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Then, our high school guidance counselor shattered those dreams when she went over the academic requirements. My dyslexia meant I had needed to work my ass off to maintain a GPA high enough to keep my sports scholarship at the University of Western Missouri. I was destined for a degree in general studies, if I even managed to finish. Writing dissertations and referencing dozens of peer-reviewed, jargon-filled articles wasn’t in the cards for me.
I had accepted that becoming a social worker might still allow me to help people in a meaningful way. Now, Colt was making me feel like that was also apparently a naive assumption.
“Shit, Gray. I didn’t mean it like that,” he said softly.
“I know,” I whispered. And I truly did. There hadn’t been any malice aimed my way when Colt had spoken; he was simply sharing his lived experience. My intention hadn’t been to make him feel guilty for speaking his truth.
“No, shit, I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. Of course you would make a great therapist,” he sounded upset now.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut. It felt too premature in our relationship to unload all my shit on him. “It’s fine. Like I said, it’s never going to happen anyway, so it shouldn’t matter so much to me,” I shrugged.
The mattress shifted beneath me. A pair of slender arms encircled my midsection, pulling me into an embrace. “No, it’s not fine. I should have paused and thought about what you were saying before I continued running my mouth. It takes real guts to lay your feelings bare like that. I wish I could do that. I want to be able to try to do that.”
“I don’t want to rush you into anything. I just thought sharing something about myself might make you feel a bit closer to me. Like we’re on a more even playing field. Too bad it backfired. Spectacularly.”
“Actually, it didn’t. If anything, your message seems clearer now.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, you may have hit a bit of a nerve. And I may have lied. Objectively, I’ve had decent therapists before. They just haven’t ever told me what I wanted to hear. Stuff like what you said—about needing to work on self-love and shit. Which has always pissed me off, and I never took the time to figure out why.”
He paused, deliberating on his choice of words. “I think you were right when you said I’m not in a place where I can hear what you’re saying. Deep down, I still think of myself as that poor kid that nobody wanted. It doesn’t matter what I do to try and distance myself from that life; that’s still who I feel like inside.”
“Colt,” I whispered, cupping his face softly in my hands. The emotion swirling between us was palpable. “I hate you feeling like that. It’s part of the reason I’m so hell-bent on proving to you just how incredibly talented you are. How special you are.”
“Ah, but didn’t you pull the same shit? You completely disregarded me when I said you’d make an excellent therapist,” he pointed out.
“Because it doesn’t matter. I’ve told you, I’m not smart enough to do it,” I admitted, sounding dejected.
“Of course you’re fucking smart enough. You’re already sitting here psycho-analyzing me better than any trained professional I’ve encountered. You just can’t hear me when I say that because you still see yourself as that kid with a learning difficulty.”
“It’s not the same thing!”
“Really? How do you figure that?” he countered.
“Because with work, you can overcome your past. There are coping skills you can learn, techniques you can master. It’s not easy, but it is achievable. On the other hand, dyslexia isn’t something that can just go away. I’m stuck with it, and my dad made sure to send me to enough specialists as a kid to drive that point home. A can-do attitude isn’t going to cut it in this case.” The bitterness began to seep into my words.
“Well, that’s simply not true. Maybe when you were a kid, circumstances were different. But back then, two men couldn’t even acknowledge they were in a relationship without being branded as social pariahs. Times have changed and people are more enlightened now. You have a learning difficulty; it’s a challenge, sure. But it doesn’t have to impact your ability to excel academically or pursue a job you’re passionate about. I’m not sure about all the accommodations available, but I’m willing to bet there are plenty. As long as you put in the effort, which I’m more than willing to help you with, you’ll be fine. If you need a TA to write down your exam answers, who cares?”
Every fiber of my being wanted to dismiss Colt’s words outright. I already knew there were academic concessions I could access. But having to have my hand held just to get through basic stuff other people breezed past, made me feel inferior. And if I did achieve anything with all that extra help, it didn't seem like I'd actually have earned it.
But then again, dad had always treated my diagnosis as if it were some kind of shameful secret and that asking for help was a sign of weakness. A shame that had, evidently, seeped into my own perception. It dawned on me then that I had never really opened up about my dyslexia with anyone. I found it easier to play into the stereotype of the “dumb jock” than admit that my struggle stemmed from my inability to read the questions fast enough and articulate my thoughts on paper within the given time. Not once had I raised my hand and asked for help.
Maybe if I was so hellbent on Colt accepting my help it was also time to take my own advice
“You’d really spend your free time helping me study next year?” I asked.
Colt tightened his embrace, a reassuring squeeze, before flashing that rare but authentic shy smile he reserved just for me. “Is that even a question? After everything you’ve done for me, of course I will. It’s the least I can do. If anyone deserves to achieve their dreams, it’s you Gray.”
Warmth spread through my insides. I understood that Colt didn’t always express affection in conventional ways, so when he did, those moments carried extra weight. It also provided the perfect opportunity to broach the question that had lingered in my mind even before I got to know Colt. “Um, so speaking of dreams, I’ve been hesitant to ask but I guess this is as good a time as any. Is music something you want to pursue as a career or is it just for fun? Because you’re super talented and I’ve had to stop myself from gushing about it cause I don’t want to pressure you either,” I rambled.
Colt remained silent for a while, contemplating my question. “I’m not really sure how to answer that. I mean, music is a fundamental part of who I am. I can’t imagine doing anything else. I’ve never shared this with anyone, but yeah, I guess if you asked me what I wanted more than anything in the world, it would be for one of my songs to have a meaningful impact on someone else. To help them through their dark days the way my favorite artists have helped me. But no, I’ve never seriously considered trying to make a career out of it.”
“Can I ask why not? Is it because you don’t want to or because you don’t think you can?” I inquired.
“I want to,” he breathed, the words escaping in a soft, almost hesitant voice. “I think I want to. I’ve just never believed it could be possible. Being a struggling artist doesn’t really pay the bills and I guess I’ve always valued a life with security over fulfillment. And I think to really be successful in that industry you have to have the confidence that you can make it. Which I don’t. I’ve never even performed for a crowd before. It feels, I don’t know, too personal?”
“If I have your back, would you be willing to try? If you have me to lean on, is it something you would consider going after?”
