Breakage

-13-

Sitting down in a class full of Strangers.

She tries to read the words displayed on the Board.

Concentrating.

So Hard.

Tries to block out the background buzzing that seems to be permanently part of a classroom.

She could feel the flush slowly creeping up her cheeks,

Even when nobody was aware of her struggles.

A Giggle,

Muffled Whispering.

All seemingly Directed at Her.

Maybe poking fun at her,

For making Something,

Out of Nothing.

Or maybe it was just her brain,

Tormenting her,

Her own personal Bully.

The words don't swim around,

Rearranging themselves.

Nor do they Blur out,

Like a picture,

Zooming out too much,

The picture becoming just tiny pixels.

She doesn't understand why it was such a hardship for her.

Too Just Read.

Something so Simple,

Made hard by the confines of her Mind.

She tells them that it's a Challenge.

The words just stop,

As if it was moving in the first place.

But it never stopped long enough for her brain to be able to catch up.

Reminds her of a frog she tried to catch when she was little,

Always leaping out,

Just out of reach,

Every time it feels like she was just about to catch it,

It hops away again.

Leaving her confused and disoriented,

And on the edge of just Giving Up.

Concentrate,

She Tries, 
Tried.

But every time she does seem to finally catch it,

It makes her brain feel tired.

Or worse,

It would look like it was clearing,

Clearing just enough to make her think,

That she might actually be able to read the word,

Understand it.

But instead the word starts to feel empty,

Like the meaning had seeped out of it,

Leaving just letters,

That were put together to form a word,

She once understood,

But now doesn't.

It feels like reading something foreign,

Or like trying to understand a language you once knew,

But had forgotten.

You know in the back of your mind that you're supposed to understand it,

But you just Don't.

And the feeling of failure that follows,

It's a mix of Anger,

Disappointment,

And Hatred,

Or maybe even Resentment,

To Yourself.

Even when you know that it's not really your fault,

Something you just can't control,

You feel that it's somehow,

You're doing.

She wasn't born with it,

Well not that she remembers of anyways,

Which isn't much,

But that fact makes her start to doubt her self-diagnosis,

That it was Dyslexia.

Maybe it was a problem she herself had made up,

A cry for attention.

Attention Whore,

Vain,

Self-Centred,

Just a few of the words her brain screamed at her,

Yelled.

She smiles grimly at herself,

She didn't need anyone to put her down,

She already had one in her mind,

A Tormentor,

Making it her own personal hell.

She wonders what Hell was like?

Could It be any worse than the Hell she was in right now?

She can't imagine it being any different from her mind.

Maybe it was better if she just died,

It was a cowardice move,

And people would say,

Why would you leave this "Hell"?

Where at least you are Living,

To leave for just another Hell?

And She would say,

Anywhere better than the hell She's trapped in now,

At least that would be a different hell if She were to be destined to go too,

Right?