When I was 12 years old, I was diagnosed with Dyslexia. From that moment, this diagnoses became a seemingly insurmountable brick wall between me and my creativity. My mind was constantly brimming with ideas and thoughts, but they never seemed to translate into words correctly. It was an incredibly frustrating experience—no matter how hard I tried, when I attempted to express myself verbally, my words would get tangled and come out wrong. Writing was even worse. As soon as I picked up a pen, a wave of panic would wash over me, and my thoughts would become chaotic and disorganised. It felt as if the words on the page were dancing around, mocking my attempts to make sense of them.
Faced with these overwhelming challenges, I eventually gave up on anything academic. I began to shy away from any activity that required me to put pen to paper, avoiding situations where I might be forced to confront my struggles with communication and writing. Instead, I turned to landscape gardening, a career that allowed me to work with my hands and stay far away from the written word. However, after years of gardening, I realised that I needed to do something more, something that would give me a qualification and a sense of accomplishment. So, I decided to study horticulture. To my surprise, botanical Latin, with all its complexities, made sense in my head. It was a language I could understand, unlike the written English that had always eluded me.
Despite this small victory, my issues with communication and writing remained a major trigger for my anxiety. My frustration grew to the point where I began to run from life itself. In an effort to quiet my overactive mind and escape from the relentless noise in my head, I turned to mind-altering substances. Alcohol, in particular, took a firm hold on me, and I used it to drown out the chaos inside my mind.
My life took a turn when I began my journey with Alcoholics Anonymous (AA). As part of my recovery, I started keeping a journal and reading, albeit very slowly. I had always been drawn to poetry, much like I had been to botanical Latin. For some reason, poetry made sense to me in a way that other forms of writing did not. It helped me understand and process my thoughts, so I decided to give writing poetry a try. To my surprise, my wife read some of my work and told me, “These are great.”
Now, writing has become a daily practice for me. My mind, once scattered and chaotic, is now constantly working to find words that rhyme with “orange” or to create new verses. Writing has become a form of meditation, a way to centre myself and find peace. I no longer experience the anxiety or panic that used to plague me, nor do I feel the need to hide from life at the bottom of a bottle. Instead, I ground myself by putting my thoughts and feelings into words. Whether I’m happy, sad, scared, worried, or elated, writing helps me process and understand what I’m going through.
Looking back on my journey, it’s clear that the challenges I faced with Dyslexia were far more than just obstacles—they were formative experiences that shaped the person I am today. For many years, this diagnoses felt like a prison, trapping me within the confines of my own mind. But in the end, they pushed me to find new ways to express myself and connect with the world. The frustration and anxiety I felt were powerful forces, but they also led me to discover the therapeutic power of writing. Through poetry, I found a way to turn my struggles into something meaningful, a way to communicate with myself and others in a language that made sense to me. What once felt like an insurmountable wall became a stepping stone on my path to recovery and self-discovery. Writing has not only helped me stay sober, but it has also become a vital tool for understanding and navigating my emotions. In a sense, my journey with words has mirrored my journey with life—messy, challenging, and ultimately rewarding.
From Brick Wall to Bloom
Twelve, a fragile age for such a weighty word,
Dyslexia, a barrier, cold and stark.
A mind ablaze with hues, a vibrant hoard,
Muted by the pen, a darkened park.
Words, elusive shadows, danced and mocked,
A tangled mess, a frustrating plight.
Paper, a daunting stage, a fearful block,
Creativity stifled, lost to night.
Gardens, a solace, hands finding their way,
Nature’s language, silent, deep and true.
Yet, a yearning stirred, a different fray,
Knowledge's pursuit, a fresh point of view.
Latin, botanical, a surprising fit,
Logic in chaos, a mental shift.
But shadows lingered, anxiety’s pit,
Silence sought, a desperate, fearful drift.
Alcohol's embrace, a numbing art,
To drown the noise, a desperate plea.
Until a whisper, a hopeful start,
AA’s compass, setting spirits free.
Journal's pages, a silent friend,
Poetry's rhythm, a soothing sound.
Words, once tormentors, now transcend,
In every verse, a healing ground.
From prisoned thoughts to open sky,
Dyslexia, a sculptor of the soul.
With every word, a reason why,
A story unfolds, making life whole.
