The dyslexic's way of being

I spend a lot of time wishing I could engage with the world as others do.  Not all 'others' I must add but most of the world, the successful, visible and polished lot.  They read the newspaper, devour books, probably tweet, instagram, dabble into blogs and generally winkle the meat out of life.  There is so much flesh to be taken off the bone, in this human world and it simply bamboozles me and more so as I get older.  I am dyslexic and of the generation when it was more of less overlooked, or worse you were labelled as 'slow'.

The irony is that I love words and the pictures they paint.  And I enjoy nothing more than reading aloud to my children.  But when I try to read myself my mind flits like a fly in a jar and if I try to take information off the page I often just cant glue it down.  When I was at primary school my greatest of all fears was that I would be asked to read out a loud in the class.  The fear was like a huge suffocating cloak and the page would go black and my ears ring.  I now wonder if I also have ADD or is it menopause or just natural decay?  It may or may not be useful to have a label although I dream of a pill that might give me the good moments of peace and clarity and take away the incessant useless buzzing flies that can use my head as their breeding ground.



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