I was twelve, and I couldn't speak. My body refused to speak. I was twelve, and I didn't know the sound of my own voice. No sound escaped me, not even a whisper, as though my very essence had been swallowed by the silence.
I wasn't dumb. I understood perfectly well. I could read the books, write the words, and comprehend the instructions with ease. My mind was sharp, quick, alive with thoughts that flowed seamlessly into understanding.
But understanding wasn't the problem. It never was.
I could dissect sentences, unravel their meaning, and rearrange them into something even more precise. I could see the world in its intricate patterns, absorbing its complexities like a sponge. But when it came to speaking, to forming the words that would bridge the gap between my mind and theirs, I froze.
It wasn't a lack of intelligence—it was something deeper, something heavier. A weight that pressed down on me, smothering the words before they could leave my lips. My silence wasn't ignorance. It was a prison.
The irony of it stung. I could articulate everything in my head, a symphony of ideas, clear and vivid. Yet, I could only offer silence to the world—a silence they mistook for simplicity, for weakness, for a lack of comprehension.
I wasn't dumb. I knew exactly what they wanted from me. I just couldn't give it to them.
I just couldn't speak.
Speaking felt like tearing open a wound that had barely begun to heal, like exposing the softest, most fragile parts of myself to a world that thrived on judgment. Every word lodged itself in my throat, jagged and sharp, scraping against the walls of my silence.
It wasn't just the act of forming words—it was the weight of being heard, of being seen, of giving others a key to unlock what I had worked so hard to keep hidden. It felt like surrender, like peeling away the last layer of armor protecting me from a world that already demanded too much.
My muteness wasn't a choice, not entirely. It was a state of being, a quiet existence where my voice became the price of survival. People thought it was passive, that I was simply shy or stubborn. But the truth was, it was exhausting—this constant, silent fight within myself. My thoughts were vibrant, screaming, alive, yet the chasm between my mind and my tongue was insurmountable.
