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My test results came back from the disability screening; they arrived a while ago, to be honest, but I'm only just getting round to doing something about them.
I am not quite dyslexic enough to qualify as Officially Dyslexic. When I had finished all the fun little assessments, the very nice educational psychologist plotted all the numbers onto a neat little graph and then slumped back in her chair, looking at them. She made a lot of non-committal sounds like "Ah" and "Um" and then sighed. "Oh dear," she said, and slumped even more. "I have no idea what to do with these." It seems I am selectively dyslexic.
She eventually decided that in addition to having a weirdly-functioning brain (I apparently do not think like a normal person), or possibly because of it, I have what is charmingly described as a Temporal Processing Disorder.
I suspected it for years, and now it's been proven true: sometimes, I am just a little bit slow.
Seriously, though, all it means is that I take longer to understand things than would be expected given my general intelligence levels. Hence, reading is a more laborious process and I don't always follow conversations or make visual connections fast enough. It probably won't make much of a difference in everyday life, since I've apparently compensated for years without knowing; it will mean that my tutors make allowances for the fact that the average Oxford reading list is more of an insurmountable obstacle for me and my brain than it is for someone who thinks like a normal person.
The second thing the nice educational psychologist decided is that I am dyspraxic. This explains a lot about me that I didn't know needed explaining. It means nobody's allowed to laugh at me any more when I fall over things, and also, as my college nurse said when I told her, accounts for my "lackadaisical approach to life".
"Lackadaisical" is one of the nicest ways people have described my complete inability to organise myself or do things in the right order or follow instructions or stick to plans or generally do any of those things my mother thinks I should be able to do, including tying shoelaces properly and walking in a straight line. At least now there is a reason for these things other than "Rob is kind of stupid" which, I will be honest, I was starting to believe.
I am pleased to find that some of the tips for coping are things I already do, like laying out all my clothes in reverse order before I put them on, and sticking post-it notes to everything.
Sadly, having a proper medical diagnosis that says I'm allowed to be clumsy does not mean that my family and friends will stop laughing at me when I am, well, clumsy. The other day I fell off the curb and when I told S. that she wasn't allowed to mock the afflicted she launched into her "world's smallest dyspraxic violin" routine, where all the strings are in the wrong order and she pokes herself in the eye on the arpeggio.
I am not quite dyslexic enough to qualify as Officially Dyslexic. When I had finished all the fun little assessments, the very nice educational psychologist plotted all the numbers onto a neat little graph and then slumped back in her chair, looking at them. She made a lot of non-committal sounds like "Ah" and "Um" and then sighed. "Oh dear," she said, and slumped even more. "I have no idea what to do with these." It seems I am selectively dyslexic.
She eventually decided that in addition to having a weirdly-functioning brain (I apparently do not think like a normal person), or possibly because of it, I have what is charmingly described as a Temporal Processing Disorder.
I suspected it for years, and now it's been proven true: sometimes, I am just a little bit slow.
Seriously, though, all it means is that I take longer to understand things than would be expected given my general intelligence levels. Hence, reading is a more laborious process and I don't always follow conversations or make visual connections fast enough. It probably won't make much of a difference in everyday life, since I've apparently compensated for years without knowing; it will mean that my tutors make allowances for the fact that the average Oxford reading list is more of an insurmountable obstacle for me and my brain than it is for someone who thinks like a normal person.
The second thing the nice educational psychologist decided is that I am dyspraxic. This explains a lot about me that I didn't know needed explaining. It means nobody's allowed to laugh at me any more when I fall over things, and also, as my college nurse said when I told her, accounts for my "lackadaisical approach to life".
"Lackadaisical" is one of the nicest ways people have described my complete inability to organise myself or do things in the right order or follow instructions or stick to plans or generally do any of those things my mother thinks I should be able to do, including tying shoelaces properly and walking in a straight line. At least now there is a reason for these things other than "Rob is kind of stupid" which, I will be honest, I was starting to believe.
I am pleased to find that some of the tips for coping are things I already do, like laying out all my clothes in reverse order before I put them on, and sticking post-it notes to everything.
Sadly, having a proper medical diagnosis that says I'm allowed to be clumsy does not mean that my family and friends will stop laughing at me when I am, well, clumsy. The other day I fell off the curb and when I told S. that she wasn't allowed to mock the afflicted she launched into her "world's smallest dyspraxic violin" routine, where all the strings are in the wrong order and she pokes herself in the eye on the arpeggio.