Dear Journal

Dear Journal,

Trying to speak is like trying to take off my own nails with pliers. Painful and torturous.

It’s not for lack of trying. I used to try all the time. I just physically can’t.

I suffered from an infection that damaged my vocal cords and causes constant throat pain. Speaking is like a thousand hot spikes are piercing my throat at once. It’s not a feeling you get used to. And each time I open my mouth is one hell of a painful reminder.

But, dear journal, you don’t know what I was like before. I loved the sound of my own voice. As crass as that sounds. I was the talker, the hostess, and the singer. I was known for my loud, contagious laugh. One that you could distinguish from a mile away.

I was desperate to regain my voice. I sought out the best healthcare I can afford, but I failed every treatment options. I have been told, in different ways, one horrible truth; this is my life now.

Another truth I have learned; People are uncomfortable with comforting. In trying to console me , everyone would say how lucky it was to only have a “speaking issue.” Since, I didn’t technically lose any of my primary senses; see, touch, hear, and smell — that I am still fully intact.

How can I be fully intact if I can’t speak? Isn’t that what makes us human?

I’ve been given endless advice on communication methods. And tried it all. I used to carry a white board at first. At first it sounded ingenious- my parents loved it0 but it became tedious. Constantly lugging my board everywhere. I’ve tried notebooks as well, which was another dead end, and so I resorted to typing on my phone. It was incredibly annoying and tiresome. No matter how I phrased things, I never got the tone right. I would get questioning looks on whether I was trying to be mean, funny, or sincere. It caused some miscommunications and exasperation. 

As I said before, I genuinely loved making people laugh. I was with my friends and a moment came up, perfect for a joke. I furiously typed it out, and before I can show it to anyone, the moment passed. Everyone moved on laughing at something else. I guess the joke’s on me.

And so, I moved on to the obvious. ASL.

The thing no one tells you about learning sign language is that it only helps if your village learns it, too. But no one did. Not my family, nor my friends. I was given a parade of excuses; too busy, will get to it eventually, too old, and too complicated. Mostly, I believe the real truth was they didn’t feel learning was necessary just for me. That the burden of communication was on me, and me alone. 

Sure, they thought it was great for me to learn, and got a kick out of seeing my “hand signals,” But it was difficult. They didn’t know what I was really trying to say and so, they started to ignore me or worse; pretend to pay attention. But I would see their eyes glaze over, as if ready to be done with my show and tell. Then they would cycle between nodding and smiling. Each time felt like a cut against my heart that eventually scarred over. Without the practice, I lost that ability too. 

I should have sought out others similar to me, but I was stubborn. I convinced myself I didn’t belong anywhere else, but the world I came from. I didn’t want things to change and could not admit to myself things were different. That I was irrevocably different. I clung to the false hope that I would get better. With time, that hope became like a dwindling light. And when those I held most dear to me, didn’t bridge the gap, that light was extinguished. I became completely mute to where now I am the one who smiles and nods. This is what I have been diminished to for two years. Two years of living in silence.

I am alone with only you, dear journal, to speak to. You, a non-sentient being of paper, know more about me now than anyone. And after years of my silence , I have been reduced to a shell of myself, half-forgotten. 

Forgotten from my “closest” friends. Forgotten, like the fact that I’m allergic to shellfish. Yet, they still tried to shove a plate in my face at the latest gathering. I saw the mixture of seafood on the plate and could already feel my body on fire, my throat tightening. 

I shook my head violently and used my hands trying to mimic an allergic reaction. That got a big laugh. I immediately panicked so I resorted to past habits, and I laughed as well. But with my throat being a cheese grater from the damage I sustained, it came out distorted. I sounded like a squeaky, wheezy, chipmunk, which caused more of a ruckus. 

Their roaring laughter triggered hot, stinging pain of tears, which they assumed from laughter. I looked at them pleadingly to see my pain, but their shrieking mouths and pats on my back did not sway that notion. I barely escaped the humiliation, hugging the wall until I found an exit where I was able to freely slump to the ground in silent sobs. 

Bringing up this memory to you, dear journal, the words blur as I wipe away new tears that have fallen. At first, I thought the hardest pain to bear would be physical. Unfortunately, I know now that this pain is much more unbearable.

I’m afraid you are the only true friend I have right now. And since you cannot speak back, I guess you could say, I am my only true friend in this world.

I do not know why, after all this time, to put down my words to paper. I think because I feel myself wasting away. Like a ghost slowly vaporizing into nothing.

I fear if I don’t write, I will lose my ability for words completely.

What would happen then?

Will my mind become just as silent?

And if I can’t communicate, do I even exist?