Narrative Essay On Dyslexia

I would stare down at the books and papers before me and watch helplessly as they twisted and flipped into nothing but scribbles. I watch as the other kids in my class read their books and smiled at whatever concealed story lay behind the words that I could never read. Stupid, dumb, slow, the words the kids at the school would use to define me, and I believed them. At least for a time.
Dyslexia, my family discover I had it half way through third grade. When the rest of the class was starting Junie B. Jones books, and I was still struggling to read a book with a sentence per page. I remember not truly grasping what Dyslexia truly was, and the only words I seemed to hear were the words I was told by other children, slow, stupid, and dumb. Even with the
As she read I read along with her my own book in hand. I read the book smiling excitedly as pictures begin to form in my mind from what I was reading. We would do this almost every day until I began to read on my own with little help needed, and before I knew it, I was done with the book and wanting to read another. The only problem was, I wanted a different story. One that I couldn’t seem to find. It was then that I decided to write my own book. A story never heard before. One that I could decide the ending. When I started it was hell. I couldn’t think of the right words, and couldn’t spell. My books were a mix of badly written stories, but as I was determined to do what I loved which was writing. So went on, forcing myself to research how something is spelled, or what it really means. With time not only did my stories begin to improve, but so did my grades in the class. I was getting A’s on my vocabulary quiz and even begin to put some of my vocab words into my stories. I remember the smile on my mom’s face as she read my first story. So many years of my struggling seemed to all be worth it just to see the smile that appeared on her face from