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I was six when they diagnosed me.
It started with ADHD that led them to figuring out that I had dyslexia.
My dad wasn’t happy, but I guess he accepted it. He thought extra lessons, special tuition would make me good as new in no time.
But by the age of seven, they found out that I had dysgraphia too.
That pissed him off, I think.
But I can’t be sure.
All I remember was me working hard and my dad not being happy about it.
I remember him finding faults. Tearing up the pages of my book. Every night he’d come to my room and demand that I read to him. When I struggled to spell out words, he’d leave frustrated. He’d tell everyone to not let me go outside or have any play time.
He’d fire tutors left and right when he thought they weren’t doing their jobs.
Then I made them that fucking card. And that was when I realized that my dad, all his anger and aggression, was because he was dyslexic too.
“It didn’t take me that long to learn how to write.”
That’s what he said to my mother that night.
I asked Nora about it and she told me.
So my dad, Benjamin fucking Prince, was dyslexic himself. Maybe all his frustration was due to the fact that his son was imperfect like him. Maybe I reminded him of his childhood days. Maybe he hated me because I was too much like him.
Talk about a fucked psychology. I’m pretty sure a shrink would love to figure him and his self-image out.
I quit figuring him out a long time ago.
All I care about is making him as unhappy, as miserable as he made me all my life. If that means never learning to read and write like a normal fucking person or unlearning whatever I’d learned, then so be it.
Blue thinks I’ve been bullied into believing all the crap about myself. She couldn’t be more wrong.
The thing is, I don’t care what they made me believe.
All I care about is my revenge.
My hatred for the man who gave me life.
My bully.
