You know how, you notice something, once, and then suddenly
it seems like it’s everywhere? I’ve been having that the last ten days or so. Generally,
it’s jokes. A deliberate spelling mistake or trans positional error, and then
the punchline…. ‘AHAHAHAH…. Dyslexia.’
Lighten up. It’s just a joke. Bloody hell, why are you being
so precious about it? Well, it’s likely I’m about to get The Rage about this.
Because Alistair is dyslexic. Not mildly, not moderately, but severely
dyslexic. And I do mean severely. He’s known from a very early age that he is,
and it pretty much closed off school for him. It’s not like it is now, where a
diagnosis will afford you access to specialised help, support, learning aids
etc. he was told he was dyslexic aaaaand… that was it. No further action taken. Left to flounder. Struggles ignored. Put in a box. A box marked ‘THICK’.
So that’s how he thinks of himself. Thick. Not dyslexic.
Thick. It doesn’t matter all the things he can do, all the skills, talents, and
generally all round glittery unicorn pube qualities he has. As far as he’s
concerned, he is THICK. And if you think of yourself in that way, then of
course, you don’t have much confidence, it affects pretty much every
relationship you have, and how you see the world. And that’s where Houston, we
have a problem.
Because I do words. I read, write, revel in words. Words are
my first, my last, my everything (not really, but that sounds quite good, so
don’t pick me up on that). And it’s quite hard on both of us that a wordjunky
and a dyslexic happen to be together. It’s hard on me, because as far as he’s
concerned, writing is Not Important. He doesn’t read anything that I write. No matter
how well things are going, what comments & praise I get, I never talk to
him about it, because, in his own words, he ‘doesn’t give a fucking fuck about
[my] writing’. In the same way that I don’t understand his ability to design
and build a hot tub, he just doesn’t get writing, and the power of it. So, if I
say to him ‘I was talking to X about writing last night…’ he shrugs, looks
bored, and mentally checks out. And that makes me feel like shit.
And from his point of view, he feels like shit too. Because
he thinks he’s thick. He thinks that the box he was put in from an early age
means that so many worlds are closed to him. In fifteen years together, he’s
read perhaps three books. It was genuinely painful for me to watch, seeing him
struggle, mouthing the words, finger on the page to try and stop the words from
dancing around, trying to concentrate on reading the word that’s actually there
on the page, not allowing his brain to mangle it into something else entirely.
Having to go back and read a page he’s already spent fifteen minutes on because
he misread something. Asking me to read aloud some pages, because he found it
easier to listen.
And it reinforces his belief that he’s thick. Because he
struggles with it so much. I help where I can, but he doesn’t want to even try,
because it makes him feel worse. We had a meal out the other day with The
Blondies, and after five minutes hard staring at the menu, he handed it to The
Girl, saying ‘Come on then, read out the menu to me, I’ve heard from Mummy that
your reading is phenomenal now!’ I’d just like you to consider that for a
moment.
I’d like you to think how it must feel. He’s 34. He has a
job. He has a family. And he has to ask his six year old daughter to read a
menu to him. Because he can’t. And it reminds him that he is THICK.
Oh, but, of course. AHAHAHAHAH…. Dyslexia.
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