The Girl They Called Quiet

Everly fiddled with her hands. She sat perched on the edge of her seat, hunched into herself, her arms held tight to her body. She glanced around the room cautiously, at the fake vines circling the top of the desk and drooping over the paintings framed on the wall, to the stripe-patterned chair across from her with creases in the fabric cover, to the dusty white blinds blocking the street outside from view.

“Everly.” Her eyes were drawn to the woman sitting across from her, a small plump lady with hair drawn back tight into a bun and frown-lined lips. “Have you always had this much trouble talking?”

Everly nodded.

This was her third session with Doctor Shadker and she still hadn’t managed to say more than four sentences in all the sessions combined.

“And why do you think that is?” Doctor Shadker asked, her voice firm but gentle.

Everly shrugged and her mind strayed back to her memories, to third grade, to the moment that was stuck in her head even four years after it happened.

“Come on, talk to us.” Jacob had jibed.

“Yeah, just say something.” Terrence taunted.

Leo said nothing, but he leaned forward in his chair, arms crossed on the wooden surface of his desk, his lips curled up into a teasing smile.

Everly’s hands gripped one another tightly, her teeth clenched behind tight-pressed lips.

“You can talk, can’t you?” Jacob sneered.

Terrence laughed and rolled his eyes.

“I bet she thinks she’s better than us. Isn’t that right, Everly? Think you’re better than us, huh?”

Everly sat tense in her chair, staring at the surface of her desk. The edges of her nametag curled up at the ends, dust and dirt turning the clear tape a musty grey.

“Just say one word. Come on, you can do it.” Jacob grinned.

Everly wanted to scream.

But she couldn’t.

She didn’t know why she was different, or what exactly was wrong with her. Everyone just called her shy, but it was more than that. She loved talking, and she rambled on and on at home. Her parents had even started calling her the chatterbox. She had so much to say all the time, questions and answers and little tidbits of information no one asked for. But at school, around people she didn’t know well, in public, her lips were sealed. She tried to speak, but every time a lump formed in her throat so thick and tight no words could slip out. Her gut would twist, and a pit would form in her stomach and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t say a single word.

Her lips quivered and her hands shook, and she tapped her foot against the floor. Helplessness swirled inside of her chest and squeezed her beating heart tight in its fist. She wanted to yell at those boys, to scream and shout and tell them to just shut up, but she stayed stiff in her chair, head bowed, fingers curled into little balls.

“Cat got your tongue, huh?” Leo spoke up. “Can’t even say hi?”

Everly bit her lip and clawed her nails into her palms.

She felt powerless and completely defenseless. They weren’t throwing insults at her, but it felt just the same as if they were. She felt attacked and she couldn’t do anything to stop it. She couldn’t stand up for herself, couldn’t save herself, couldn’t do anything at all.

She felt trapped.

She remembered that day like it was yesterday.

They’d all told her it would get better, that she would grow out of it, but she never did, and it only got worse. She struggled to make friends, couldn’t answer questions in class, couldn’t order at restaurants or talk to cashiers. She couldn’t go out anywhere alone.

She was trapped in the flesh of her own body, a prisoner to the whims of her own mind, betrayed by her own body, and there was nothing she could do about it.

The psychiatrist set down her notes and lifted her gentle gaze to Everly’s.

“Everly,” She said, her voice low and soft, “have you ever heard of selective mutism?”

Everly shook her head, and Doctor Shadker began to explain.

“Selective mutism is a very severe anxiety disorder. It makes it very difficult to speak in select situations, like at school or with strangers. I believe that’s why you have so much trouble speaking. It’s out of your control, and it isn’t your fault, but the good news is that there is treatment, and you can overcome this.”

Everly looked down at her hands. Her heart was pounding so fast, thoughts racing through her heads, sweat dripping down the back of her neck. Her head was reeling.

All this time, all these years, that’s what was wrong with her, that’s what made her so different. It wasn’t just a personality trait. She wasn’t just shy. She had an anxiety disorder.

Everything suddenly made so much more sense.

It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t who she was. It didn’t have to define her.

Doctor Shadker gave her a recommendation for a therapist who could help her, and Everly left the office that day with a lot of thoughts on her mind.

A part of her was scared, terrified really, of change, of losing her silence. In some kind of twisted way, she felt that the quiet protected her, and that was a hard concept to let go of. But Everly was determined to try.

She didn’t want to be the girl they called quiet anymore.