I am 11 years old and in an English class. My teacher asks who wants to read out a passage from Iqbal by Francesco D’Adamo. No one volunteers. She scans the classroom and her gaze lands on me. Wrong kid, miss: I can’t read from left to right. For me, words refuse to stay still; sentences wiggle and oscillate in size, letters disappear, or crop up where they shouldn’t. I like reading from the middle of the page, gulping down whole paragraphs. Focusing on individual words feels counterintuitive and takes time.
Two years later, and to no one’s surprise, I am diagnosed as dyslexic. At the time, the diagnosis gave comfort: it was a satisfying explanation for a frustrating situation.
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