The fear of long words is, by the twisted fate of irony, called Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia. Scary. The word for someone who struggles a lot with spelling, Dyslexia. Even scarier. My whole identity is riddled with irony; a dyslexic aspiring author. When the doctor sent me to the optometrist to see if the problem was in my eyes or my brain, I passed with flying colors, only missing one question. A color blind test with the number 72 written in green and red dots. 27 I said, and the eyes or brain question was answered for good. I’ve always known I was dyslexic, but that didn’t stop my passions from developing at their own will. My words love to dance, they twist and turn, shimmy and shake. The letters on the pages are as restless as I am. But despite their nature, I can’t help but love them. I long to write a book that will, upon finishing it, linger in the air and your heart, A book that will undoubtedly change the world.
I don’t tell people this dream often, I know what they will say, “a writer can’t have bad spelling,” “be realistic,”. Realistic is the last thing I want to be. You can’t be realistic when you’re swinging from branch to branch in an enchanted forest. You cant be realistic when you’re fighting a dragon to save the princess. I can’t be realistic, and I won’t be realistic. This irony has eaten at me, with my family telling me it’s impossible and my friends relentlessly ridiculing me. My parents wanted my sister to be a doctor, my brother, a lawyer. Not me. They thought me too stupid, they knew I couldn’t do it, I might be better suited to construction.
I’ve always felt different, different from my siblings, and different from my peers.
All throughout elementary school, I was pulled out of my classes for tests. I was moved to a whole different smaller class away from my friends. I was scared and alone, but most of all I felt like I was never good enough. While my friends were in the G.A.T.E program (Gifted and Talented Education) I was in System 44. In high school, my best friend is on track to become valedictorian, and my other friends are ranked 2,3,4,5, and 7 while I’m 91st.
Ostracized by and from the people I love, I turned to my notebook. The characters in there didn’t care if I spelled their name 12 different ways on the same page. The characters in there know me way better than anyone outside of it. And for this I am grateful. Because of the fantasy worlds in my head, my characters telling me it’s okay to be different as they slay monsters in between tea parties, I can be who I am, who I really am, in the real world. I can brush off the sly comments and Ridiculous claims from the people I love as if they were the things of Fantasy.
I’ve come to love who I am, bad spelling, slow reading and all, but only with the help of my pen and paper, my biggest foe but most importantly my closest friends. I’ve embraced my ironic identity, coming to be proud of both my writings and my dyslexia. Though the rode was long, bummy, and had many forks, somehow I managed to stay on the right path. With my pen in hand and my dream in heart, I will go on to be a New York Times best-selling author, I will go on to rival J.K. rolling, I will go on to change the lives of people far and wide. But even so, if my writings can only touch just one heart, can only change just one life for the better I will be more than satisfied.