Living without a voice

Speaking is the most fundamentally human thing we do. It separates us from much of the rest of the fauna that inhabits our pale blue dot; it is the medium through which humanity has overcome and conquered the natural environment.

As a child I had a severe stutter. I call it severe. I didn’t know anyone else who stuttered like I did. Sure, nearly everyone gets stuck on a syllable at times — wh wh what did you mean? — For me, my stutter was like a verbal seizure. It would come unexpectedly, and I couldn’t predict when it would strike. It would just happen. It happened a lot, and when it happened, it was like I was stuck in an echo chamber, with just one syllable capable of leaving my lips. M-m-m-m-m-m-m-m *breathe* m-m-m-m-m-m- igotothebathroom? The words would come out as unexpectedly as they would seize. For me, speaking was not a means to express, but a means to exclude. I simply did not have the confidence to say what I wanted to, when I wanted to. It wasn’t there.

I couldn’t calm down. Starting over wasn’t an option. It was a compulsion, something I had to do — something I couldn’t not do. Was it psychological? Sure, probably. But that didn’t make it any less real. It was incredibly frustrating. Frustrating to the point where I, decades removed, feel my chest tighten and blood pressure rise when I read the accounts of others who stuttered. Watching The Kings Speech was an extremely stressful experience for me.

Because of this, social interaction was a very tricky business. Being a child, my foremost concern was not to stutter in front of my friends and classmates at school. How could I do this? By not talking. I wouldn’t speak unless spoken to, and when I did speak, it was a short answer. I’m 30 years old and just now realizing the degree to which this retarded my social development as a young man.

Stuttering had an awful sibling, too. I really don’t know how to describe it, but the best way to describe it is that a cat literally had my tongue. Instead of being stuck on a sound, I would instead be totally incapable of making a sound. Again, seemingly at random. It wasn’t when I was tired, or angry, or stressed, or whatever. It just happened. Imagine for a moment saying the word “imagine.” Pretty easy. Ah-maj-in. Yet, when this would happen, it was impossible to utter that sound, in this case, the “ah” of imagine. This wasn’t a big a problem as it might seem, however. It actually did beneficial things for me. First, it caused me to think quickly — damnit, imagine is gone, what can I say? Well, I can say think, ponder, thought, elucidate, suppose and so on. The second aspect is that it developed my vocabulary. So what if I couldn’t say walk? I’d say mosey, or stroll, or stride, or travel. You might be imagining someone stuck on a sound, gasping like a fish. This thankfully didn’t happen; it was basically invisible to those near me, and they would only know when I told them.

As a parent, something I have learned is that kids just want to be like other kids. My daughter didn’t go to day care and was only around other kids in arranged situations before school. As such, she developed nearly completely independently of other sources of influence, beyond her immediate family and her own predictions. She goes to school and isn’t like the other kids. So what, I say? I wasn’t like the other kids. What later became a source of strength, was, for much of my childhood, a source of weakness — how can you explain to a five year old that they’re who they are and they’re perfect? You can say it, sure, but the rubber meets the road in a whole different manner when they’re in a room with 20 of their peers and no parents hovering nearby. So I saw my daughter change as a result of this exposure. It made me a little sad to see the effects of peer pressure, even in five year olds — babies, most of them one year removed from diapers — but it was the natural course of things.

As a five year old and older, I had all of these same pressures. However, I was basically shut away from them, hermetically sealed in my inability to speak. What did that do to me? What kind of man would I be today, had I been able to develop normally as a child? Would I suffer from failed expectations, depression, and weight? Or would I lack something I gained in the trade — perhaps my chutzpah would be replaced with a meekness. Perhaps my quick mind would be replaced with one stuck in habits and closed to new ideas.

Or, perhaps, I’d be a better, more successful version of myself. I don’t know, and it doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t matter because this is done. We are all a collection of our experiences and these are mine.