The mystery of books....

It seems incredible, but I was eleven before I could read with any degree of confidence. I had no idea I was dyslexic. School was a struggle - I left at 16, my only recognisable achievements were in art, art history, shorthand and typing.  Academic subjects had confounded me yet I knew I had a good brain, it just worked differently to other peoples.  Luckily, being marginalised at school did not traumatise me.  I was a day-dreamer, everyone said so. And I was a listener, the friends of my childhood were old ladies, the lonely, often neglected women who loved to tell me their life stories. I soaked in their loves, hates and prejudices, imagined their pain and frustrations and their fears.  I did errands for them, kept their stocks of cheap sherry topped up.  All the time learning about the vagaries of life and existence and the power of personal myths.

Now in my own old age I think how lucky I was to be born dyslexic.  It was a struggle, I was always a loner, A listener and observer, skilled in practical ways with the natural ability to sink into myself and imagine fantastic stories. I was never bored with my own company but I inherited my Ma's love of helping people and became a nurse. I couldn't take my State Registration as I didn't have the qualifications, so took the practical route and became an Enrolled Nurse.

In those early years I learnt to deal with death, be unafraid of dying. Sharing the last thoughts, regrets and fears of people was special; a gift to be treasured. Sitting quietly, with synchronised breathing during the long nights, led me into the practice of natural meditation. Really just a continuation of the day-dreaming I'd done since early child-hood when I'd escaped into my own inner world to escape from class-room angst.

Only now I was really different..I knew almost to the minute when a patient would die. I'd come on duty already armed with knowledge that had only just been written in the report book.  It was a joke. 'Ask Steph........she's a witch'  but no one really laughed.  And eventually it was taken for granted that I 'just knew' things.

It took me years to realise that not everyone saw, heard or just knew stuff that wasn't written down or even spoken. And it took even longer to understand that 'my psychic' abilities were just an alternative way of living in and dealing with the world.  I was wired differently from logical left brain people, I had learnt different skills to compensate, I had developed my own method of 'altered state' mindfulness and I could read people like books. I just had to concentrate on them to flip through their pages. If I'd wanted I could have developed a career as a clairvoyant or medium, I have played with these things but my over riding passion was to  learn to conquer my fear of writing. In fact to take a further step - learn to write fiction.  To become a creative writer who is proud to be dyslexic.