Make Room For The Stuttering

Have you ever thought you were a failure? Do you ever compare your self to the lofty standards that society seems to adhere to?

It’s all around us, this incredible drive to be the best, look the best, have lots of money, drive a nice car, send our kids to the best schools, and excel at work. We know it’s hard for young people to fit in, to not cave to the demands of peer pressure. What about adults? Do adults feel the same pressures? And what happens when you spend your time striving for perfection?

When I was little, my father demanded perfection from his kids. Being the oldest of six, I always felt that pressure to succeed, excel, to take care of things, to be the perfect little adult. But I wasn’t perfect, and I wasn’t an adult was a kid who stuttered, and that embarrassed my father. He too was driven to seek perfection. He didn’t tolerate flaws, just like his own father had not. He was one of 13 children, and he competed for attention in his family. In his eyes, having a big family, a big house, the biggest swimming pool on the block, complete with this amazing lighted lawn display, meant that he had made it. But maintaining all of that took a lot of work, and meant that we kids were often left to fend for ourselves, and figure out where we fit into that kind of world.

I was taught to make my feelings invisible, to be as self-sufficient as possible, and not to present any problems. I didn’t live up to the trophy standards that my father seemed to feel were most important. When I stuttered, he would yell at me, tell me to be quiet, not say anything unless I could say it right. So I always had this feeling that there was something wrong with whom I really was.

Having been invisible, with regard to feelings especially, has made it a struggle for me to be Real and Authentic as an adult. Sometimes it looks like I “walk the walk”, but that is not without the inner battle that often ensues. Quite honestly, I sometimes wish I did not stutter, and that I consistently had the smooth, fluent speech that I have a lot of the time. I think being real and authentic means to be able to admit this. I accept that I stutter, but still wish there were times when I could turn it off, or at least be able to look into a crystal ball and know when it is going to make an appearance.

In our professional lives, oral communication is often taken for granted. When one feels that we don’t “measure up”, even knowing deep inside that this is not the most important thing, you can be left with feelings of doubt and contempt. Feelings of shame and guilt are also common when you think you have fallen short.

I am closer than I have ever been to being ok with acknowledging these feelings. It means that I am not perfect. It means that I, we, all have painful feelings from time to time. It is ownership of those feelings, coupled with presenting yourself to the world, “As Is”, which makes us capable of being authentic in a world that pins so much on being perfect.

Being invisible as a kid played a role in how I turned out as an adult. It was a survival tactic. It made me strong. I now recognize that those feelings I hid for so long would eventually need to swim to the surface. Knowing how to swim and stay afloat is also a survival tactic. It allows me to be vulnerable and authentic, and claim my place.

Like many of us, I have different conversations with different people about stuttering. It seems that talking about stuttering is as situational as the actual stuttering itself. What do I mean?

Last week, when I gave a presentation to a group about communication and public speaking, I briefly mentioned that I stutter at the beginning of my talk and then again towards the end when I was making a point. After finishing the talk, some people came up to me, shared their comments and asked some questions. One woman asked if it was OK to share some feedback with me. I told her I would welcome it, as feedback is a gift. She mentioned that each time I mentioned stuttering, that I seemed to stutter more. Was I aware of this? I wasn’t, and told her that. I also told her that I was impressed that she felt comfortable enough with me to share that. She had just met me that evening. I thought to myself – wow, I must have come off as pretty approachable for her to let me know that. What a great thing. (I also thought – what’s up with that? I say the word stutter and I stutter more. No way . . . . . not gonna let it faze me).

Now, several years ago, no one would have dared make that comment to me, because talking about stuttering was a “no-no”, taboo, the pink elephant in my space. I actually thanked her for the feedback. I have come a long way, baby!

I had a recent conversation with the assistant principal at my school. She is very comfortable when I stutter around her, has told me that. She will mention it matter-of-factly. Its not a big deal. She told me that she thinks I am a role model, because I do what I have to do and participate, and communicate, regardless of whether I am having a stuttering day. At first I was a little embarrassed, but I also felt pretty darn good that she felt it was important enough to let me know that. Not everyone would say that.

I had a conversation with my mom yesterday. Now, we almost never talk about stuttering. Even after I “came out” a couple of years ago, she doesn’t feel comfortable discussing it with me. One of my sibs once told me that mom always felt guilty for not doing more for me when I was stuttering as a kid. She said she felt she should have stood up to my father and insisted that I have speech therapy. It morphed into a taboo subject between us.

Anyway, when we talked last night, she said she wanted to ask my opinion on something and hoped I wouldn’t get offended. She spends a lot of time on the Internet and gets jokes sent to her all the time. She forwards them on to a group of about 20 others. She said a friend had sent her a hilarious joke about someone stuttering, and she wondered if it would be in poor taste to send it out. Would someone who stutters, like myself, take offense to it?

Hmmmm . . . . . . I thought this was weird, but a good opportunity to maybe break the ice a bit. I told her if she thought it might be offensive, then it probably was, and she probably shouldn’t send it. I asked her to tell it to me, but she said she preferred not. So, I surmised that it must have been pretty bad. Especially if she thought she should ask me first. This was the first real conversation we have had, ever, about stuttering and how I might feel about it.

She then went on to share that there is a man in a group that she belongs to who has a severe stutter, and that sometimes it is painful to listen to him. But she said she really admires that he participates, shares his opinions, and doesn’t appear to be bothered or limited by his stuttering. She said that there is another guy who makes fun of him incessantly, mimics how he talks, calls him an idiot and says other mean things. Not to his face, but about him to other group members. Mom said that she feels uncomfortable when she hears this guy make fun of the stutterer. I asked her if she ever said anything, like she didn’t think it was funny or found it offensive. She said no – it wouldn’t do any good, that this guy never listens to anyone and will never change.

I suggested that she might try saying something to him, maybe that she found it offensive and even use me, saying that she has a daughter who stutters and its not something to make fun of. I told her that she would probably make a difference by doing that. She said, Nah, he’ll never listen, and then she changed the subject.

So talking about stuttering is pretty complex too. Being open, flexible, and approachable is the way to go. Maybe that tiny little snippet with my mom will open the door to helping her feel more comfortable the next time. Just because I have become really comfortable talking about stuttering, doesn’t mean everyone else in my world is, yet. But there’s time to work on that!

At support group last night , we talked about what were some of the significant memories that we have had of our stuttering, and did they shape who we are today.

Interestingly, several people, (the group was all male except for me) talked about being stymied by stuttering when attempting to ask a girl out on a date, and how the stuttering was remembered as a source of embarrassment. Several other members chimed in, saying that stuttering stood out as embarrassing moments when grade school teachers would make the class participate in reading circles. Two guys explained how that memory has stayed with them, seared into memory, of how peers kept pushing them, reminding them what word they left off on. Some members have also talked about where are all the women. We used to have 3 or 4 women come to this group, now its just me. Its funny participating in a group so heavily out-weighed by males. I guess that speaks to the general stuttering ratio in the general population, as 3 out of 4 people who stutter are male. But me being the only woman is pretty obvious. That’s why they have asked. The guys want to know if they have done something wrong.

Maybe I will write about what its like specifically being a woman who stutters. It does differ I think. It seems I get more introspective and emotional, where as the guys are rather matter-of-fact. One guy even says “that was then, this is now”. Actually, pretty healthy response. Anyway, back to my thoughts on memories from childhood.

I don’t remember specific stuttering experiences from childhood. My childhood was so clouded with other traumatic stuff that stuttering moments were not what I remembered. What I do remember is painful silence. I had learned early on, “If I didn’t talk, I didn’t stutter”. That part I do remember. My father yelled at me when I first started stuttering, helped me realize that stuttering was something bad I was doing. Then the kindergarten teacher yelled at me to “Stop that” when I stuttered in class, again leading my young mind to equate stuttering with bad.

So I hardly ever talked. I was quiet – all the time. That’s what I remember most. Silence. No real friends, no dates, no socializing. I had become covert about my stutter so early and had it so practiced, so rote, to remain silent that it had become second nature.

I do remember years later, in adult hood, I had joined a bowling league. I didn’t know anyone there. People would come up to me and say things like, “you don’t talk much, huh?”. Or, “Do you talk?” I remember whispering something about being shy. No one attempted any more small talk with me. I was pretty much alone for the first year that I bowled there (or tried to bowl, anyway; my captain did talk to me – he yelled when I missed an easy shot, which was a lot).

I do think my years of staying silent, and covert, has shaped who I am today. I felt like I was living in a prison, with shame and guilt hanging as curtains over the windows. Not only couldn’t get out of that prison for so long, I also couldn’t see out the windows. I was trapped, and the only way out was for me to move the curtains aside and step through. It was a little more dramatic then that. Something helped me along the way. Those who know me know that getting fired from my job of 20 years (due to stuttering) certainly was the wake-up call I needed, and was looking for. That became one of the moments you hear people talk about, or read on the inside of a Hallmark card: That ordeal was really a blessing in disguise.

I have become a different person. Still struggling with demons, which I will occasionally write about here. (I think my willingness to write about childhood demons will be of use not just to me, but hopefully will inspire others to also confront the past and finally lay it to rest.) These days, I am much more willing to come out and stay out of the covert prison I stayed in for so long.

Writing is one of my strengths. It helps me give voice to the things I had once feared and kept hidden. The real “aha” moment will come when I can put them both together and write and talk comfortably about who I was, who I am, and who I want to be.

This is one of many of my original writings.
I never knew what to do with all this stuff.
I hope it means as much to you as it does to me.

Is anyone there?
Does anyone hear me?
Why don’t you respond?
Is anybody listening?
Am I talking to myself?
I felt like that for a long time

When I dared to talk
People looked away
Or walked away
That frustrated me
Frightened me
Imagine how that felt
Can you imagine that?
Has it ever happened to you?
You have no idea
You feel alone in the world.
Lonely, wordless, no voice.

I talked to myself a lot
Still do sometimes
I process what I say
Can I trust myself to say it?
When no one responds
You do what you must
You inside your head self-talk
I sometimes hear myself talking
On the outside
Wondering why no one answered.

My voice is rich
Isn’t it?
Not gravelly
Like some I hear
I always imagined people
Like you
Listening to my words and thoughts
What I had to say
The inside talk, the realness
I want to do that

Its not too late, is it?
Is anyone out there?
Do you hear me?
My voice is ready.

I remember attending a support group meeting for people who stutter, almost 3 years ago. It was one of the first ones I had attended. I was nervous and unsure of myself, and afraid. I was afraid to talk, to stutter, to admit I stutter, to share anything that might make my tenuous emotions spill over.

Yet, I wanted to be there. I had finally found a place where people understood what stuttering was all about, and what went on inside my head. You see, I spent a ton of time rehearsing what I was going to say, practicing it, saying it over and over, worrying about how it would come out, worrying about how it would sound. I tried to sound perfect when I spoke, or I just didn’t speak. Other people who stutter would understand that, get that, get me, and I would have a place. I had never been part of a group where I would totally fit in.

I did not actively participate in the group. I introduced myself and answered one question, but mostly just listened. I was trying to take it all in. Here was a group of about 15 people, all different ages, men and women, talking like me. Some were more severe, and some stuttered differently, but nonetheless, they talked like me. I was rejoicing in this -wow-there are other people, this will be OK, I will come back, I will let them in, and I will gradually share about me.

After the group, a woman came up to me. She asked me, “Why are you here?” I remember being somewhat shocked, not being sure exactly what she meant. She went on to say, “you don’t stutter – you don’t belong here”. She turned around and left, leaving me just standing there, not sure what to do or how to react. My eyes welled up and I felt the familiar sting of once again, not fitting in. Why had she said that? She stuttered differently than me -she had a pronounced hesitation before most words and some tension was evident. When I talked that night, I had substituted words and sounded very fluent, very smooth.

Maybe this woman felt I didn’t fit in because I didn’t outwardly stutter. I didn’t allow myself to stutter. But she burst my bubble. I left feeling I didn’t belong there, and that I had invaded their turf. I sensed she didn’t want me to come back.

When I went out to my car, I cried. I was so disappointed: in myself, for being afraid, for letting this woman get to me, for letting my tears almost show. I was also disappointed that something so close was still so far away. I didn’t think I was going to be able to go back. Maybe I didn’t belong there.

I obsessed over this for a while, and did not go back for two weeks. And I never told anyone that this had happened. But I did go back two weeks later, and I never saw that woman again. I eventually joined this group, and let my stutter out, and began working on stuttering openly. I felt accepted. One time a group member actually congratulated me when he heard me stutter openly for the first time.

I have since learned that people who try and hide their stutter sometimes feel caught between two worlds, not stuttering enough to fit in with the stutterers and stuttering too much to be considered “normal” (whatever normal is of course).

I don’t worry much about fitting in anymore. I belong where I am happy.

When I stutter, sometimes it is repetitions, or prolongations, or a pause or silence. I hear it, and sometimes still get momentarily embarrassed. I might squeeze one eye shut, or break eye contact, which I know I shouldn’t do, but that is my “shame habit” coming out to play.

I can tell how a listener hears it – reactions vary. A look of surprise flashes quickly, raised eye brow, silent question forming, silent struggle to remain patient and composed. Sometimes it is more blatant – a look away, or a smirk, or a full blown giggle. Then sometimes the incredulous voiced question – Are you OK? Are you just playing? Whats going on?

Does the world ever look inside me, to see the real me, past the stuttered moments, past the quick embarrassment, but to just see me. Pam, who is real, with feelings, aware of a different speech pattern, full of emotion – empathy, compassion, shame, fear – does the world see inside or does the world get stuck at what they heard or saw?

We should get into the habit of looking inside -that is where beauty and hope live. Being stuck is “outside stuck”, like your head being stuck in the circular cut-out of a big wooden fence, a fence meant to keep people out. We had one like that around our yard, to keep people out. Thing was, I always wanted them to come in, and look inside. They would have seen so much.

Once, I tried to fit my head in that circle and imagined getting stuck, much like I got stuck with words. I imagined that’s how it must look to the world, who only seeks to look at the outside, which is not the true picture. If you look inside, you see what I see – words swirling, ready to leap out and take their place outside, but kind of being processed first, in my inside place, where I double check if it is safe, much like I double checked that my head wouldn’t really get stuck in the fence opening. I guess lots of kids try that – it is irresistible to see if you can defy stuckness.

When you stutter, you experience stuckness from the inside, and only you can see that. By the time I’m unstuck, the world has gone on to something else outside and I am left with the fence.

I have always been afraid of my emotions. I used to keep them well buried, for when they spilled out, they were met with negative reactions. My father yelled when I cried, I wasn’t supposed to cry. As the oldest, it was my job to be strong, to keep everything together, even at 9 years old. My mother couldn’t do that, so I tried to most of the time.

I felt like crying a lot, and remember being slapped across the face by my father. Crying became associated with something bad. Crying became another thing I tried to hide, along with my stuttering. Being slapped like that was stunning sometimes, embarassing sometimes, hurt most of the time. Being a fair skinned child, my face would remain red for a while, and sometimes you could see the hand print on my face long after I had stopped crying.

I took to going downstairs in the basement under the stairs when I felt like I was going to cry. It was a muffled safe area, and the heater right there always made me feel warm. I never felt warm around my parents, especially my father. I felt afraid most of the time, and tense and on edge. It was like I never knew what was coming next.

Sadness and anger are the other emotions that I have always been afraid of. It seemed that even at 9 or 10 years old, I knew enough to pretend everything was ok, and not let my sadness or anger show. I had to keep up this pretense for the other kids, at school, around my father. He was in a much better mood when I never said anything, just took care of things, made sure he had his dinner and the kids weren’t making too much noise. I remember constantly “shushing” everyone, to keep quiet, so we wouldn’t wake up my mother who was always asleep on the couch. My father would eat his dinner in the living room on a tray table. I don’t remember what we did. When my mom was functional, she would heat up spaghettios from a can, and we would all eat out of the same pot. Sometimes it was ravioli, never was it what my father was eating in the other room.

As I grew older, the habit of stuffing emotions was long ingrained. I was a master stuffer, and as stiff and robotic as they came. No wonder emotions remained so feared – I had never learned how to deal with them, they stayed hidden, deep down. I had also never learned how to identify what they were when they did finally start seeping out later on as an adult, when I no longer had the nook under the stairs to run to, or the little heater that I could press up against and feel the warmth I had always been looking for.

Lots of things have been said about journeys. “Focus on the journey, not the destination”.
“In the end, it is the journey that matters “. “A journey to no where still starts with a single step”. All insightful, meaningful thoughts. Each of them could actually apply to aspects of our lives, my life, and my journey.

I recently read a powerful new book, “The Hour I First Believed”, by Wally Lamb. One of the characters makes this comment about journeys: “The seeker embarks on a journey to find what he wants and discovers, along the way, what he needs”.

That really resonated with me. Made me think, helped me put into words things I have recently been feeling about my own journey through life. We all seek meaning; try to make sense of the things that happen to us – both the big things and the little things. Perhaps I take things too seriously. I am a thinker; always have been. I think about things like karma, hope, destiny, purpose. I have often wondered what it is I seek, and how will I know when I have found it. I have been waiting for this mysterious insight to come crashing down and magically let me know that I have found the answer.

I had been doing that – trying to discover what it is that will make “everything all right with my world”, and haven’t really even paid attention to the fact, that along the way, I have already found what I need. Reading that statement in the book caused me to do what I have done a lot over the last several years –stop what I was doing, grab my journal, and write down my thoughts at that very moment. Sometimes I even do that in the middle of the night. I no longer think it’s crazy. It’s just my way to put voice to my thoughts.

What I have needed is to become myself. My true self, that which is emotional and sensitive, and vulnerable and imperfect. There is nothing wrong with that. For so many years, I was trying to pretend to be something that everyone else wanted me to be. That person kept parts of herself hidden because she didn’t feel they were good enough, or that she would be laughed at, or not liked. She kept her distance, didn’t let people in, and was always on guard in case her emotions seeped out. She never dared to reveal her true emotions. Fear held her back.

Embracing all of the “pieces of me” that make me “ME” – my feelings, my values, my stuttering, and my real desire to connect with others – is what I have needed all along. That is what I have discovered. I was looking for things that were already there. I just couldn’t see them, because I had buried them so deeply.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I still have secrets, and I still have fears. We all do. That’s what makes us human. But I can admit that, and that’s OK. Life is still a journey, and there will continue to be those insightful quotes to remind us of that. It is so much more joyful to embrace these discoveries, rather than discard them and keep searching for something better.

Could it be there really is such a thing as buried treasure?

I received a great thank you letter today from the International Association of Administrative Professionals. I scanned it in, and was going to post it as a jpg, but it has addresses on it, so I will just summarize it. This was a pretty cool way to raise awareness about stuttering, and that was not even my intention. I was asked to speak as a Toastmaster.

It also reminds me of something someone told me almost 3 years ago, that has stayed with me. I have repeated it often, to myself, and to anyone who will listen. “When a person finds their voice, they take on grace”. I have found my voice. I am graceful.

This is the gist of the letter:

Dear Pam,

Thank you again for the informative, interesting and interactive presentation on February 17th.

Your topic, “Communicating Beyond Words: Public Speaking Tips for the Business World” was both timely and relevant.

As you noted, the audience was attentive, responsive and engaged. We admired how you turned a liability into an asset and have continously utilized that experience to raise public awareness about the perception and stigma associated with stuttering.

We appreciate you sharing your time, knowledge, story and “grace” with our group.

Best wishes for your continued confident speaking success.

“It Is What It Is”
I have said these five words to myself many times, both silently and out loud. “It Is What It Is.” Sometimes, I have said it out loud just to hear how it sounds. Sometimes, I have said it aloud to someone else, thinking I was reassuring or comforting them. I have said it to remind myself that, try as I might, I cannot control everything. Some things are out of my control, and I have to recognize that and just let it go. It is not healthy to hold on to things not in my control. Sort of like the serenity prayer. It’s important to know the difference. I am certainly guilty of holding on too long.

Letting go is a process – it takes time. Just like change takes time – and is also a process.

Funny thing about change – it doesn’t just happen to one person. The other person is affected as well, even if it’s only a byproduct. And when one person grows and changes and the other doesn’t, another change happens. The relationship itself changes, and not always for the better. Thus, my use of the expression “it is what it is”.

When I kept my stuttering hidden for so long, I “was” a certain way. I fell into a pattern, holding on to habits, some of them bad. I didn’t realize it at the time. Some of those habits protected me, or so I thought. People got used to quiet Pam, who avoided certain situations, deferring to others to make choices for me. I was almost invisible sometimes.

But as circumstances in my life changed, I was confronted with an inevitable choice. Stay the same and stay stuck, or venture out of my little box, take risks and see what life had to offer. I chose to see what life offered when I was in charge. I began to make decisions that were good for Pam, without feeling guilt. (Well, in most areas anyway- I have many thoughts to share on guilt as well).

I began to trust that it was in my best interest to engage with the world, offer my gifts and have some control over my evolution as a person. I discovered I had always let life just happen and then found myself picking up the pieces when things went bad. I never put myself first. It was more fulfilling to be part of a world that I was contributing to. I had more control, and felt ownership over both the good and bad. I was becoming strong, confident, and on my way.

But as I grew and changed, it became noticeable that my partner was not at all rejoicing. Rather, it appeared he resented this “new me”. He started criticizing my involvement in new activities, and would say negative things when I talked about my involvement in those things and how excited I was to be experiencing this stuff for the first time.

He asked me to stay home and skip things I wanted to do, and would try to guilt me. When I tried to tell him how I felt, he told me he didn’t want to hear it, made it seem like my feelings weren’t important. He clearly did not like the idea of “Pam putting Pam first”. I could tell. He yelled a lot, or gave me the silent treatment. Tension became more commonplace, as change happened. Trouble was, I was relishing the change, feeling it warmly envelope me. I recognized that it was a needed change, a change for the better. My betterment.

It seemed like each step I took forward, he was trying to pull me back. I tried to reassure him that change and growth is part of life. I wasn’t leaving him behind, but invited him to come forward with me. He doesn’t want to go. He wants things to stay the same. He has made this clear in his words and actions. He has always had a need to be in control and in charge. And I have decided that I don’t want to live like that anymore.

I am no longer in hiding, afraid to show my true self to the world. He can’t control me the way he used to, the way I allowed him to. I am making choices now. That is a big change for him, for both of us, for our relationship. Our relationship is not the same as it was when I was afraid to show my emotions and stuttering. It has changed. I have changed. I have evolved. We have decisions to make – I have decisions to make. We may not agree on the decisions that are ultimately made. We will face even more change. This much I know is true: change doesn’t only happen to one person.

I wrote this letter on March 15, 2008

It seems odd to be addressing you when I spent most of my life trying to deny you even exist. And that’s the key, trying to deny you, because you have always been there. You couldn’t be denied, could you? You always turned up, at the most inopportune times. Every time I thought it was safe, and I had the world fooled, you would come storming in, like a tornado, blowing up my spot, making sure your presence was known.

You made me so angry when you did that. I wanted to fit in with everyone else, and you made it your business to make sure I didn’t. I was different. Everyone knew it. You made sure the only way I could keep you at bay was to stay quiet. So that’s what I did –at school, at home, in college, at work. I did what I needed to do to protect myself. I didn’t want to be made fun of, and you didn’t do anything to help me when the kids did. It became easier and easier for me to hide you.

But funny thing, not only was I angry, I was sad too. Did you know that? I always had so much I wanted to say, but you wouldn’t let me. You made me feel as if I wasn’t worthy, as if I didn’t deserve to speak up, that no one would want to hear what I had to say.

I bet you didn’t realize you had such power, huh? Yeah, you held that amazing power over me, for a very long time. Because of you, I had a hard time making friends and hardly ever went out anywhere. I felt alone most of the time, especially with all of the other stuff going on at home. I think you were very tied up in some of that stuff too; you seemed to show up more when things were really bad.

Stuttering, it was because of you that I really started taking things too seriously. I figured if I couldn’t speak well, that I would have to be perfect at other things in order to be noticed. I wanted people to notice me, to say “Wow”, but it never happened when I was a kid. That was your fault. So as an adult, I started trying harder and harder at everything I did, always trying to find that elusive happiness, always striving to do just that much better than the next guy, but it didn’t work. Trying to be a perfectionist was hard work. The more I denied you, the more you were just there, screaming at me that you would not be denied.

You began to toy with my insides more as an adult, as if always whispering to me, “Hah”, I still control you, what are you going to do now? You were no longer just making me angry and sad, you were making me depressed, and sick and tired of living a lie. I wanted to be true to myself.

You actually started helping me, finally, before the real rock bottom moment, and I suppose I really should thank you, for making me so damn uncomfortable that I had to do something or my insides would bust. You weren’t staying hidden anymore, and I had to make a choice. I think I made the right one.

Don’t get me wrong – some days I wish we had never met, but most of the time, I think we’re doing a pretty good job co-existing. I know you’re here, and I don’t fight with you so much. I let you have your say, right? You’re kind of giving me a different sort of power, and that’s pretty amazing.

I now have the Power of Me, and I am in control.

I never thought I would say this, Stuttering, but there’s room for both of us. Just try not to be so blustery, ok? We don’t have to be the tornado in the room anymore. We can just Be!

I get very angry with myself when someone teases or mocks my stuttering and I don’t do anything about it. Like a couple of weeks ago when I stopped at the deli counter to order some american cheese.

I was stuttering really well that day, and had trouble saying the brand of cheese that I wanted. Both guys behind the counter showed reaction – one guy smirked at me, you know the kind of look I mean. Usually, I can blow that off. The other guy said something like “if I couldn’t say american cheese right, then I would have to buy chicken wings”. I was so stunned by this stupid comment that I felt momentarily brain-locked. I think the stunned look washed across my face, because the other guy looked embarassed for me.

The guy who commented then had the nerve to say, “Come on – stop playing. Whoever heard of someone not being able to say what kind of cheese they wanted”.

The smirk guy, looking contrite, asked me politely to confirm my order, and I got it out, and he quickly got my order for me. I did not set either of these guys straight – I just walked away.
I was so upset with myself for acting like a hypocrite and just letting this guy humiliate me the way he did. But I did not want to make a scene. There were a couple of people behind me in line, and I just did not have the energy to draw more attention to the moment.

After all, it was just a moment, a stuttering moment, one of many I have had. Why did it bother me so much? Because it caught me off guard, because you don’t just don’t expect adults to make fun of someone, because I hope for better.

The truth of the matter is that stuttering sometimes hi-jacks us emotionally, leaves us feeling paralyzed and unable to react in the moment. And the further truth is that I don’t always want to have to educate or correct somebody about my stuttering.

This is one of the reasons stuttering is as complex as it is – the emotions under the surface that sometimes come out of nowhere and blindside us. I am not superwoman – it can’t be about stuttering all of the time. Sometimes it just has to be about Land-O-Lakes American Cheese.

I am one of those people who read obituaries. I have always been interested in learning how people are described and remembered after their death. Some obituary notices are so short you have to wonder, did that person do anything note-worthy in their life. Or did that person just not have anyone who cared enough to write a brief history of their life? I wonder who will know me well enough to write my obituary.

I remember once facilitating an obituary exercise with young people when I was doing group counseling. I asked the young women to think about their lives and what they would want between the “hash marks” of their birth date and death date. It was a tough exercise! The young girls had never thought of how they would want to be remembered by friends and family. It gave us a reason to talk about some of the things they wouldn’t want to be remembered for. That was easy! They didn’t want to be remembered for causing trouble, fighting, gang activity and stealing, using drugs. But they couldn’t think that far into the future to imagine other possibilities.

To me that was very sad. Maybe that was the reason some people’s obituaries were so short. They had spent so much time doing things they would regret, that they never got around to doing the things that would make them and their families proud. I made the girls stick with this exercise, and soon they were coming up with things that they would like to accomplish in their lives, which then they could be proud of. And then they would have good memories. The girls came up with things like going to college, having children, helping others, saving animals, donating money to charities.

This exercise in writing an obituary actually helped us to focus on the good things we wanted out of life. It also helped the girls focus on the need to make things happen, instead of just waiting for things to happen to them. For many of these girls, it was the first time they had thought of life in these terms. They realized they had some control over how their lives could be lived and how they would be remembered by loved ones.

This exercise also helped me think of my life and my legacy. I remember sharing with the girls that I would want to be remembered for making a difference, for helping others, to have made positive change in my community.

Now, almost 10 years later, I wonder how those girls are doing and if they have made strides towards their life’s legacy. And I reflect on my own life, and feel pretty good about what I am doing. Part of my legacy is having the courage to think outside the box and ask people to explore ideas that they might not ordinarily do on their own. How many 16 year old girls would have engaged in an exercise to write their obituary while they are still living? What kid thinks about that? I hope something in their life triggers them to think back on that time where we explored how we want to be remembered.

I shared this with teachers I now work with, and one of my colleagues tried this same exercise with her students. She had amazingly good results, and came to share that with me. Maybe that’s how I will be remembered! That wouldn’t be a bad thing.

Last night, I had the opportunity to talk to a group of business professionals about public speaking tips for the business world. I had an hour long talk planned, and was eager to do well and make a good impression. But mostly, I wanted to communicate effectively and present myself as someone simply sharing information from my truest self.

I remember when I was asked to give this presentation thinking, when they realize I stutter, will they still want me to talk about communication and speaking opportunties? My worry was unfounded. I was direct and upfront about my stuttering being part of me during our initial phone meeting, and the fact that I stutter seemed really to emphasize the whole point of what communication is really all about.

Its not about being perfectly fluent. Its about the message we convey, with our words, our body language, our voice, our tone and our presence. Everybody can benefit from learning about that, whether they happen to stutter or not. My Toastmasters training and experience gave me the confidence and competence to deliver a sound message to an interested group. The group was diverse – some were retired, some were just starting out their careers, some were comfortable speakers, some were non-native English speakers. Three people came up to me after the talk to inquire about additional information on how to visit a Toastmasters club.

This was a really positive experience for me. I acknowledged my stuttering, but did not make it the focal point of the talk. Rather, I drew examples where I allowed my fear and worries to limit my engagement with the world. Once past that, I see a whole new world and that is what I shared with this group.

Sure, I stuttered some during the 52 minutes I spoke. It did not detract from my message. It did not distract the audience. Most importantly, it did not bother me. I did not get flustered or stop. I simply allowed for the stuttering, comfortably, and moved on. And left the audince with something to think about and talk about.

You see a lot of the human condition while spending time at a hospital. There are always people milling around, at all hours of the day and night. It is a place where you can see the whole gamut of human emotion, just by observing people. You see sorrow, grief, anger, happiness, joy and fear. You see novices to the hospital scene and you see sadly familiar faces, those who have been there and done that.

I have spent a lot of time in emergency rooms and hospitals, accompanying my partner, who is chronically ill. Hospital visits are becoming an unfortunate routine, as his health declines. The emotional part doesn’t get any easier, despite being almost regulars.

Last weekend, we went to the Emergency Room, for what became the start of another 10 day hospital admission. The ER was typically hectic for a Friday night. Hospital people are easily identifiable. Even if they are not clinical staff, most employees wear scrubs and ID tags, and soft soled shoes. You don’t always hear them coming up from behind with their soft shoes, particularly if you are lost in thought. That has happened to me more than once. I have been startled by someone seemingly just appearing out of thin air.

Family members are easy to identify as well. Spouses and parents have haunted expressions. You can see the weight of the world on the shoulders of people worrying about loved ones. Sometimes you see fear and resignation, particularly in the eyes. I have often found myself thinking I am intruding in another’s emotional landscape when we find ourselves sharing waiting space.

I remember sitting in the ER last weekend and seeing a woman sitting with a man, who I assumed was her husband. This woman looked so sad. It was in her eyes. She was knitting and murmuring to herself and to the man. I could not hear what she was saying, but I imagined they were gentle, comforting words. When nurses came to talk with her, she stopped knitting momentarily and her eyes filled with hope, as if good news was possible. Then she would go back to her knitting and self-talk.

She learned a lot about me that evening too, though we did not share a conversation. Hospital camaraderie seems a universal force. I was reading a book, for I have learned that it can be a very long wait in the ER until a bed opens up somewhere in the hospital. I have done this many times- read, gaze, wonder, hope, and breathe. I remember to breathe.

This night I seemed more composed than usual. However, when a financial counselor came to talk to me, my dam burst and the tears came. The counselor took one look at me and apologized profusely, and gave me a hug. I could tell it was genuine, and as she pulled away from me, as I still sobbed, she had such a patient, understanding look. I knew I had as much time as I needed to collect myself to finish the difficult conversation we needed to have.

She discreetly steered me behind a curtain and we finished our talk in relative privacy. Other people walked by, looking curiously respectful and discrete, again, signs of that universal hospital language.

When I stepped back over to the curtained area where my partner was, it was time to go upstairs. He was sick enough this time that we didn’t have the usual hours-long wait. As I followed his gurney to the elevator, I noticed the woman across the way gazing over at me, with such a look of compassion and empathy. In that split second, our eyes locked, and we spoke volumes to each other, without saying a word. Then she mouthed “good luck” as I walked away and she went back to her knitting.

You can learn a lot about other human beings just by paying attention to what is not said.