Dear Dyslexia, You're a Peace of Shit

Dear Dyslexia, You’re a Peace of Shit

Dear Dyslexia,

Secondly, fuck you.

Firstly, I just want to let you know that you can try as hard as you can to hold me back in life, but I will conquer your evil joke of not properly forming my brain, because it’s the 20th century and I have spell check, a calculator and a good ol’ sense of humour.

It may surprise you when I manage to travel across the globe and return home mostly unscathed, although it comes with a price (when I mistake 1,000,000IDR for $1AUD). Stoked with a bargain I have just spent half an hour bartering for, I hand over 100 times the amount settled and stride away with a smile on my face and a sense of accomplishment in my naïve little heart.

You think you’re so clever affecting many people worldwide, causing us difficulty in interpreting processes, words, letters and numbers. But rest assured, you sick, twisted learning disorder – you do not affect our general or emotional intelligence.

It’s bus and train timetables I can’t forgive you for; I place reading those on the same level as studying a neuroscience master’s degree. Getting from A to B would be fine if I knew the order of the alphabet. Plane trips are generally okay if I remember to double check the flight times with a literate person and don’t confuse my AMs with my PMs, Christina Milian style. However, I’m ashamed to admit defeat on several occasions when I have arrived at the airport, said emotional goodbyes and stood in line at the check in, only to realise my flight is actually the next day.

In Greece, I rocked up with friends at a hostel after assuring them I would take care of the accommodation planning and found out I had booked rooms for the following month. You may have thought you won that time, but I creatively utilised the right side of my brain and made the most attractive one in the group explain our situation to a gentleman with a greasy combover in Italian loafers. He just happened to own a boutique hotel down the road. Cha Ching.

I blame you for the fact I don’t have a boyfriend. It’s definitely 100% because I accidently give boys my number with a couple of digits mixed around, and they probably don’t have Facebook to look me up, meaning they can never contact me to declare their love. You can have your fun watching me tick off my ‘Do To’ lists or suggesting to my whole school cohort that we make a “human period” as opposed to pyramid for a senior-year photo.

Although you undoubtedly make my life a lot more confusing, and falling asleep at night is hard when I literally can’t even count sheep, you won’t succeed in holding me back, because I just won’t let you. Like that time during school I got to sit in a special air-conditioned room with biscuits and have longer time to complete exams. The supervisor fell asleep in the corner and I copied all my work off a genius boy next to me with a severe social disorder and graduated with an astonishing score.

I have to admit that it’s humiliating giving people back the wrong change from a simple sum at a shitty hospitality job. It sucks being the one in an intellectual conversation that takes just that little bit longer to comprehend something, and a deep anxiety stems from jumbling processes in dyslexic minds. I’m prepared for people to tell me there’s a fat chance of becoming a writer when my work is riddled with grammatical mistakes my brain will not pick up, no matter how many times I re-read it.

When you have a setback in life such as a learning disability, the key is to not to take yourself too seriously, laugh at your mistakes and accept that you may accidentally give away all your money.

So come at me, dyslexia, and try your very best, because I know from the shallows of my heart that I will end up on the bottom every time.

Cover by Abbigail Bishop

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