Status: still in progress, updates coming whenever i've got the inspiration.
The Test
the carpal tunnel of love
"William?"
I heard my father's voice and hurried down the new, creaky stairs and into the kitchen.
"You like your new room, kid?"
I grinned and nodded, trying to convey the words I couldn't get out in my facial expressions. I did love my new room. I loved the crazily high ceiling, I loved the view out the huge windows, I loved how my bed was bouncy enough to use as a trampoline. My smile was an attempt to show the love and appreciation I had, and I could not have smiled wider.
"That's great," smiled my father, "I knew you'd love this place. And don't worry, I'll be setting up the internet in a couple of hours so you can send an e-mail to Mom."
My father was accustomed to my silence, and after fifteen years, he stopped expecting a response. He had begun to understand the art of reading my eyes, and studying my face, and from it, he drew usually accurate conclusions about how I was feeling. We could converse for hours, but I had no need to even twitch my jaw in the slightest.
Of course, he had tried to rectify the problem when I was a young boy. He had taken me to endless specialists, speech therapists, childrens' psychologists, all in some useless, desperate endeavor to channel some speech from me. The professionals were nonplussed, their explanations and remedies all proven useless as I continued to refuse to speak.
But by the time I was six, it had finally hit home. I remember him calling up the child psychologist, and asking to take me out of the course. The pleading and crying that had previously filled my home ceased, and instead he began to make the effort to communicate with me in an entirely non-verbal manner. He learned to accept me as his son, even in my silence, and allowed me to be homeschooled, so as to avoid torment from other children.
Sometimes, I think he may have supported me too much. He had allowed me to wallow in silence, letting me stand solitary for years, and my ability to socialize with other kids my age had all but crumbled to pieces.
I wasn't sure why I didn't speak, but I had no desire to. I was intelligent enough, I knew how to form the words, in fact, I wrote in a sophisticated manner when I needed to. But I felt as if speech, or lack thereof, gave me something to keep hold of.
Every moment, to every situation, I would feel and see and hear the words of my response in my head, but never would they manage to escape my lips. I was trapped in a bone-cage, with a sign plastered over the door. The kid that cannot speak.
I did not mind. It stopped people from bothering me, it put up a strong, solid barrier, and that was what I was trying to achieve. I was scared to speak to people, so I chose not to speak at all.
"It's Monday tomorrow," my father cut into my musings, "You ready for school?"
I nodded, and tried to recreate the same happy smile I had flashed earlier, trying not to let my raging thoughts of bullies and shouting in the corridors and first impressions cloud the fake joy I was attempting to show my father.
I was far from ready.
I heard my father's voice and hurried down the new, creaky stairs and into the kitchen.
"You like your new room, kid?"
I grinned and nodded, trying to convey the words I couldn't get out in my facial expressions. I did love my new room. I loved the crazily high ceiling, I loved the view out the huge windows, I loved how my bed was bouncy enough to use as a trampoline. My smile was an attempt to show the love and appreciation I had, and I could not have smiled wider.
"That's great," smiled my father, "I knew you'd love this place. And don't worry, I'll be setting up the internet in a couple of hours so you can send an e-mail to Mom."
My father was accustomed to my silence, and after fifteen years, he stopped expecting a response. He had begun to understand the art of reading my eyes, and studying my face, and from it, he drew usually accurate conclusions about how I was feeling. We could converse for hours, but I had no need to even twitch my jaw in the slightest.
Of course, he had tried to rectify the problem when I was a young boy. He had taken me to endless specialists, speech therapists, childrens' psychologists, all in some useless, desperate endeavor to channel some speech from me. The professionals were nonplussed, their explanations and remedies all proven useless as I continued to refuse to speak.
But by the time I was six, it had finally hit home. I remember him calling up the child psychologist, and asking to take me out of the course. The pleading and crying that had previously filled my home ceased, and instead he began to make the effort to communicate with me in an entirely non-verbal manner. He learned to accept me as his son, even in my silence, and allowed me to be homeschooled, so as to avoid torment from other children.
Sometimes, I think he may have supported me too much. He had allowed me to wallow in silence, letting me stand solitary for years, and my ability to socialize with other kids my age had all but crumbled to pieces.
I wasn't sure why I didn't speak, but I had no desire to. I was intelligent enough, I knew how to form the words, in fact, I wrote in a sophisticated manner when I needed to. But I felt as if speech, or lack thereof, gave me something to keep hold of.
Every moment, to every situation, I would feel and see and hear the words of my response in my head, but never would they manage to escape my lips. I was trapped in a bone-cage, with a sign plastered over the door. The kid that cannot speak.
I did not mind. It stopped people from bothering me, it put up a strong, solid barrier, and that was what I was trying to achieve. I was scared to speak to people, so I chose not to speak at all.
"It's Monday tomorrow," my father cut into my musings, "You ready for school?"
I nodded, and tried to recreate the same happy smile I had flashed earlier, trying not to let my raging thoughts of bullies and shouting in the corridors and first impressions cloud the fake joy I was attempting to show my father.
I was far from ready.