part of my seven-year old life. Ironically, it took my seven minutes to read aloud what my classmates could knock-out in a mere two minutes. I felt ashamed, not worthy of the second grade.
To further my blatant embarrassment, Mrs. Smith pulled me aside as the other kids ran to their multi-colored backpacks and rummaged for zip-lock bags filled with sorted goodies for snack time. She sat me down at a table, which now, looking back was way too small for her tall frame. She told me, “I think we should have you take a reading test”.  She said she thought I might be dyslexic. The word held no gravity to my mind then but it would be a simple diagnosis that set me apart from my peers for the rest of my life. At age twenty, I am still struggling to understand exactly what it means. Only recently did I even learn how to spell dyslexia.
Ironically, the very thing I spent years battling is the very thing I love. Years before I was ever diagnosed with depression, writing was my therapy. It kept me sane when I did not even know what sanity was. Poetry was my main medium and free verse was my color of choice. I found what would rescue me when no one or nothing else would save me. Certainly, no one ever chooses to have a learning disability. It means extra torturing and added hours of studying. However, without an adversity to overcome, without writing being consuming part of my life, I doubt I would have ever pursued it as much as I did. Without adversity to overcome, we will often sit to comfortably in our lives, never seeking out what truly makes us happy. My joy comes in writing, which means I must embrace my dyslexia and overcome anyone who ever told me, “You can’t”.