October 21, 2013
I feel as though I’ve forgotten how to speak. As though my voice has disappeared. My thoughts are all jumbled together. Like a ball of yarn, I know if I can just find the end, I should be able to pull a continuous thread. But some balls of yarn get tangled, and it takes time to undo the knots so the yarn will pull freely. My voice is one of these tangled balls of yarn.
But you’re reading this. You’re thinking that I’m making this up. You’re thinking it can’t be true. But this is writing. I can still write. My thoughts and my fingers work together just fine. It’s when my thoughts reach my throat. When they have to coordinate with my lungs and my vocal cords, my teeth and my tongue. When I try to speak, I feel as though all of these words that I know simply float away. My vocabulary diminishes to stock phrases. “I’m okay.” “I’m hanging in there.” “I don’t know.”
Email, text message. I can communicate just fine. But, no, I don’t want to speak on the phone. I’ve forgotten how to speak.