The girl who doesn't talk

The first time it happened, I was very young. I had just started grade one and I had arrived late to school that morning and found myself standing in the corridor outside the activity room - a teacher either side of me. The junior school assembly had begun and I was meant to be in there, singing ‘Waltzing Matilda’ with the rest of my class. But I was here, my feet glued to the grey linoleum floor, staring straight ahead like a startled rabbit. The teachers were asking me how I had arrived at school and the more they probed, the more I shut down. I was literally frozen with fear, my words were trapped beneath a painful lump in my throat. ‘You must have got here somehow’, one of the teachers said, ‘did you fly here?’ Suddenly I felt her hand on me, turning my stiff little body. Peering around at my back she said, ‘I can't see any wings. Can you see any wings Miss ‘so and so?’ ‘Nope no wings’, replied the other teacher, glancing at my back. I can’t recall what happened after that nor do I recall why I was late that day. What I do remember clearly is the sensation of being completely incapacitated in that moment. I was experiencing a condition called selective mutism (SM) - an acute anxiety response that paralyses the vocal cords, occurring in select situations (typically at school).

While I was a very chatty and animated kid at home, at school I was different - quiet and withdrawn. I’m not sure why this was the case. I suspect it's a combination of things. I’m convinced that my highly sensitive nature played a major role. Regardless, from the time I started school, I developed anxiety that often overwhelmed me and evidently manifested as SM. Unfortunately, as a kid of the seventies and eighties, awareness of SM was essentially non-existent. Consequently my SM was dismissed as shyness and remained undiagnosed and untreated for the duration of my schooling experience.

Although I wasn’t constantly mute at school, my talking was minimal. I talked to my best friend, Mari but when other kids joined us, I became withdrawn and quiet. I talked in class but only when necessary, in response to a question for example - provided it required a one word answer. I could recite times tables - provided the whole class was reciting in unison. I could even read aloud - provided the reading was prescribed. Although I was sick with nerves as my turn approached to read a paragraph during shared reading tasks, I managed it. What I struggled with was any task that required me to use my own words, my own ‘voice’. Despite desperately wanting to share, participate and engage with my peers, the fear of doing so prevented this. Sharing morning news was terrifying, calling for the ball during team sports was almost impossible and I generally remained silent during open forum discussions and group activities. I didn’t cope well with any deviance from the routine. The prospect of attending sports days often overwhelmed me to the point of feigning illness in order to avoid them. School camps were another major dilemma. Even daily recess and lunch times with their many variables proved challenging. When Mari, my rock (and my voice) was away, I was lost.

Despite the challenges, there was much about school that I loved. I loved the familiar structure of the school day, the classroom routine. I loved bonding with Mari and I loved learning. I loved solving math problems, I loved learning about nature and the world and I enjoyed activities where I was able to express myself creatively and non verbally. Art provided a prime opportunity for this. I even enjoyed the social realm to a degree. Although I struggled to connect with my peers verbally, I enjoyed interacting with them in my own way. I ‘talked’ with my eyes, my body, my facial expressions. I listened, I empathised, and I laughed at their jokes (inaudibly). I communicated with them non verbally and I felt I was able to connect with them in this way. I felt accepted and a part of the whole, one of them. Then one day that sense of belonging crumbled.

One sunny afternoon in grade five I stood in the shade with the rest of my class waiting for Mr Peters to return from the staff room to let us into the classroom. I was all set for an afternoon of learning - happy, relaxed and unsuspecting. Then, as if out of nowhere, a kid called Troy asked me, ‘Why don’t you talk?’. The words stunned me for a moment. Then I rolled my eyes and smiled - a defensive response. I was attempting to dismiss the question, reject it and pretend it had slid off me like water off a duck’s back. But suddenly I was aware of the eyes of the entire class on me and my lips started twitching and my smile broke. The spotlight was on me and the words hung in the air between us - big and bold. A cold, sharp sensation rose from my chest to my throat and my whole body became stiff. I was aware of Mari, defending me as usual, as I stared straight ahead into space fighting back the tears stinging my eyes. I felt as though I had been slapped in the face and I was frozen, unable to move an inch, just as I had been in grade one.

I felt hurt and betrayed. I had wrongly assumed that my peers accepted me as I was. I was confused and displaced. I felt as though the rug had been pulled out from under me. My sense of security ripped away. As I tried to digest what had happened in the days and weeks that followed, I began searching for answers. At first I was confused. Why was I the only one with this label? Was I really worse than the other shy kids? I became increasingly observant. I watched shy kids closely and I began to see patterns. Shy kids would typically warm up after a while, start talking more. They would talk quietly, blush bright red when sharing news out the front of class, but they talked. They talked not only in one word answers. They talked not only when they were spoken to. They chatted to lots of different kids, not just one. They were different to me. I was in a class of my own, a freak, much worse than them, much more than shy. There was clearly something very wrong with me. By the end of that year, I had arrived at the tragic conclusion that I was simply, somehow, innately defective.

With my label as ‘the girl who doesn’t talk’, I felt I had no choice but to conduct myself with that identity. My home and school personas became more distinct. I splintered off into my two separate identities and I maintained them with fierce hyper vigilance. I was determined to at least not be viewed as a fraud. Accordingly, I exercised extreme caution in many situations. I adopted a set of rules, which guided me. I had to keep my wits about me when out and about. I couldn’t just talk unless I was sure no one from my class was within earshot. You never knew who may be lurking nearby at the shopping mall. When my younger sisters brought friends home, this was usually fine. I could talk, because they were not in my class or year and so they didn't know I was 'the girl who doesn't talk' and so I could just be me. However, it could get complex. If they had a sibling who was in my class, I would need to consider very carefully which way to go. I was safer to just be quiet. I recall an outing once with Sara, a family friend who was my age. I was having a good time, talking fine. Then a girl called Natasha from my class who knew Sara, bumped into us. I was suddenly unsure of how to be. If I continued to be my talking self I would shock Natahsa and if I suddenly became silent, Sara would think I had just gone completely weird. It was all too hard so I opted out of the situation and had mum collect me, blaming the onset of severe hayfever.

I couldn’t express my struggles to my parents either. I was ashamed. I knew there was something very wrong with me and I was afraid to share that with them. When it came to handing over my report card to them, I always felt a sense of dread. Most kids dread giving their parents report cards where their grades aren’t up to scratch or they have misbehaved. For me it was simply that I knew that one word would be in there every time - ‘quiet’. ‘Jania is too quiet in class’, the comments would say. ‘Jania needs to speak up in class’. It was always the same. Term after term, year after year. I couldn’t bear the thought of watching the inevitable mixture of disappointment and concern develop on my parents' face as their eyes landed on those words. Occasionally my parents would question if there was a reason I didn’t speak up. I tended to reassure them somehow that there was no cause for concern and they continued to attribute it to my shy nature. But, just as I kept my talkative/home self from my school peers, I kept my school/silent self from my parents. They had no idea just how bad things were. Until one day.

It was parent teacher interview night in grade six and as mum chatted to Miss Knight I sat at my desk pretending to focus on the worksheet I was colouring. I listened intently, waiting for the bombshell, and then it came. At the time I was horrified that Miss Knight actually ‘outed’ me. ‘Yes, I was a shy child too’, mum had said. ‘But Jania is very quiet’, came Miss Knight’s reply. I felt betrayed by Miss Knight and the next day mum confronted me. ‘Why are you so quiet at school?’ she asked. I shrugged, irritated. What could I say? I honestly had no idea. I was more perplexed about it than anyone. In an attempt to offer comfort, Mum described her own shyness as a kid. But she didn’t get it. No one did. It was more than that. There was something seriously wrong with me and in those days, the mere idea of having a psychiatric dysfunction was incredibly stigmatised. Proposing to my parents that I might need to be ‘assessed’ was inconceivable. We chatted some more and at some point, I admitted to mum that ‘I couldn’t just change now suddenly’. Her response was, ‘of course you can. Shock them’. I now not only felt that I had this weird problem, but also that it was easily fixed and yet I lacked the capacity to fix it. My confidence plummeted.

My desperate need to escape the situation had me fantasizing about a silent school - where the golden rule was no talking. I would be like everyone else at silent school. But it was just a fantasy. So I continued on, maintaining my two personas and muddled through my school days. By grade seven, I had settled in and felt that my peers accepted me. We were all a little older, a little more mature and considerate and perhaps that's why they no longer commented on my quietness. I was thankful that the spotlight had turned to my drawing talent rather than my (lack of) talking. I liked that eyes were drawn to the paper I was drawing on rather than looking at me.Mari moved away half way through the year and I was devastated. I felt abandoned and I was in a predicament. I couldn’t suddenly befriend the girls in my class after all this time avoiding them. So, I kept my distance emotionally and endured the rest of the year, my focus turning to high school. I was determined to leave my label behind me and start off as a talker.

High school began and straight away I noted a few advantages. There were new faces, a new routine and movement between classes. With a new selection of kids I slowly began making connections. A whole new world of possibilities opened up and I developed a love of French language. French class not only provided me a platform from which to use my voice regularly, I discovered that I had a talent for it. My pronunciation was good and the praise I received from my teacher boosted my confidence. I befriended a girl who sat next to me in French and we bonded over an aquatics camp in term three. It was my first tear free camp ever.

There were still awkward moments of course. Home group was a challenge. It was an informal gathering at the beginning of each day (not my forte) and in some classes I was reserved but generally I managed to navigate my first year pretty well, settle in and enjoy school. I was no longer ‘the girl who doesn’t talk’, I was simply, ‘quiet’ - and I was okay with that!

Five years ago, at age forty five, I discovered the term ‘selective mutism’ for the first time. As I learned about the condition, my childhood began to make sense. I discovered that writing about my experiences helps me to better understand myself and better express myself. I now write a blog (link below) about my childhood experiences with SM and my adult experiences with social anxiety. My hope is that in sharing my experiences I am able to help others who experience SM to feel less alone.

https://diaryofaselectivemute.wordpress.com/

More information on selective mutism can be found here:

http://www.selectivemutism.org.uk/