Words, words, words.

Speaking.. speaking was hard - challenging.

Words were difficult to put into actions, despite the fact I could freely talk whenever; I had a mouth, a tongue, and teeth - why can't I voice out my opinions and thoughts freely?

Maybe it was embarrassment that harassed me around like some rag doll; maybe it was shame in the fact I didn't have such an ability to communicate like others judged me so.

It had never really minded me as a youngling I couldn't be as expressive as other kids, but that was growing up when you didn't need words because it was obvious through your body language, and now.. everything was more complicated, more specified instead of a simple stomach growl for food - you weren't treated like a child but expected of an adult.

A diaper change; the smell you had to notify, but a pad?

Pad, diaper change; similar things in a more matured way.

Food was about the same as a baby needing their milk; a demanding cry and it was served to them at a plate, but it doesn't work the same getting older, it was much harder to ask when you felt like spilling out everything racing through your mind like a bright flash straining your eyes - though in a different sense.

My vision would blur at the threatening lump forming at my throat, barely restraining myself from screaming, though I felt weak, like I couldn't breath.

It's always been like this; drowning in my fear as I was shoved to the bottom of the sea to never be discovered; to lurk in the dark waters with me, myself, and I.

Ironic, despite the fact I was drowning, kicking and grabbing at absolutely nothing, I kept going like there would ever be an end to the pain that gripped me; a chokehold that squeezed the only voice I had.

My ears strained for any sound; my body convulsing with a tightness; my mind aching for a release to the never impending doom that coiled around me like a cunning snake.

Simple body actions were easy; like a plain wave of hello, or a smile of happiness, a furrow of the brows either confusion or anger conjoined with tight fists, surprise or anticipation with a single raise of the hair just above your eyes, excitement could be a brightening of the eyes - do actions really speak more than words, or to console those who can't communicate verbally?

And what about those whom can't act; do their words dissipate because of their state?

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Disabilities; does this affect the flow of one's mind?

Yes, yes it does.

I haven't yet met people with conditions similar to mine, but have seen and heard of great people in much worse conditions I can only thank God I didn't end up in a worse stability of mind than I already am; Helen Keller was one of those people I look up to despite my failed skill to outright express my admiration I hold for her.

The main reason I think of her in such amazement, was really because she made the most of her life even without most of her five senses; living to the fullest, and not once doubting herself because of her missing sensibility, but pushing herself harder for people

sharing the same state of both mind and body.

To really think about it, being less "skilled" is to be far more developed in what remaining senses you have; to be blind is to surpass pretty much everyone with the ability to see comparing their hearing; to be deaf is to be far more expressive with one's body language in a unique way; to be mute is to be all the more dependent on yourself and/or observant than a person able to speak freely.

Although the limits they face, one becomes creative with their way of imparting unlike most.

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Social interactions were always a bit hard without someone to help; it was just jerks of my wrist that weren't ASL to those who didn't understand the motions of the rather complicated positions of my fingers, or the way my eyes desperately tried saying something without actually saying something.

To speak was to feel like ripping out a bob in my throat that tightened like the hold of a vengeful enemy hissing vulgar words in the ears of a person whom carried themselves without an ounce of dignity when it came to something as simple as a mutter - that person was most indefinitely me.

Boy, was I lucky to find people with similar problems.

I shared an akin trait with those easily embarrassed; those filled with the same fear of what words would leave their mouths and how it would affect others their attention was directed towards - it was much more relieving being released of the pressure to smile with strained muscles and have to dramatically flair my gestures to widen their perspective from mine.

Being with these people really helped me cope with my dysfunction, and it certainly comforted my flow of mind when they returned my body language with their own gesticulations and a hurried scribbling of words down.

To most, it seemed racist in a way they couldn't understand because some of the people trying to understand my afflictions seemingly "mocked" me, but it was just opening a window from the shadows that haunted me of being mistaken for a passing disturbance - a gnat that gnawed at anyone and everyone's patience the longer I stuck around.

Maybe a bug wouldn't be so bad to handle, but treading on dangerous water with a heavy boat that didn't have an anchor, was threatening itself; especially coming from someone that can't look at one in the eye without blushing up a number, and it most of the time reeled people in to think I was hopelessly in love and at a loss for words around them - but I was just that way.

My built-in microphone was broken and mute, if not static that buzzed in the air any time I tried turning it on, or even speaking into it.

Feeling seen is something I strive for, but being seen is a whole other thing that should be left unspoken about; no matter how insistent the topic could be, especially when it being me, the spotlight I'd leave within the moment the light even started directing towards my direction.

Making people laugh, feel cared and listened to, or anything I could affect positively was a knack of mine like a mechanic fixing up a busted transmission; it took tools and time, but you need the situation in your hands before it could be snatched by someone else, and patched up it would later be thanks to the endless patience and brain complexity it came to solving the puzzle.

As I've just said; like a mechanic; it comes naturally, to the point you're asked how you do it, and just.. blank.

No one really knows how a habit starts, or how to end it, but only why it was looked upon, and why it stayed within the schedule; I don't really know how I even continue my life as a thread to communication, or how it developed me, but I know why it should be admired, and why I treat it the way I'd treat anyone else with a problem; assessed with some gentle coaxing, before roughing it up with light approaches.

Being mute isn't to be grinned upon, but not frowned either, maybe a pucker of the lips trying to escape a pronunciation I could not yet master.

In my case, laughter isn't the best medicine, and it probably never will be unless it's someone else's chuckle ringing in my ears, maybe then I'd feel just a bit more up at the fact I had just made someone smile.

Intoxicating, it was, though not as intoxicating as my coughing that made me feel as though dying on the spot and bust open my throat to remove the infectious itching that made me twitch like a madman when it crawled its way to my sore windpipe.

Oh, well, mute is mute.