Dyslexia as a writer

I was more than 30 years old before I could admit that I was a dyslexic learner. Hard as it was to admit it to others (many who probably knew long before me), it was hardest to admit it to myself.

The reason was apparent. I was embarrassed. When I grew up, learning disorders weren't something you talked about, and if you did, it was in hushed tones with heads close together, hoping no one would overhear your utter disgrace.

Because of that, I never got help at school or extra time on tests. Unfortunately, I never got the support all kids need when they feel they're different. I learned the hard way. Reading everything four times to ensure I didn't miss any vital information became a lifetime habit.

I got used to spending four times longer with the textbooks than my classmates, all because my surroundings made it clear dyslexia was something to be embarrassed about. Something shameful. Something to hide.

30-something bloody years later, I've finally come to grips with the fact that words tend to plonk their tiny butts somewhere else when I read, numbers sorting themselves into new lines until I let someone else sort the math problem (who needs math, anyway?). It was a hard lesson to swallow and even harder to process, but the first step was admitting I had a learning disorder. That was the hardest part.

Dyslexia never stopped me from reading, and even though it took me more time and effort compared to others, I didn't enjoy the story any less. In fact, I'm sure it made me a stronger writer since I learned how to respect myself and realized dyslexia would never stop me from writing.

By talking about these things, we can normalize something that's been shoved into the shadows of Mordor for far too long. Dyslexia is nothing to be embarrassed about, and the more we open up about it, the higher the chance we can educate the world about that fact.

I will now read this post five more times to ensure half the words aren't missing.