I struggled in school from the very beginning. I couldn’t understand how the other kids knew what to do in class. I was given the same instructions as everyone else, but it seemed I didn’t have a clue as to how to proceed.
On top of that, I had a short attention span.
And none of it was interesting.
Reading was difficult. Math was impossible.
So I felt stupid. The other kids picked on me, and I didn’t think any of my teachers liked me.
I started kindergarten in 1965. Back then, there wasn’t much help for kids like me.
“Timmy is capable of doing much better,” the report cards read. I dreaded parent-teacher conferences and report cards. I dreaded going to school every day. For me, school wasn’t about learning. It was about surviving the week and making it to Friday afternoon.
Sometimes I got sent to the principal‘s office. Her name was Mrs. Young. She seemed nice enough. I don’t remember anything she ever said to me.
I don’t think my teachers knew what to say to me either.
I knew that the other kids were better than me. What a disappointment I must have been to the teachers who had had my brothers in previous years.
In junior high, I took remedial math. I never memorized my times tables, other than the ones, tens, and elevens up to nine.
When I added or subtracted numbers, I saw the number as a shape in my head with points on them for counting. I did multiplication the same way.
When I got to 10th grade, they made me take algebra 1. That was a 9th grade course. They let me pass it with a D-, and I never took another math course. Now I wonder how I graduated from high school.
Colleges have always accepted my high school transcripts. I have a feeling they don’t read them. After all, I have a diploma.
Arithmetic continued to intimidate me. I didn’t need to take math in Bible School or Art School.
After I finished my prerequisites for Nursing School, I was told I needed to take a math aptitude test. I said, “I might as well quit now, because I can’t do math.”
After living so long with my dyslexic brain, I had learned to compensate for my difficulties with learning. So much so, that now people are surprised to hear about my learning disability. I prefer to call it a “Teaching Disability.”
I like to read, but I am a very slow reader. I get tired staring at words on a page. If I am at all tired, the words bounce around on the page so much that I lose my place.
I got through Nursing School by reading the text book chapters aloud to myself or to a fellow student who lived next door to me. I let my Mac read text to me aloud.
Writing is completely different. I get lost in writing. It’s a creative expression like painting. It is painting with words, and I love that.
Until recently, I never talked about being dyslexic. It was something to be ashamed of. It made me feel stupid. Out of place in the world like a fish in a tree.
But there are gifts, too. My daughter and I have persevered through the difficulties (they are still there). Like me, she is creative, telling stories through video.
Everyone’s brain is different, and everyone’s challenges in life are different. That makes each one of us unique. Special. If I could go back in time and change myself, I wouldn’t.
In my nursing career, I talk a lot about “self actualization.” What I mean by that is that everyone deserves to be given the opportunity to be the best them that they can be, taking into account their limitations and their strengths.
