Better late than never – The discovery of my dyslexia.

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Name: Alex Kocan
Email: ajkocan@aol.com
Date: 18 May 2002
Time: 15:47:55
Remote Name: spider-tf033.proxy.aol.com

Story

In May 2001, I was diagnosed as suffering from the learning difficulty, Dyslexia at the age of 21. At this point I had been through sixteen years of full time education. In retrospect it was clear that there was always something wrong with my learning skills. Possibly they were not picked up on, as I didn’t cause a disturbance, unlike other people at my school with learning difficulties. I just sat there and tried my very best to get as much done as I possibly could until my books were taken from me.

The first instance I recall of a problem was my first days at school, around the age of five. I remember literally being shouted at by my teacher for writing the letter D and B backwards. They looked like they were reflected in a mirror. Apparently my teacher thought that I wasn’t listening to her. After many hours of constant repetition for weeks, according to my mum, I eventually learned the correct way to write them.

My reading was always poor for my age group. I was put into a parent helper group for a while. Apart from that nothing else was done to help me. When my reading got slightly better, at age six I was told I didn’t need to go anymore. Even at this age I saw fellow classmates reading books they were not told to. They appeared to be enjoying reading. Reading for fun? Reading is fun? I have since heard that some people did not enjoy reading. I honestly had no idea it was intended to be fun. I was under the impression that I had been naughty and this was my punishment. Reading made me feel sick, and still does. It scared me and I was mentally exhausted afterwards.

Perhaps the most upsetting experience for me was at the age of eight. My best friend told me he was leaving school. When I asked him why, he told me that it was because he couldn’t read very well. That did not make sence to me. I couldn’t read very well either, could I? Over the next few years, two more people were removed from my school for the same reason. I knew they found this problem by giving them a test. As a result of this, every time we did a test I thought they were coming to take me to the “special” school. This feeling stayed with me from that age until about the age of fifteen. The only reason it stopped then was because I thought “well, ill be leaving next year anyway, so they wont throw me out now. Will they?”

Due to the fear I had for reading, because I knew I wasn’t any good, I developed a system to get out of reading aloud. This carried on until I was sixteen. At primary school I used to cry and say I felt sick. At secondary school I used to do anything to make myself be off on the days I knew I would have to read. I used to lie to my parents and say I felt ill. I used to drink weird and wonderful concoctions from the spice cabinet to make me sick so I could stay off. The most sickening one was a glass of milk id purposely hidden in my room two weeks previously, topped up with a little Pepsi, some garlic sauce and an egg. Needless to say it did the trick.

For the majority of the time I managed to avoid reading. However, in the eighth grade my work rapidly improved. I used to be at the bottom of the class. Thankfully, at this point I decided that I wanted to do well at school, as I wanted to be good at something. I did my homework. I listened in class. I was always loosing getting left behind in class. I was always borrowing my best friends exercise books to catch up. The classes were marked from below average to above average. Every class except maths and English rose from below average to above average in one semester and stayed there for the next four years.

I also skipped up three maths sets from six to three. Set one being the “brightest”. In every maths class I was the first to finish the exercises and I usually got 100%. However, in the final exams I got a grade E, when my average had been grade C. Hence, I failed. I felt stupid, angry and even more stupid.

My best GCSE grades were one A* for history, one A for media studies and the rest were grade C. I was extremely proud of these grades and I was looking forward to my educational future. My best grades were in the classes I really enjoyed and my worst were in ones I hated. Having said this, my effort was always 100% for each one.

After the summer of 1996 we began our Advanced levels qualifications, which would take up the next two years. Over the first weekend of our two years we were set a history essay question to complete. It was due on Monday and the results would be back on the Tuesday. I was still feeling high from my A*. I thought maybe I would get a grade B because it was a new class. The feeling I had when I saw I had scored a grade E was devastating. I felt anger and was on the verge of crying.

This feeling of anger was directed against myself, not the teachers for giving me a low grade. I felt I could have done more. However, that may have not been possible as I worked from the moment I woke to the moment I went to bed every day for the past five years.

For the next few months I continued to get grade E’s and a few D’s. When I went to ask the teacher why this dramatic grade decrease had occurred all they said and kept saying, was that I had to plan my work. So, I did. After several hours of planning and writing out essays over and over I was still told, “I need to plan my essays”. The situation didn’t improve. My parents said I could drop out if I wanted. Im not a quitter and I stuck at it for two years. I went from an A+ student to an E grade student. My self-confidence dramatically decreased and I had suffered long periods of depression. I hated myself, everyone and everything.

I applied for university as everyone else was doing so. I couldn’t care less about education, at this stage, as they clearly didn’t care about me. I applied to go to university the following year, but I ended up going several months after the summer holidays of 1998.

The situation of maximum effort and no return continued into my university career. I worked non-stop for two years. Every time an assignment was due my I felt excited. I enjoyed writing it so I thought it was a good piece of work. Ninety per cent of the time my heart dropped as I saw the big black D starring at me from the bottom of the page. Very soon after year two finished I think I had a nervous breakdown and completely lost the ability to think straight long enough to complete an assignment.

After several months I decided to return to university and seek help from a councillor. After telling her all about my struggle and frustration she suggested something at first I laughed at. She said, “Have you ever thought about the possibility that you might be dyslexic?” I pushed hard to find out one way or the other. First of all, I went for a preliminary dyslexia test at my local adult education college. The results of this test were that I was “at risk”. I think this meant I was borderline yes and no. I then went back to university. They set up a full testing and they paid for three quarters of the cost. This test result said that I am “severely” dyslexic. This means that the difference between my verbal IQ and visual IQ is dramatically significant. My IQ is 102, which is apparently above average. They said if I wasn’t dyslexic my IQ would perhaps be in the 120s.

When I finally returned to university I was equip with three words that made all the difference. They were “I am dyslexic”. Such words cancel out previous thoughts of being dumb, slow or simply being stupid. This boosted my confidence and my determination to try my very best returned. I was now no longer scared of making mistakes. For reasons that still shock me my average grades for the semester rocketed from a D- to a C+. I also got two assignments at grade B and two grades of B+. I just hope that I can keep up this level of work.

It is now seven months since I was diagnosed as being dyslexic. My emotions are so mixed im not sure how I feel about the discovery. I feel angry for the education system not discovering my problems. I am also angry with myself for not suggesting it as a possibility. I have sort of known since the age of twelve, but I was always told dyslexia meant not being able to read or spell in any form, and seeing as I could, I didn’t want to be laughed at for suggesting it.

Perhaps the worst effect are the things I missed out on while growing up. I couldn’t go out with my friends very often, because I had to continue with my homework. It usually took about four hours each night; everyone else had completed it within the hour. I feel my emotional and social development has been damaged due to a total lack of time. My confidence is still affected due to a lack of experiences.

There are also thoughts of what if? What if they’d discovered it at the age of five? If I can get two grade A’S with undiagnosed dyslexia, what could I have got if I had help? I guess ill never know for certain.

Unfortunately, I feel the damaged caused, as a result of this, will never be completely resolved. However, I can start rebuilding my confidence the best I can.

If there are any dyslexics that went through the same things as myself, I would love to hear from you and listen to your similar experiences.

NMpEhJZSaYUU

Name: jeccaujl
Email: oabwsz@cnuqoc.com
Date: 16 Jun 2008
Time: 10:29:40
Remote Name: 77.92.88.2