Living with dyslexia
I am Dyslexic. I have been all my life. In the first grade they wanted to hold me back a year (make me repeat) because I had trouble reading “Spot”. By the fourth grade my teachers were recommending that I be “promoted” up, from the fourth, to the sixth grade (skipping five entirely), because I was doing so well in every subject, and they thought my mental attitude would better mesh with, and be appreciated by an older, more mature crowd (probably why I have always loved older women, but that's another story). My wonderful Mother, with her grand insight, declined the former suggestion, but agreed to the later, and I was promoted from the fourth, to the sixth grade.
I think I was in the second grade when I realized that I had a problem of sorts, and needed to compensate for it.
For those who don’t know what dyslexia is, it is a neurological (brain) disorder where things that we see and hear are transposed as they are being processed by the neurons, and their bundles, within the cortex. For example, I may want to say “I’m going to mail a letter”, but will write; “I’m going to male a letter”, similarly, I may want to write; It’s a male thing”, but instead will write; “It’s a mail thing”. Another good example is numbers. They can be phone numbers, account numbers, numbers in a business plan; it does not matter. “452” will always look like “254” to me, if I don’t check myself. That’s just the way it is for someone with dyslexia. As I’m pecking away at the keys, my brain is, in essence, making these calls for me, and I have to go back and check what I write in order to not look like a nit wit.
Once I started to figure out what was wrong, I began to make minor corrections in how I looked at things, how I processed them, and how I ultimately understood what I was doing. This took a little time, But by the fourth grade I was reading, and comprehending works like “A Tale of two Cities”.
I still struggle with my dyslexia. I manage it very well, and have done so for so long that it is now almost effortless, but f I’m really in a hurry, I do make mistakes.
I’m writing this because there is so much hullabaloo being made today about children with various neurological disorders, and each is important and deserves it’s fair space, but I also think that some of these problems emanate from the family life that surrounds these poor children, and while I am all for psychoactive medications when necessary, we are abusing them today (it's an easy way to deal with a problem, like baby sitters, and in some cases mothers holding the baby over a non-lit gas burner to put them to sleep back in the 20's, and 30's). No, I’m not a Church of Scientology “Wacko” like Tom Curse (that came out naturally, and I am going to leave it alone, both to emphasize my point, and because he is a nut ball). Psychiatric medications for certain disorders are a good thing, but before we load our children up with psychoactive cocktails, lets make sure the diagnosis is solid. In the first grade, my trouble reading could have been mistaken for something like ADD (I'm greteful it was not).
The medication that worked for me was a wonderful single mom, who was smart enough to recognize I was not a nit wit, or a moron, but someone who had great potential, and she was a Mother who read to me every night when I was little, and who knew how to inspire my own individual efforts to achieve.
We were not waelthy (caught the wealthy mistake, but left it alone, again to make the point). My Mom was a secretary. She worked hard. She did the right things.
Dyslexia was never a major hurdle for me to overcome, rather more of an annoyance, but it could have been more of a hindrance and a problem had it not been for someone who recognized and understood it for just what it was.
With children, In some cases all it takes is time, patience, and love. I had all three.