When I was little I stopped talking.
I was about 7 and l lost my voice.
Not physically, there was no medical reason, no virus, disease or diagnosable cause.
I could still speak when I was with a few people but for the majority of the time I was silent.
It began with a stammer, difficulty in saying words beginning with W, a tightening in my chest when I needed to talk, feeling like my throat had collapsed. Feeling unable to speak, not unwilling.
I went to a speech therapist. I remember her to this day. A hippie. Flower print clothes and a scent reminiscent of pine trees. She gradually brought my voice back, in parts, over more than a year. I recall, happily, us going to the riverside near the health centre for a walk. I played with sticks and branches, skimming pebbles in the river. I named the flowers and colours without at first realising I’d said anything.
My speech was back, through play and relaxed safe space rather than lessons or instruction.
It remained fragmented, unbalanced for years. Sometimes l’d chat freely and other times I felt that tightness return. For hours or days at a time the loss of speech would return.
When I was 13 I had drama based elocution lessons, reciting poems and verses from plays. I thought it was to dilute by Borders accent but in truth l’d returned to a limited vocabulary and periods of vocal freeze.
During adulthood I learned to manage my fear of talking with both disconnect and uncontrollable release. I learned to alter my words according to the safety I felt, to bargain and trade my silence for warmth.
Abuse robs you of your voice.
Grooming silences.
Being bought, sold and exploited twists your words into pleas and trades.
Sometimes I guess I thought what’s the point in saying anything. Sometimes I remembered the repercussions of speech. I hadn’t screamed in many many years, only able to shout when anger broke my control. Crying became silent. It still is.
Talking could be dangerous. It brought visibility. It brought shame. It brought guilt. It forced answers I couldn’t give.
There were years of chatter of course, in jobs and colleges, to passers by. With family, friends. Partners. With punters and clients. With my abusers.
But deep inside the truth of me remained silent.
Always held back.
Made younger or older in tone and language depending on environment and safety, depending on fear or shame.
I knew the risk or speech and feared its power.
At the age of 50 I let go, bit by bit, word by word. Testing waters and asking questions I’d buried for years. Chat became smoother. The foot came off the breaks.
At 51 my voice came back, it came home. Finally able to begin trusting myself and the people around me, trusting my footing, trusting my words. Feeling safer being seen and heard.
It’s still something I battle. The pull in my throat and heart to return to silence, the prodding of a stammer that would make my body feel familiar when I felt lost. The sharpness of breath before saying the first word. Even a hello. But the battles are fewer than before. They pass quicker. The pain isn’t as intense. The shame and fear have been diluted by trust and safety.
By writing I’ve found a way. A way through the blockages and tightness. It acts as a warm up to talking, builds structure and tests my own sense of freedom. I used to love writing stories and poems as a child, that love of words has returned now that it’s safe. My little blogs and rambles of passing thoughts are building blocks, reminders of what I thought I’d lost forever.
Coming home to me has meant finding my voice and vice versa.