A Serious Post About Stuttering

Serious post about stuttering.

First, if you’re laughing with Trump at Biden’s stammer, unfriend me now then solidly go fuck yourself.

Second, I’m not looking for the “care” reaction or anyone to tell me they love me or other touchy feelie stuff. This is an honest post about the effects of a common disability.

Third, many of you reading this have known me for decades. I’m comfortable being an idiot around you, and I’m guessing you probably remember my eye color before remembering I stutter. And that is why I love you all.

Stuttering has deeply and profoundly affected who I am. I’m a quiet guy—not because I don’t have anything to say—but because, from a young age, I knew I couldn’t trust my voice. Sometimes simple words like “the” trip me up. Just yesterday, I skirted around the word “capillary” because I could feel the block. The person I was talking to noticed, gave me the word, and I felt like I was faced with the choice: Look stupid for “not knowing the word” or admit to my stutter and tell them I circumnavigate certain words?

Language is one of our most powerful tools, and mine is broken and unreliable. It’s a tool most people never give a second thought too. They just … talk. They talk as easily as lifting a finger or taking a breath. I’m approaching five decades in this world, and I still find myself closing my eyes, thinking about how to move tongue and lips, sounding a word out like a five year old.

It has been the cause of deep resentment and anger. Sales clerks and wait staff have “offered” words when I get stuck, and out desperation and embarrassment, I’ve nodded my head—even if it wasn’t the size I was looking for or the food I wanted to order. Teachers, after asking me to read out loud, have sounded out the word “the” because it would stick on the tongue. Imagine being ten and having a teacher help you on the word “the” in front of your peers. And I’ve lashed out as loved ones for trying to fill in the “blank” when I get stuck, or steamrolling over what I’m trying to say. Cursedly, my mouth and tongue are all too fluid when pissed off.

As a pre-teen and teen, an unreliable tongue kept me quiet. There was some bullying when I was a kid. I stopped talking if I didn’t have to. The fear of opening my mouth fed into isolation and loneliness. But being alone at least meant I didn’t have to talk. That contributed to a deep depression for most of my teens, along with routine suicidal ideation.

My stutter hasn’t been much of an issue for years, but it’s a scar that still itches. Opening my mouth in front of strangers can still be challenging, though. I have to rehearse the words sometimes. I can navigate the world with coping mechanisms, like “easing” into certain sounds or slight mispronunciations. But I know it still colors my personality and how I’m often perceived as cool or aloof.