Winning over Dyslexia

It’s easy to say that being the youngest child could be the most difficult but also the most beneficial, with three siblings before me, my parents had learned enough along the way to make sure I ended up practically perfect. That left me with big shoes to fill. Throughout our childhood, the idea of having a college education was greatly stressed upon after my oldest sister fell off the short end of the stick. As a result of her actions, it was my duty as the next generational child, to excel in my studies and achieve a life of prosperity and success by continuing on an education after high school. My parents, wanting to make sure I was going to do so, did everything they could to better me in any way possible. Tutoring and reading every night before bed had become something as systematic as brushing my teeth. At a very early age, around 1st and 2nd grade, learning became the basic foundation of my growth. My youth was overtaken by many hours spent studying what was known to be correct "Standard" English in an elementary form. Constantly practicing to better my vocabulary and “correct English” skills, it was in the 4th grade when I hit a wall that I could not break through.
As time passed, I found the subject of English to be a great inadequacy. No matter how much time I had spent reading and writing it never got easier. “Practice makes perfect” said my mother, only two hundred times a day. And then I would always respond with “Oxygen potassium” rather than saying OK, just to show her how smart I really was. She would giggle and finish by saying “Lay off the periodic table and pick up a book little girl!” It was something I quickly lost interest in though after constantly struggling with it. I knew the many rewards acquired by having the ability to be superiorly literate and I knew the skills that needed to be practiced to excel in the English language, but what I did not know was why I continuously mixed up my letters and words. It was Mrs. Parson, my 5th grade English teacher, who left a letter attached the top of a paper I had recently wrote. In the paper I had wrote about how much I loved playing softball. When I saw a letter attached to the top of it, I was sure it was in some fashion good news. Writing about things that I loved doing seemed to be easier than any other form of writing I had to do and this paper was like a jackpot to me. Softball was what I loved more than anything. The letter was addressed “To the parents of Cearra Dulaney.” Specifically told to take it straight home without opening it, all day I trembled anxiously waiting for the sound of the bell announcing the school day was over.
When finally making home, I ran to my mom and threw my paper in the air and said “Go ahead mom, open it! Read about how good of a student I am!” As confident as can be, my mom’s face drew to a blank stare but I’m still shouting “Here! I’ll read it to you!” Pulling it out of her hand before she had time to react, or even recover from her still shock she was, I took off running to the couch with the letter in my hand. All I remember reading before she was chasing after me again was “Her paper is a prime example of a Dyslexic student. A doctor’s visit is