I have. I’m not questioning my sanity, far from it; I wonder
whether I’m actually dyslexic. I never have before. I’d heard the usual presumptions
that dyslexics see words or letters backwards, that words slide around or fly
off the page for them, and thought, that’s not me. But I’d also wondered how
people can read certain books in a few hours that might take me a week to
complete. The easy answer to this is that I’m stupid.
That, I’m pretty sure, is not the case. I’m not saying
that I’m a genius. I’m sure I’m not. But, as noted, I’m not a fast reader. I read
at a speaking pace. Slower, in fact. I sometimes get stuck. I sometimes
have to read a single word more than a few times, a sentence or passage repeatedly, and
sometimes I lose my train of thought or understanding and have to reread a
sentence, a paragraph, a page all over again, realising that I’ve merely been reading singular
words or syllables for a while, with no clue how they relate to one another, or
what they might mean. Indeed, reading has always been a struggle. I was placed
in “special reading class” in early grades, still deciphering picture books
with “See John run” in large print while my classmates were constructing sentences.
It goes without saying that I did believe I was stupid. But, once my parents
heeded the advice of my school’s principal that I had begun school too young
and needed to be held back, I progressed well thereafter. I was not head of the
class, but I was thereafter not the dumb kid.
This is not to say that reading did not continue to be a struggle. It remained troublesome. I therefore did not become a reader until much later.
Since then, I’ve been an avid and voracious reader. If slow.
So, when did I first wonder whether I might be dyslexic? Not
until this year. Am I truly, though? I do not know for sure, and I suspect I
will never will, as I will never be tested. It matters not a whit whether I am
or not. It’s not like I will never change. Prose excites me. Poetry inspires
me. But some of it mystifies me, regardless how much I read, no matter how “advanced”
a reader I believe myself to be. Some of it remains perplexing, even indecipherable.
Online sources are a blessing then. Let’s call them modern-day “Coles Notes” and
be thankful they exist, otherwise works by the like of Allan Ginsberg might
forever remain a mystery.
Reading and writing are a skill and must be exercised
lest they atrophy. I exercise my mental muscle in that regard every day. If you’ve
read either of my blogs with any regularity you might already know that. That
said, I do not post every day, either. Reading and writing can be exhausting.
But it is also my most cherished skill, too. I suppose that is because it is
the one most hard come by.
