Dyslexia

When I was a young child, probably pre-school or very early elementary, I was tested and diagnosed as dyslexic.  But dyslexia takes funny forms.  I never, ever had trouble reading.  Writing was different, but not as important.  So my parents decided to not tell me that I was dyslexic.  They were afraid it would hold me back.  

I grew up thinking I was just dumb.  A good reader, but mostly dumb.  It took me several years to learn how to tie my shoes.  Left and right could reduce me to tears.  I didn't learn how to accurately read an analog clock until I was 18 years old. And I still don't trust myself to use them.  Far better to switch numbers on a digital clock than to get so frustrated that I forget why I am looking at the time in the first place.  I was the kid trying to figure out how to put the fit the geometric blocks in with other shapes; another activity that could make me cry.  Math and standardized tests...well, you know how in Thank You Mr. Falker, Tricia describes numbers and letters as all watery?  That's what scantron forms look like to me.  And geometry, a subject that my teachers promised would be easier than algebra, was a nightmare.  Still is, actually.  

Around my 18th birthday, my parents just mentioned to me that I was dyslexic.  I was shocked.  You mean, all those spelling tests where I knew how to spell the word but somehow put z instead of s...that wasn't me being dumb?  And there is actually a kind of dyslexia associated with directionality (up/down, in/out, left/right) and just because I can fold a map doesn't mean I have to be able to read it?  

I have since questioned my parent's decision.  I think that if they knew how much I struggled with all the other tasks I was asked to do that weren't related to reading, they probably would've sought help for me.  That might have made some parts of my childhood much easier.  It would be nice to have strategies at my disposal for deciphering lefts and rights and shapes.  But we all do what we think is best, right?