Reading... it caused me to shed tears that blurred words and curved pages. I especially hated reading library books and used books. The thought of how previous readers planted their germs in the book haunted me. Did they read the book on the toilet? Were they blessing the books with leftover crumbs as they simultaneously ate and read? I would burst into tears at the sight of a used book sitting on the dinner table or lying on a bed. “Eileen, stop acting, pick up the book, and read me that sentence now!” demanded Mami with her fixed eyes and clenched teeth. Mami, believing it was solely drama, did not comprehend my real phobia. I was a slave to it. Choking on my salty tears, I longed to be obedient, but I could not be. “No, mom, please, please, please...” I bought into the lie that touching a used book posed a deadly threat. Not only that but I was convinced I was bad reader. However, my persistent Mami still forced me to read it. Holding the library book with only four nails, I read as quick as a rabbit. The tears never dried out and the graphic visions of how the germs first reached the book accelerated my heart. “Don’t skip a word!” I told myself. At that moment, I wanted to escape the world I was in.

Finally, I finished Reading the book! I dashed to the sink to thoroughly wash my hands. I had a serious phobia of books. I despised Reading. However, things were not always this way. My relationship with Reading all began one evening inside my dimly lit room. Mami, holding a Barbie Rapunzel book, lay with five year-old me on my bed. At first, I was just glancing at the letters underneath the Barbie doll image.  Slowly, I transformed the letters into words. I beamed with excitement. I was closer to becoming a big girl. I asked my Mami when I would be able to read everything. I became addicted to Reading, anything I could do to become more independent like the babysitters I admired. However, gradually my hunger for Reading declined.

Fast forward a couple years, in a Pennsylvania elementary school, teachers pressured me to keep up with my classmates’ literacy level. My relationship with Reading weakened because I skipped words in sentences. It was as if the words just were not there. Regular quizzes to determine what color book basket I could read from cause my hunger for books to deteriorate. The fear of a demotion in the book basket system haunted me. "The... dog... sat... on... the... bed... while... the... slept." I would read at a slow pace to avoid skipping a word; however, even this measure was not effective. My classmates frequently competed and boasted about their reading basket level. I believed that since I was in a lower level than my friends because I skipped words, Reading did not want to be my friend.

Why was I skipping words? That was the question. Mami would buy me special bookmarks that claimed to help readers avoid skipping words. I could sense the pressure to read “normally” from my frustrated teachers and parents. They assumed, since they had no clue why I was not reading properly, that I simply needed more reading exercises. Although there were some exercises and tools that helped, I hardly had control of my habit of skipping words. It felt like I trying to avoid the unavoidable. Why did I always skip words?

With the status of frenemies, Reading and I hardly met outside of school-related activities. I deliberately avoided situations to come into contact with books. I was never shy; I loved to talk, but preferred not to read so that my silly and unpredictable mistakes were not noticed and corrected. Also, I dreaded touching a used book. Once I moved to Texas, my new teachers did not overlook my tendency to skip words. My teachers would tell my mother that I had comprehension issues, but that was not breaking news to her. She was used to hearing that. Fourth-grader me was used to hearing that. The school placed me in special classes hoping to help me improve my reading comprehension. As I would leave my classroom early to go to my “special” class, I felt like a failure. Deep inside I was embarrassed; I knew my entire class knew where I was headed to. I could not hide it. I compared myself to the gifted kids. Like me, they were not considered average. Unlike me, though, they were admired and respected by other students, which affected my confidence.

Suddenly, my question was answered. I was diagnosed with Graves’, an autoimmune disorder. Some of the symptoms included insomnia, extreme appetite, mood swings, tantrums, unrealistic fears (like the fear of used books), severe fight-or-flight reactions, and difficulty concentrating (causing me to skip words). When I first was diagnosed, I did not realize how much this disorder impacted my life and my family’s life. What was not normal had grown normal to me, even the way I read. I was accustomed to it. After the diagnosis and beginning of treatment for my condition, I gradually stopped fearing books and skipping words. I felt as if I had been reunited with a long lost friend. One rainy fall day, I retreated to my closet to read Pilgrim’s Progress. I fully comprehended the text! I was in another world with my companion Christian, the main character, which was something I had never experienced before. I had been locked up in my world of Graves’ disease, but I was finally set free.

In my old world, instead of loving, I hated books and Reading. I wish that I had known back then that my friendship with Reading would be different from other people's. Reading is different for everyone and just because others may have stronger relationships, did not mean I was stupid. Comparing myself with others only drifted me apart from Reading. I should have focused on the fact that I was able to read. I have come a long way from reading my first words off the Barbie Rapunzel book to reading books like Don Quixote. After some reflection, I believe I found the answer to the question I once asked my Mami: the skill of Reading will never stop growing. The reality is, even though it may seem otherwise, nothing, not even an illness, can terminate Reading’s presence in my life.