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Hiding stuttering was a full-time job
I’ve always managed to keep my stuttering problem well hidden. People did notice something about my way of speaking, but often couldn’t quite place it. Especially strangers. My stuttering mainly consisted of uncontrolled pauses and inaudible blocks, which I disguised with hesitations, filler words, and tricks. Sometimes I could hide it so well that no one noticed anything.
But hiding it was a full-time job. 365 days a year. No day off, not for my entire life.
The fear of being exposed was so overwhelming that I could never let it go. Because the shame remained, even with the people dearest to me. Because I felt inferior. I couldn’t do something that was effortless for everyone around me, even the biggest fool: speak fluently.
The one thing I couldn't do
Even though I had plenty of talents. I was good at my job, earned my own money, wrote beautiful texts, had a sense of fashion and style, could give and receive love. Everything paled in comparison to that one thing I couldn’t do.
Therapies that taught me to cope with my stuttering barely helped, because I didn’t want to learn to live with it.
I simply couldn’t accept that I couldn’t say what I wanted to. Because that prevented me from being myself, from showing who I really was. How could I accept that I always had to stay behind a curtain?
How the evening began
I was tired. I had slept poorly the night before, and that frustrated me because I had to make an important phone call that day. And now I was going out to dinner with a friend I hadn’t seen in a while. Poor sleep always affected my speech. Even before I turned off the alarm that morning, I could feel the fear coursing through my body.
Another day of tense hope that it would go well. Another new day.
I had arranged to meet my friend at seven o’clock in the evening. The restaurant was a five-minute bike ride, but I only left when I was sure I would be seven minutes late. Then I knew for certain that she would already be there, that she had reserved a table, that she had given her name.
But as I cycle up, I see her just locking her bike at that moment. I quickly duck behind a parked car so she can still go in first. Because nothing seems worse to me than having to stammer alone to the waiter – let alone stuttering in front of her.
At the table, I greet her enthusiastically, almost relieved. Deep down, I always feel inferior to my friends and can’t escape the feeling that I should be happy they want to associate with me. After all, I’m just someone with a speech problem. Nice enough: always understanding, always a listening ear. Because listening is safe. While listening, I don’t have to be on guard for a moment. Asking interested questions is also fairly easy for me, because then the attention stays focused on the other person.
With a nod, I order noodles
My friends don’t have to fear criticism from me. If I disagree with something or have a disapproving opinion, I’d rather bite my tongue than say it. What if they take it the wrong way, what if they get angry? If I have to defend myself, I probably won’t be able to get it out at all.
So I nod, agree, laugh encouragingly and say, ‘Yes, I know that.’ Meanwhile, I’m only thinking: I hope it keeps going well. I hope I don’t stumble over my words. I hope I don’t get exposed.
The first hour in the restaurant goes reasonably well. It’s nicely noisy and that makes speaking easier. Why, I don’t know. Like I don’t understand so many of my own tricks.
Why does starting a sentence with ‘well’ make every sentence easier? Why does it help if I speak just a little louder?
The waiter stands right behind me when taking the order. That helps. I point to my choice on the menu. ‘I’ll have this one.’ I can choose between white rice or noodles. I wanted white rice, but at the crucial moment, I’m so dreading those words that I nod when the waiter suggests noodles. Oh well, that’s fine too.
I consider swallowing my story
I inquire about my friend’s new workplace. Does she like it? How’s her boyfriend doing?
Then she asks how I’m doing. I ‘happen’ to have some articles in my bag. And even more coincidentally: also photos from my last vacation. Talking about that is much easier when the attention is diverted from my words by images.
By avoiding certain words, rearranging sentences, pretending I can’t think of a word, pointing at the photos, using filler words, pretending to cough, wiggling my foot under the table, and strategically taking a bite of food, I manage to circumvent most stutters.
Then she asks if I’m still feeling so gloomy. Wasn’t that the reason I had canceled our previous appointment?
I consider swallowing my story. I rarely expose myself. I’d rather turn the conversation back to her. How was her trip to New York anyway?
Don't make such a big deal out of it
I decide to say something personal after all. You should be able to talk to friends, right? And she should understand. She knows I’ve been through multiple stuttering therapies. She must notice that things have been worse lately.
I take a deep breath. My face contorts from it. ‘Well, it’s uh… it’s going really badly with my uh… with my stuttering. I’m really upset about it,’ I say.
She shrugs. ‘Oh, come on,’ she says. ‘You can make such a big deal out of things. You shouldn’t make such a fuss about that little problem of yours.’
My head starts to buzz. I see red.
‘This is not a little problem,’ I say, as I press out my last breath. ‘This is the problem in my life that overshadows everything. Always. You need to understand that it’s very serious for me and that it occupies my mind enormously.’
My words come out fluently, as if the emotion temporarily frees my speech.
‘I think you’re exaggerating,’ she says cautiously. ‘We all have something. Look at me, I have very pale skin, I find that annoying too. You just have that you sometimes stutter a bit. Oh well. You should get over it.’
‘It’s serious,’ I say fiercely. ‘This problem makes me feel disabled.’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘Well, well. That’s quite harsh. That’s actually quite an insult to people who are really disabled.’
She looks at me coolly and gets up to go to the bathroom.
I watch her walk away.
I want to jump up. Walk away. Overturn the table. Let the plates fly through the place. Out of wild rage. Out of helpless grief.
How the evening ended
When she returns, I’ve fought back my tears.
I smile. ‘Let’s drop it,’ I say soothingly. ‘Tell me, how was New York?’
At our bikes, we kiss goodbye. ‘Nice evening, wasn’t it?’ she says.
I nod. Wave. Cycle away as fast as possible.
I stay awake deep into the night. The city is quiet, but a storm rages in my head. All the words I’ve swallowed, all the conversations I’ve never had, echo in my thoughts.
Then, somewhere between anger and exhaustion, everything falls into place. This can’t remain my life. I refuse to hide behind silences any longer.
A few months later, I speak freely.
Without fear.
Without hiccups.
The Del Ferro method has given me what I always missed:
My own voice.
