When I Couldn't Talk: A True Story

Part 5

Sometimes I would say to myself, "I'll make myself talk. I'll force myself." But then I couldn't. 

I had to figure out why I couldn't speak. 

When I was around 19 to 20, I started to figure it out, and this is what it was: oversensitivity to embarrassment. 

I was so sensitive to embarrassment that every day, all day, every embarrassing situation I had ever been in would pop into my head. I couldn't stop dwelling on every little thing, and I couldn't feel better about things that had happened years ago. And even silly things were embarrassing - it was embarrassing to carry more than two books at a time, so if I had homework in more than two subjects I wouldn't take all my books home and wouldn't do all my homework. It was embarrassing not to carry any books, so if I didn't have homework I would take two books home anyway. It was embarrassing to get 100% on a test, so if I thought I was going to get 100%, I would purposely get a few answers wrong. It was embarrassing to wear sunglasses. It was embarrassing to wear a jacket or a coat, so I wouldn't wear a coat even if it was zero degrees outside. It was embarrassing to go on vacation and carry a suitcase. It was embarrassing to wear headphones. It was embarrassing to make eye contact with someone in a mirror. It was embarrassing to look out a window. It was embarrassing to push a shopping cart at a grocery store. Desks that were made of one piece of wood, so that the seat was connected to the desk, were embarrassing. Desks that had a separate chair that pulled out were embarrassing, but not as embarrassing. If a teacher said "clear your desks," it was embarrassing to put my books and purse under my desk. It was embarrassing to go up or down stairs holding onto the rail. Escalators and elevators were embarrassing. It was embarrassing to walk. 

It's like I thought of embarrassment as my identity. Embarrassment was who I was. 

I was afraid to say anything, because I might say the wrong thing, and then I'd have to live with that horrible feeling of embarrassment. 

***

But then I realized: my problem wasn't that I kept doing stupid things and embarrassing myself. My problem was that I thought every little thing I had ever said or done was embarrassing. 

***

Not being able to talk was really a result of extreme self-loathing. I absolutely hated myself. I thought I was the most disgusting thing in the world. 

And it wasn't just that I couldn't talk. That was only the most obvious aspect of it. I was afraid to say anything, but I was also afraid to do anything. 

Sometimes I would start to do something, like get up from my chair in the cafeteria, and then think, "Oh no, I shouldn't do that, that's stupid," and immediately sit back down. Then someone would laugh, like, "Why did you get up and sit back down again?" And it would fall into that long, long list of "embarrassing things I've done." I would start to put my purse on my shoulder, then think, "I shouldn't do that," and it would look like I'd stuck my arm out to my side for no reason. I might start to walk across a room, take a few steps and think, "Oh no, don't do that," and go back to where I'd been standing. Or, I'd just freeze, and not be able to move at all. 

It was also embarrassing to have any expressions on my face. It was embarrassing to look happy, or sad, or angry, or surprised, or tired. A guy in middle school always called me "stone face." I thought I had to keep my face from changing; I thought I couldn't show any emotions. 

***

The cure for not being able to talk was to learn to love myself, to stop thinking that everything I'd ever done was stupid and wrong, to value the things I had to say. 

***

Sometimes I would think: "Everything I have ever done is stupid and wrong, so starting right now I'll be perfect." But then I would inevitably make another mistake. 

I had to accept my imperfections, accept that I'm not perfect and never will be. Truly loving yourself doesn't mean only loving yourself if you do the right thing. It means loving yourself unconditionally, just like you'd love your own child unconditionally. And people who are outgoing and confident aren't perfect. They also make mistakes. It just doesn't bother them as much when they do. 

***

Then I went through another phase of believing: "I can never think of anything to say." But it wasn't that I couldn't think of anything. I was constantly thinking. It was that every time I would think of something I would tell myself, "Oh no, don't say that. It's stupid, don't say it." I had to stop feeling like every thought I had was the wrong thing to say. 

***

I used to think, "What if I just started talking a lot? What if I went to school tomorrow and just talked? 

"But I can't start talking now! Everyone already thinks I never talk. Everyone always says, 'Why are you always so quiet? Why don't you ever talk?' I can't start talking now. It's too late!"

But let's say I started talking one day. Let's say people were shocked. They couldn't believe I really spoke. That might be an awkward phase to go through, but getting through that phase would be better - much better, extremely better - than spending the entire school year not being able to say anything. 

If I started talking, and someone seemed shocked and commented on it, I could have just said something like, "Well, I've always been shy and I'm trying to become more outgoing and talkative." That might have been enough to explain what I was going through and dispel all the awkwardness. 

***

Let's say one Monday I was able to talk a lot. Then let's say that Tuesday my Selective Mutism returned and I spent the day not talking. It really would be okay to go back to talking a lot on Wednesday. It wouldn't mean I had to spend the entire rest of the year not talking.

***

If I could go back in time and talk to my 14-year-old self, I guess I would say, "This won't be your entire life. Yes, you will be able to talk to people. You will be able to answer the phone. You will be able to go shopping and ask a salesperson a question. You will be able to make friends."