(back)

Dyslexia

I grew up very fortunate to have a loving family who was able to recognize signs early in my life of my academic problems. Even as early as third and fourth grade, my parents watched me work very hard, almost too hard, in school. They began to see that I was working twice as hard as other students to get the same grades or even a little lower academically.

 Slowly, I did begin to lose interest in my homework and my fourth grade report card showed that steady decent. My binders and folders became messy and unorganized and as a result, I was constantly misplacing things, which only added to my frustration. As concerned parents, my mom and dad would use as much of their free time as they could to help me study and make sure I was doing the work that was assigned to me. They avidly worked with me through devising and creating projects and studying for tests, with almost the same results as before.

 Then I was tested for dyslexia and, not surprisingly, I was diagnosed with this learning disability I found to be my gift.

"A psychiatrist?!"

 As the words tumbled out of my mouth, I felt the adrenaline start to rush through my body, and my mind reeled at the thought of going to someone who counseled people on their mental states. My impression of these sorts of doctors came from what I had seen in movies. To me, psychiatrists were people who had Zen gardens in their offices and libraries of books with titles like "Your Child Is Different" or "Stop Denying It." I did not want to be different that other kids my age, and I could not accept the possibility that I was.

 The psychiatrist diagnosed me with dyslexia when I was in the fourth grade. Soon after this diagnosis, my teacher took me out into the hall during class to explain to me in another way that I might understand. After looking down both ways and whispering to me not to ever tell the janitors what she was about to do, she drew two little dots on the wall a good distance away from each other. This, she said, pointing to one dot, is where the whole fourth grade class is beginning. The other dot indicated where we would all be at the end of the year. She drew a straight line from one point to the other, and then another squiggly line between the same marks. She pointed to the straight line and explained that this was how the class would progress from one point to the other, while the squiggly line would be my route to the same end. Everyone would be getting to the finish line, but in different ways.

 Then, looking me straight in the eyes, she said with a small smile, "Kerry, straight lines your whole life are boring," and walked back into the classroom.

 From that point through my first two years of high school, I worked closely with an academic therapist, recommended by the psychiatrist. We worked together three days a week to help me develop learning skills to overcome my dyslexia. Over the years, we progressed from reading and spelling skills, through the meanings behind word prefixes, roots and suffixes, to advanced mnemonic memory devices and beyond.

By the end of my sophomore year, I was told that I did not need a tutor anymore, because I had mastered the learning and studying techniques I needed to connect the dots on my own, on a regular basis. Realization of this accomplishment came to me when I reviewed my grades and saw that I had not just done well, but was excelling to the top percentages of my class, receiving first honors nearly every quarter.

 As I look back on these experiences, I realize how much I have learned and how, in many ways, my dyslexia has been a blessing rather than the burden that others might think. In addition to acquiring study skills and techniques that allow me to succeed academically, I have come to appreciate that my dyslexia actually helps me to think outside the box of normality and to stretch my imagination.

I have found that these abilities serve me well in problem solving, in creative activities, and in surprising my friends and family with my insights and humor. In the process, I also have learned not to fear, but embrace the help of offered by the psychiatrist and the academic therapist, who turned out to be two of the nicest and most helpful people I have ever met. Oh, and just to set the record straight, the only books I saw in my psychiatrist's home-office, which were scattered all over the living room floor, were those of her grandson, with titles like "See Spot Run."

Article provided by