what if felt like to have dyslexia as a child.

Here is a nice story I wrote about being a kid-o with dyslexia,

Why can't I read

“Why can’t I read like the other kids?” eight-year-old Johnny thought to himself as he sat in class. The morning sun shone through the window, casting shadows around paper pumpkins the other children had made and hung near the wall.  One of the shadows loomed across Johnny’s desk. Like the darkness of that form, Johnny’s life was constantly overshadowed by the performance of the other kids.  He was always judged according to the performance of all the other students, not for his own abilities or growth.

Johnny sat in class listening to the teacher.  He would drift off into his own world and then eventually focus back on what the teacher was saying. This was one of his favorite times of the day.   No reading out loud.  No being called on. No tests. Not being told to “try harder” when he was trying so hard to do his work like the other kids.

His parents and teachers would ask him, “What is wrong with you?  Why can’t you do the work like the other kids?” He truly did not know why and he wished he did. He wished he could make it all go away.  Most of all, he wished the feeling in his stomach would go away, the one that was so strong it sometimes made him sick.  The sick feeling came on him when he felt bad for not being able to read like his older sisters could when they were his age or like the kids in his class could.  The same feeling would hit him when the kids would tease him on the playground for reading slowly aloud in class, stumbling over every word, his hands sweating as he tightly held the book, trying to sound out the words while laughter rose from the classroom.  “Why me?” Johnny would think. His mom had asked many times as well, “Why me?

Why do I have to deal with this, a child who can not read?”

Johnny’s everyday world was one of pictures and images.  He could make outstanding things with his Leggo blocks but could not put selected alphabetical letters together correctly three times in a row. He could assemble everyone else’s toys without reading a word of directions but could not put the months of the year together in chronological order.  Why could the tasks he accomplished be so easy for him and so difficult for others, while reading and writing were so hard for him and yet so easy for others?

As the teacher continued to talk, he glanced at the clock on the wall.  It was almost time for recess. For a while, Johnny had very few things in his day that he liked because most of them had been taken away until he could read better.  So recess, even though a very little thing, had been all he had left at one time. Outside, with the sun shining on him, he could feel safe from the world.   Johnny once loved this time of day, running in the schoolyard, but now, it was not for him. Now, the only time he felt normal had been taken from him, and he had to stay inside and work on his reading.  As the bell rang for recess, Johnny lowered his head to the desk, not wanting to watch the kids run out to recess, not wanting to see what he was missing.  His eyes welled with tears, but he would not show it.

The room soon emptied, and he was left with just the student teacher.  She was new. She, too, would soon ask him why he could not learn and what was wrong with him. She, too, would soon take away something he enjoyed doing. She, too, would soon give up on him and pass him on to the next teacher like a bag of hand-me-down clothes he received from his cousins.

From his desk, where he worked on his words, he could see the other kids playing outside.  He felt pangs of confusion.  “Maybe,” Johnny thought, “this all happened because of something I said to Mom. Or maybe I’m being punished for hitting my sister.”  Whatever the reason, the punishment was hard—not being able to read.

You see, I know Johnny very well. I’m him, and I have dyslexia.  My condition was not discovered right away, and all these things, and more, really did happen to me. I write about them to let every parent who has a child like me know: don’t push the child for something he or she can’t fix or control. Please don’t take hope away from them. Thirty percent of school children have learning disabilities, but only 1% are ever identified.  Neither the children nor their parents will know what the problem is.  Most school systems do not test for dyslexia or know how to help.  If this story sounds like someone you know, please get help. Ask to be tested. 

I have created a website that is committed to helping those with dyslexia or those who know someone with dyslexia.  I’ve also written a book on the topic, called DYSLEXIA, MY LIFE.

By G. Sagmiller,  all rights are property of G.Sagmiller