What I wish you knew about dyslexics

Dyslexia is more than just reading and writing. There’s a lot of trauma.

CW: suicide, depression, anxiety and PTSD.

I was called many things growing up by my immediate family and teachers. Thick, lazy, inattentive, stupid, careless, backwards, dumb and braindead. The one thing I was never called was dyslexic. That word didn’t even enter my realm of existence until I was twenty-three years old and working on my Master’s dissertation. I was just a few weeks from handing in, and my supervisor, looking over my work, raised his head and gently asked, “Are you getting help for your dyslexia? Because I’m concerned the university disability team isn’t doing their job in helping you get editing support fast enough.”

I was shocked. I told him I wasn’t dyslexic. “Oh, I don’t mean to sound rude, but your writing indicates someone who is indeed dyslexic.” my supervisor replied. When I was thirty years old, just starting my PhD journey, I got my official assessment done, and there it was, in black and white: dyslexic. When the woman assessing me delivered my results, she tilted her head sympathetically. “I don’t know how you got this far in life without any help,” she told me, “because you’re really quite severe. But you’re also incredibly remarkable. You must have worked so hard to get to PhD level, and you should be proud of yourself.” I…