“Th- The cat r-ran…up th-the tree.” Giggles filled the heavy classroom air as I began to read aloud. Grade two was the year I was diagnosed with dyslexia. My classmates were unforgiving and could not understand why I stuttered when I read aloud. To this day I still do not understand why teachers would choose me to read despite the fact that I did not volunteer. It seemed unfair, this imaginary world of stories that I loved so much was also one of my greatest academic weaknesses. It was my escape from the undeniable neighbourhood bullies that tormented me and every other kid my age who were not one of them. I would get lost for hours, reading, writing, re-reading, and editing. Pages upon pages of coloured paper covered in short stories hung neatly on my refrigerator. It was my therapist, my personal venting system. My way to escape all the pain of real life. It gave me the confidence that not even my Mother could.