When I was a child, I infuriated my parents by not being able to find things, even if they were close by, or very close to me.
I could not learn any form of math, or understand the basic principles of grammar. I often wrote my words backwards, or out of order, and could not remember the spelling of words, or even if I did, they came out differently when I wrote or typed them.
My teachers were frustrated and sometimes angry, my father lectured me almost daily about failing to meet my potential, or being too lazy to learn. I had and have a learning disorder called Dyslexia.
I was, of course, and in the way of our world, ridiculed for these traits, and frequently still am. I learned later in life that almost everyone I liked or who had empathy or compassion was either tortured as a kid or humiliated as an adult.
We Dyslexics mix things up and sometimes see them backwards.
My parents often said angrily to me, “where did you PUT your socks, why can’t you add simple numbers, what is wrong with you?” When I ask Maria where she put something, she often thinks I am angry with her, something about the way I say it.
I try to explain that I am not angry at her, it is just frustrating when I can’t see something I know is there, and I am perhaps unconsciously repeating what was said to me in a short-tempered way. It’s hard to be dependent on somebody else for where the book is that you were just reading.
Thank God we can talk about these things and understand them.
My room was always chaotic, I never knew where anything was or how to find clothes or homework or papers. I just panicked when I tried to locate something, and asked for help or just slapped on something I could find and ran away.
Dyslexic children are often frustrated and angry, they see the world in a different way, and their learning disorder is often confused with laziness or ignorance. In my time in school, learning disorders were unknown.
One teacher in elementary school noticed the irony of my writing fluidly and telling stories well, while being unable to do the simplest long division, understand principles of grammar, comprehend even the most familiar symbols, or fail to see or recognize objects that are right in front of me.
When I got married for the first time, my wife was stunned to see that I had dozens of pairs of jackets, shoes, underwear, socks and shirts, closets filled them. I wasn’t sure why, but I tried to explain to her that if I couldn’t see something, I didn’t know it existed.
So I kept buying things I already had, thinking I was out of them or needed them. She thought I was just wasteful about money, or oblivious in the way men often are.
Maria noticed the same thing when we got together, but her response was different. She didn’t know why this was so, but she didn’t think I was stupid or wasteful.
She gave away the extra clothes and built or bought open cabinets and dressers. This never occurred to me or anyone in my life. It was a revelation.
I could, for the first time in my life, see what I had without panicking or trying to find something. I buy very few clothes these days.
This is why I learned to only wear blue chambray shirts and chinos or jeans. There were no choices to make, nothing to forget. That was my solution one of the tools the Dyslexic learns to use.
Two weeks ago, Maria asked me why I wore the same sweater every day for weeks unless she mentioned it, and I said I didn’t know I had any other sweaters. I had no memory of them.
She found eight or nine lovely sweaters in the closet, I hadn’t worn them in months or years, or in two cases, ever.
So she found this open-shelved old farm bookcase or cabinet and put them all in there. I am delighted to have more than one warm and comfortable sweater. I see them every morning when I get up, I know they are there.
But If they weren’t right there in plain sight, I would never be wearing any of them.
My writing posed one of the great challenges in my life as someone with Dyslexia.
I came up with a dozen techniques to outline my thoughts, write down cues and recognizable symbols, and organize my words. I read dozens of books I liked dozens of times and studied manuscripts and texts for language and flow.
I wrote 26 books that way, and my editors can tell you every one of them was difficult in its own way.
My book editors knew of course. They understood Dyslexia, and thought I was a good writer anyway. They didn’t care about the stuff English teachers cared about. How I miss them.
None of them ever laughed at me or gave up on me. I am grateful for them, I was not so lucky with teachers or family. By and large, I have done well. I am proud of myself.
I proofread when I can, but I decided early on to forge ahead and not let the Dyslexia slow me down or stop me. I would never get a word written. Most Dyslexics I know say they would never dream of writing a book.
I accepted the jokes and comments from people who think my errors are cute, or that Dyslexia is funny, and who just delight – there are legions on the Internet – in correcting other people’s mistakes.
I hear from lots of them.
Many English teachers, working or retired, have bombarded me with a could of desperate and outraged messages. Some understand that grammar is different from writing and read the blog faithfully and write me lovely messages.
Like so many Dyslexics of my generation, I wasn’t diagnosed until I was in middle age, and finally was exposed to some helpful tools and techniques. Just don’t ask me how speech sounds relate to letters.
My decision to choose content and productivity over grammar and spelling on this blog was one of the best decisions I ever made. Taking photos was second. My job was to create content, not take the SAT’s.
If I hadn’t, I’d have two posts a week. I reasoned – correctly, I think – that people cared about ideas more than subjunctive clauses. The photos were a great boon to me, the Dyslexia actually helps me to understand composition, color and light in the way some forms of autism help artists with color and shape.
Everything is a gift, in one way or another, and I learned to strengthen and focus on my gifts rather than be defined by my weaknesses and disorder. I was happy to learn that I am not stupid, I don’t mind being crazy.
That realization was the gift of a lifetime, one that benefits me every day in so many ways. I often fail, but rarely quit. I see obstacles as another opportunity to grow and succeed. I see life as full of twists and turns, but I will always move forward.
I learned to be contemptuous of self-pity and lament.
I never speak poorly of my Dyslexia, or my life. I am allergic to whining. Everybody has their own battles to fight, mine or no better or worse than anyone else’s.This is who I am, this is what made me. On some level, I always knew I wasn’t dumb. I learned to respect myself.
But I had to learn not to resent the world around me.
I accept the unacceptable parts of me.
And I don’t want to hide the reality of me, I am a Dyslexic, and I learned not to deny it or be ashamed of it, mostly on behalf of the many kids with Dyslexia who also are made to feel stupid and frustrated, and who are ridiculed or laughed at.
Hang in there, the world is better now than many people think it is, teachers know a lot more about disorders.
So I write about it once in awhile. It does not define me or who I am. And I have nice sweaters to keep me warm. One is even red.
Lord, it sure helps to have an encouraging and empathetic person around.
My choice to be authentic rather than grammatical was a creative one for me, and a good one. One of my favorite editors told me – after marking up my pages – that good writing was not the same as good spelling or grammar.
I wanted to bring people somewhat into the world of Dyslexia. And maybe one parent or teacher out there will think twice about dismissing that strange kid who who has so much trouble identifying sounds and symbols and learning how they related to letters and words.
It’s not the worse disorder to have. I get to recover every day.
