The moment between taking my seat and the teacher taking attendance never got less anxious. When my name was finally called, occasionally I’d violently stutter a hyperventilating, coughing “h-h-h-he-he-here” that would usually attract smirks and giggles from classmates, or worse, no response from them at all. Other times, I was perfectly proficient. But the anticipation always killed me. There was never any way of guessing how I’d do. That’s what’s crucial to note about stuttering: The actual incidence of it is unpleasant enough, but the fear it produces in you is considerably worse.
I was an attention-seeking, showoff-y youngster. My sister thinks she could never get me to shut up. Mom never grew tired of hearing me repeat the alphabet backwards, read Dr. Seuss books aloud, repeat Kevin Spacey’s opening scene in A Bug’s Life, etc. I fixated on dinosaurs, beetles, lions, hyenas, trucks, Star Wars. I’d watch or read something, memorize it, then repeat it aloud for others to hear. In a word, I was talkative.
And, if I remember rightly, I believe I performed all this talking with perfectly good fluency. Sure, I’d fumble on a sentence or let my thinking go faster than my mouth every so often, but no more than the ordinary kid. I was confident. I would say I felt I had power, but does the thought even occur to a 6-year-old? I didn’t think of talking. I just done it.
This persisted until 5th grade. One day in social studies class, we were reading a chapter from our textbooks aloud. Something about Theodore Roosevelt, I guess. I sat in the middle of the classroom, maybe three rows back. One student would read a paragraph, then the one sitting behind them would continue. When they arrived to the rear of the class, the next column of pupils started. Watching this chain of readers move closer to me almost made me shudder. Eventually, my turn came. The final paragraph, and a large one at that. I read it. I don’t remember stuttering, but it was the first time I recall being uncomfortable, if not scared, of speaking.
The first time I stuttered loud and clear in front of others (I remember it with excruciating clarity even these 10 years afterwards) was in 6th grade social studies. Same teacher, same task, with one alteration: instead of deciding reading order by who sat there, our teacher picked randomness: The names of everyone in the class were written on popsicle sticks, all put in a cup on her front podium. She would choose one out, that person would read. At least last year I had time to brood and psych myself up for my turn. Now it may come at any time.
My name was drawn. I started reading. All went smoothly for the first couple phrases. Then I struck a roadblock. I remember the word: “government.” I couldn’t seem to push past the “g.” G-g-guh-guh-g-g-g-guh. Finally getting the word out brought an euphoric sensation of satisfaction, of achieving a tough task, but this was swiftly dimmed by the chuckles thrown at me. Even my best friend at the time joined in. They stopped finally. The teacher did nothing. The next person read.
This single embarrassing experience that lasted maybe 10 seconds defined my state of mind in school for the next seven years. My number one priority was to protect others from hearing my stammer. A smart strategy to refrain from stuttering is to not talk much. I spent most courses meek, well-behaved, and silent. I maintained in my close group of pals from elementary school and made only one or two new ones. Girls simply didn’t factor in. The concept of going on a date, let alone having a girlfriend, seemed so strange, so blatant in its implausibility. After-school activities were nonexistent. I saw my buddies during the school day, not at all after 3:30. Another fantastic strategy to not stammer is to spend a lot of time alone.
Being a shadow could be enjoyable. I wouldn’t utter a thing all school-year until a wonderful moment would present itself. I’d crack a joke or make an intelligent observation, and everyone would turn around with a look of “where the heck has this guy been?” Of course, anything I said or kept to myself hinged solely on if I believed I would stutter expressing it. It’s hard to convey how solitary this felt.
There are advantages, believe it or not. My vocabulary grew as I sought for synonyms when I had a suspicion I’d trip up on a more frequent word. I started thinking a few sentences ahead in conversation, anticipating tough words and phrases and strategizing on how to manage. My empathy for folks with depression, OCD, ADHD, anxiety, anyone whose suffering is invisible but there, increased.
But alas, the unavoidable bottom line: nothing has caused me more unnecessary stress and frustration than stuttering. For every retort, joke, compliment, or observation I managed to get out, there are many others I held onto. There are so many things I haven’t said. There is so much I hid.
Things are improving. After high school, they had to, right? I write for the student newspaper. I started attending speech therapy. I’m dating a communication disorders major. And I still stutter. It comes simple, clear, comfortable, as much so as a blink or a cough. I don’t hide it. It’s just something I do. It’s me.