“I would like very much not to stutter.” That’s a thought I’ve had almost every day, usually when I go to talk to somebody – be they a friend I’ve known forever, a colleague, or the sushi store lady I see more days a week than I should.
Photo: Giselle Clarkson
I often have it first thing upon waking up; less often when I’m asleep; and only rarely when I’m drunk.
There are two ways to express how I experience having a stutter. One is simple and brutal – that having a stutter is like having to do the hardest thing you’ll ever do in your life, every day, multiple times a day, knowing that you’re going to do it again tomorrow because there is no cure.
It’s opening yourself up to humiliation, rejection and tremendous awkwardness whenever you open your mouth. It’s not being able to express what you want to say when you most want to say it, or say a witty thing at a time that makes sense, or even give your name when called upon to do so.
It’s the feeling of doing all you can to avoid the thing you hate most in your life, and having it happen anyway. It’s the feeling of waking up and thinking it might have gone forever, and then having it sneak up on you and feeling worse than it ever has, though it’s no worse than it was the day before or will be the day after.
That’s definitely one way to express the experience, and for most of my life, that’s how I’ve done so, mostly to myself and with little kindness or sympathy. It’s not a healthy series of thoughts to experience every day.
The other way to describe what it’s like to have a stutter takes a bit longer.
People like to see your flaws; it shows them that you’re human. Everybody has their damage – mine is just more obvious, and that’s both a blessing and a curse.
As a playwright by trade, I make my living exposing myself to audiences several times a year – like by getting actor friends to vivisect my often embarrassing and fruitless dealings with straight guys – and I’m comfortable with it. But as someone who makes his living out of words, I’ve had people tell me how ironic it is that I write good dialogue, even though I can’t talk properly (not in those exact words, but it’s very easy to read between implied lines).
People have also asked me why I haven’t written about my stutter. In the past, I’ve answered “I’m not really interested in that” or “I don’t think anybody would find that interesting”, both of which were true at the time. But earlier this year, I threw together an application to Creative New Zealand to research, write and develop a play about stuttering.
The reasons were twofold: I wanted to get paid for writing a play because I was sick of writing about sad things happening to gay people and not being paid for it, and I genuinely wanted to explore that side of myself.
Up until March this year, when the funding came through and I celebrated with all kinds of merriment (gin), I had never truly dealt with the fact I had a stutter. I had gone to therapy as a child and sporadically throughout university, including an intensive course to learn a technique to control my stutter, but it had never really taken. I’d resigned myself to the fact that I’d have a stutter for life, while simultaneously hoping that I would one day wake up and it would be gone.
To research my play, I read books by and interviewed people who both studied stuttering and stuttered themselves, to get an idea of their experience and how it had affected their lives. I ended up knowing myself and my own condition better. I realised, painfully, that many of my strategies to try to avoid stuttering – like using synonyms for words I found hard to say, and asking other people to order for me at restaurants, and simply choosing not to talk in group conversations – were actually making my stutter worse.
It was an unpleasant realisation, but ultimately positive. It helped me to realise that living with a stutter for as long as I have actually has some benefits: it’s made me a more accepting and patient person; it’s tuned my ear to listen to other people and what they say all the more; and it’s made me a much more approachable human being.
It’s also improved my speech in ways that I didn’t really predict. When I encounter a block, I don’t freak out and worry about what happens next; I deal with it, sometimes using techniques that I learned way back in therapy, and I continue talking. I still stutter, and I always will – there is no cure – but now I’ve accepted it. I might not be proud of the fact, but I don’t run away from it either.
So, the second, healthier way to describe what it’s like to have a stutter: it’s like having the most vulnerable part of yourself exposed on a daily basis.
Photo: Giselle Clarkson
For some people, that’s scary, and they don’t want to see it. I don’t judge anybody for looking away when I stutter and I don’t judge people who try and help me out by finishing my sentences. I do judge people who talk over me, but I feel that’s a universal thing.
For others, as I’ve come to learn, it’s something that makes me relatable and approachable. People like to see your flaws; it shows them that you’re human. Everybody has their damage – mine is just more obvious, and that’s both a blessing and a curse.
I’m not saying that I don’t still sometimes think “I would like very much not to stutter”. Of course I do. A few months of self-discovery does not undo a life of negative thinking. But I think it less and less now.
I am a person who stutters and I am okay when I stutter.
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