What's wrong with me? Oh, that question. It plagued me as a child. Learning was so much harder for me. I worked so hard to do my best, usually with only lackluster results. Compounding my insecurity was a brilliant brother a mere 13 months behind me. Where I failed or struggled he succeeded and excelled. I became resigned to the idea that I wasn't as smart as others, but especially my brother.
Elementary school was the worst. As a small child you just want to do well, to please everyone. I wanted to make my mother smile at me the way she did at my brother. I wanted to be proud when I showed my grandparents my report card. I wanted to be like the kids in the "high" group (our classrooms were broken into three groups: high, middle and low), confident and relaxed. I wanted. Oh God, did I want.
They knew there was something wrong with me, too. I was taken from class for remedial phonics sessions with a special teacher. I was placed in special education classes a few times, too. That was the lowest educational point for me as a child. I felt like I was walking around with a scarlet "S" blazing on my chest. Most of what
they did was make me feel worse about myself.
Each year I was determined to do better. Get smarter. However, by the end of the school year I was tired and felt defeated. Each June I had less hope for the next September. As the years went by and puberty hit my attitude was awful. I lost the willingness to try.
This pervasive attitude effected every aspect of my scholastic career. Why try to only fail? OK, not fail all the time, but in my eyes a C or D was worse than an F if I was shooting for an A. If I could get a C or a D by working my ass off then an easy F sounded good to me. I was told that I was lazy. Most teachers lowered their expectations for me. I gave in to it.
It wasn't all bad. Each subject had different results. There were teachers that worked with me, encouraging and pushing me to make the effort. I had my moments of victory, but they came hard won. I had to dig deep and put in a tremendous effort. It never came easy, and it taught me how to work hard. I learned I was made of stronger stuff, if not smarter.
A few months ago I was watching William Shatner interview Henry Winkler. Winkler was discussing what life was like for him as a person with dyslexia. Suddenly I was crying, he was talking about me.
He wasn't diagnosed until he was about 30 years old. I was approaching my 35th birthday and finally had a possible answer. There was a little ray of hope. After all these years I may have found what was wrong with me.
I hit the internet immediately. Certain symptoms are very familiar: poor spelling, not knowing my right from my left, having to read a passage over and over again to get the information, poor short term memory recall, difficulty learning how to tie my shoes, reading out loud in class was always a cause for panic and grammar is something I've struggled with my whole life.
Am I dyslexic? I don't know. Dyslexia is a complex condition that isn't quickly, easily or cheaply diagnosed. The testing can cost thousands. My plan is to be tested some day. The sooner the better, but life doesn't work that way.
Dyslexia is a genetic condition. I know my father has always struggled, and two of my three sisters, too. I recognized symptoms in one of my older nieces, and now a younger niece is showing some symptoms, too.
When I told my younger sister and Mr. Wahoo they both had the same reaction: impossible. Honestly, this hurt. Through this discovery I had found a road to recovery. This knowledge had soothed the shame I have carried with me my whole life. My response to them was it may sound improbable, but it certainly wasn't impossible.
Mr. Wahoo thought I couldn't be dyslexic because I was a voracious reader, I was articulate, I was smart. Of course my inside voice argued that last point. Every accomplishment I've ever had still carries with it the "fluke factor". I'm always waiting for someone to call me out as a fake or a fraud, to see past the confident projection to the insecure 3rd grade who does know the answer. When I started crying he understood I was serious.
A few weeks later we had unearthed an old high school yearbook of mine. I pointed to some of the inscriptions..."I hope you make it to 10th grade next year"...."You hope to be a big sophomore next year...hope you make it"...."See ya next year when we're in 10th grade, even though half the class thinks you'll be in 9th grade again. Have faith, Cat. You'll make it."
That was the first time he saw evidence of of my painful school days. I felt in that moment that it wasn't just in my head, that it was real.
Even writing this has been hard. I cried through most of the beginning. Just remembering those moments was gut wrenching, and part of it broke my heart all over again.
I'm also afraid of the reactions. That someone is going to think it's all in my head or that I'm looking for a label for my short comings. I'm not. I'm just looking for an answer.
In the end all I can hope is that it was worth it.
