You know that feeling when a chunk of food gets stuck in your throat or when you swallow ice? When your tea is too hot. That throat infection you got as a kid when even juice hurt.
That’s how talking felt.
I didn’t speak for a while when I was a child. It wasn’t that I couldn’t physically, I didn’t know the words anymore, the pain was too sharp, it made my breathing erratic, hurt my eyes.
I could only speak when it was just me and my mum together or very trusted friends. With anyone else, when I was anywhere near my abusers or someone who could become that, or someone who could never be allowed to know; my throat shut down, my words jumbled and tightened until nothing made sense, my chest hurt. So in most environments I stopped speaking.
I remember being shocked that my speech therapist didn’t own a television. I was around 7 or 8 and I couldn’t comprehend how someone could survive without tv. That was the very first question I asked her. She spent the next few months showing me the real life tv right outside the door, the park, the riverside, walks through trees and along quiet roads. In time my throat relaxed and the words fell into place.
Years later during a period of repeating terrors, repeated assaults, continuous abuse in my youth and through adulthood I remember other times when the terror took my voice.
When I tried to scream,
but nothing came out.
When I wanted to shout but my throat tightened so much I could barely breathe.
When the words I could utter were either jumbled, broken or dancing between sentences and meanings.
When the words needed to be planned well in advance, scripted to distract people from the truth I truly wanted to say.
Experiences of physical abuse and violence, of exploitation, grooming, sexual abuse and rape.
Experiences of needing to hide that life from others including loved ones to keep myself and them safe.
Experiences of juggling lives to keep the truth camouflaged, using the words I could say to paint the picture people wanted to see.
Speaking hurt for a long time.
What I fear from letting myself cry to this day is the noise. I can’t scream.
Some days the words still get jumbled.
But they are my words now and I can say them. Without that pain, with lessening shame.
They are my words, spoken through choice, through purpose and with hope.
My voice was stolen for decades in different ways. Bit by bit I’m taking it back.
Through writing, speaking, drawing. Through gardening and letting myself cook meals to enjoy again, through feeling free to message, to chat, to go unscripted.
Through removing the performance and breathing in authenticity, my voice is coming back.
Through realising why I couldn’t talk or scream or cry, why I couldn’t explain anymore I have released the grip, the hold.
Through recognising who’s voices were feeding my thoughts I am taking back the control they stole.
Through reconnecting with myself and being gentle with the “numb” I am finding the words.
There is a way through the silence.