Finding My Voice

My mother once told me that she thought the reason I rarely spoke was that I was so used to being drowned out, growing up as I did in a large, primarily male family, that it was not worth the effort.

I thought it was because I worried so much about making certain I used exactly the right words to perfectly express my thoughts. Often, by the time I had figured out exactly what those words were, the potential listener had moved on, thinking I had nothing to say.

These days, I think the truth lies somewhere in the middle. In addition, I was blessed with both a very soft voice and a mild speech impediment.  When it was recommended to my mother that she seek speech therapy for me as a child, she passed on the idea, perhaps because I didn’t use my voice much anyway. Perhaps she thought it would somehow get better on its own. It didn’t, and I became more self-conscious. There was this, in addition to having broken one of my adult front teeth just after it came in at the age of six, resulting in my having a silver cap for the rest of my childhood. As a result, I normally chose just to keep my mouth closed. There was nothing so important that I would risk being ridiculed.

Somewhere along the way, I learned to write, and figured out that I was relatively good at it. At that point, whenever possible, I just put pen to paper when I had something really important to say. No one made fun of me when I wrote. The other students groaned when given a written assignment; I glowed. I knew that was my chance to shine. Making certain my handwriting was flawless, I was guaranteed an “A” every time.

Unfortunately, writing didn’t serve me well when I got older. Married at eighteen to a man who demanded subordination, I gave it up when he decided that I could only write if he could dictate the content. I was unwilling to write what he wanted, and giving it up seemed a small price to pay for peace within my home. After all, he could not control my mind (at least not completely) and I was still able to think “like a writer.” He might still call me stupid; he may even succeed at making me feel that way, but I was smart enough not to show him what I really felt. A vicious verbal attack, brilliant sunset or my infant son’s smile might not cause me to take pen to paper, but the words flowed inside my head, and that was satisfaction enough. He couldn’t take that from me.

When I escaped that marriage some ten years later, I was certain that I would write again. When stirred by emotion, I would grab my notepad, with a flood of thoughts and words and descriptions anxiously flowing through me, until I touched the pen to the surface of the paper. Suddenly, I would become fearful and mute. I knew on a conscious level that it was “safe” but I couldn’t shake the feeling that by expressing my thoughts, I was opening myself up for abuse. It became a twenty-two year attack of writer’s block, and even when it passed, most of the words were clumsy and awkward.

At forty-two, I decided to go to college. My first writing course was difficult, in the beginning. Then, my mind absorbed the fact that the trouble would only come if I did not write. The first paper I turned in was a week-long struggle, but it earned me a grade of 98%, even after decades of inactivity. Thereafter, it became easier with each paper. The final exam consisted of re-writing any paper we had already submitted during the semester. The instructor stated the assignment in class, and then looked directly at me and said, “Julie, none of your work needs or ought to be re-written. Write me any paper, of any length, on a subject of your choosing.” My final score for the course was an A, and if I was looking for a confidence-builder, she had handed it to me, no holds barred.

After all the years I’d spent keeping my thoughts to myself, (most especially when I had something important to say,) the floodgates were opened.  I’ve come to realize in recent weeks that I owe this all to my ex-husband. He may have succeeded in stilling my “voice” for twelve years, but having regained it, it is ever more strong and powerful. I find that there is now always something to say. Whether the subject is domestic abuse, cooking, politics, religion, health care, science, animal welfare… I always have an opinion, and I will use my “voice.”

No one has to agree with me. They don’t even have to listen to me if they don’t want to, but I will never be “silenced” again when I have something I feel is important to say, or when it may make a difference to someone, even if that someone is just me.