Voiceless

This little blue pikmin has a mouth to speak but nothing to say. He is going nonverbal, perhaps able to speak but refusing to do so. Instead, he stands slumped and passive in his blurry videogame world, waiting to be commanded into action.

“Going nonverbal” is used on the internet to describe an instance of intentional or unintentional silence due to social fatigue, drug use or anxiety, but usually in a humorous, self-depreciating manner, in contrast to the real, clinical use of the term. In this context, it is the feeling of stepping back from the world of verbal interactions and becoming an observer because it is all too much. You need a break from being human.

I’ve grown up with a stutter, which has varied in severity from a nuisance to debilitatingly embarrassing. I know what it feels like to stand on a stage, knees shaking, as I desperately try to just get the fucking words out, but find myself seized up. The words that come effortlessly when the pressure is off desert me in the spotlight, and I feel that red-flush of shame burning on my cheeks. The only sound was my guttural stuttering as the crowd watched in silence.

In new groups, the people’s eyes sparkle with confusion or amusement as I stutter over my name. Some people have laughed at me, some have asked me if I’ve forgotten it as I go “um, um, um”, trying to say “Isaac”. I struggle to meet their eyes and mumble that I have a stutter, embarrassment prickling in my cheeks at the bad first-impression.

And, I know what it is like to go nonverbal, like this silly little pikmin, but for me, it has been shameful. It has been defeat. It has been a condition of demotion to an automaton or an animal; a dumb fucking rabbit sitting at the lunch table at work with nothing to say. No retort for the banter. Better to be the butt of the joke than embarrass myself with a stuttered reply.

I have been unable to confidently communicate. Unable to express myself without fear of embarrassment. Unable to make myself understood by the people around me. I’ve felt less than human.

In recent years I have been better. I do the things I need to do so my stutter is the best it can be, but it will never just be gone. A time will never come when I am not mindful of it, where it does not, to some degree, shape the things I say and do not say. Now, I refuse to let it take away my voice, but I wish more people understood what it feels like to be voiceless.