Someone said to me lately I was very open about my dyslexia. I probably am, but I couldn’t help thinking: why?

Part of it is a coping strategy. Get in first and cover the ground before anyone else gets the chance. However, the more I think about it, there is another reason, a deeper reason: shame. I used to think I was embarrassed but that isn’t it. Being embarrassed is a reaction to something, you trip over something, you call something the wrong name. Whereas shame is how we view ourselves, its the guilt of feeling like you’ve done something wrong, or worse still you are something wrong.

I don’t care that I’m dyslexic, but I am ashamed of its negative consequences. I wanted to write “I was”, but sometimes I still am. I’m ashamed of my education. I’m ashamed of my qualifications. I’m ashamed of the consequences (many self inflicted) that flowed from my underachievement. I’m ashamed that I can’t read more quickly or accurately in stressful situations. I’m ashamed that I can’t fill in forms, then I’m ashamed when I need to ask for help. I’m ashamed that I’m always good for a mistake. I’m ashamed when I need to make excuses for myself. Then there is the not sending in my book manuscripts to publishers. Or the promotion of my work. All for the fear of shame and its avoidance.

My openness is me trying to look the beast in the eye, and then slay it! To get ahead. To explain myself. To justify myself. To be myself. To not be ashamed of myself. To embrace the wonderful creativity dyslexia has given me. To harness its power. And even at my age make something of myself.