When I was 10, I realised
that I could do accents. Imitating others’ speech came naturally to me. Being
able to make other people laugh has given me great confidence. But at roughly
the same age, I realised that I had a stammer. It was pretty bad back then. It
has improved a great deal since, but my speech problems still persist even
though I’ve found ways to hide it. But today it choked me at the worst possible
moment.
This morning I sat down
for the first large lecture of the new year at university. The class was full
of people – perhaps 100 beautiful, bright, good, young people. The lecturer
asked everyone in class to introduce themselves by quickly saying their names,
where they are from and what they did before coming to university. The lecturer
was friendly but asked us all to be quick. The word ‘quick’ set off
inexplicable panic within me. He said, “make sure you are ready to speak when
the previous person finishes, so we can move quickly through the class”. How
can something as simple as introducing oneself to one’s peers cause panic? I
have been getting up in front of audiences and telling jokes since I was 20.
But this morning I couldn’t even complete a sentence.
So one by one, all these
incredibly talented, confident students began introducing themselves in 10
seconds or less. It went like clockwork. It was like a wave. It started from
the back and the wave of introductions worked its way down to the middle row,
just behind me. I knew what I was going to say, “I’m Shravan from India and I
used to be a journalist with Forbes Magazine”. The wave seemed to gain speed as
it approached me. “I’m going to be clear,” I told myself, “I’m going to say
this simple sentence.” I saw everyone’s eyes fixed on the speaker before me.
Their gaze was kind but unerring. My heart began to beat fast. I can feel my
heart beating fast even as I write this. The girl before me finished her
introduction and suddenly everyone was looking at me. I breathed deeply but that’s
when the tsunami took me. I was suddenly under-water. On one side was me,
looking up at the surface at the class on the other side. It was like swimming
in the sea and looking up at the birds circling above. I was disconnected from
them. I wanted to speak but I was choking. My mind was with them but my mouth
was filled with water.
I managed to splutter out
the first part: I’m Shravan from…. My mind wanted to say ‘India’ but my mouth
wouldn’t let me. I knew after years of stammering that the opening “I” in
“India” was not going to happen so I quickly switched to “Mumbai” and luckily
the “M” was working so I was able to say it. So far so good. I was approaching sea-level.
But then I began truly choking: my lungs filled up and was sinking again,
spiralling downwards into the abyss of indecision. The problem was clear: I was
caught between saying “I used to write for Forbes” and “I used to be a
journalist”. My mind was thinking so unnecessarily far ahead. Is it too pompous
to say Forbes? Would they judge me? At the core of my stammering is insecurity.
It is insecurity about being wrong, about being disliked and about dismissed. My
dad and mum have both tried to help me with my stammer and what I’ve come to
realise is that my stammer comes from two primary sources: indecisiveness about
what I’m going to say and the deep insecurity I just mentioned. My dad showed
me a technique where I need to say affirmations like “I have nothing to
defend”. For a while, I used to say those affirmations but I don’t think I put
my heart into them and I stopped trying. So I know that stammering is my fault
and no one else’s. And in that lecture hall this morning, I really didn’t have
anything to defend. I was just as justified in being in that room as anyone
else. I shouldn’t have overanalysed my sentence. But I did and so here I was,
swept under the wave of embarrassment.
I have this new tick
where instead of s-s-s-stammering the start of the word, I try and find
alternatives that I know I can say. If I’m unable to find those synonyms in
that split second, then I cover my face and close my eyes as if I’m yearning
deeply, strenuously for some long forgotten memory. And so that’s what I did. I
spluttered and stuttered with uhhs and umms and errs and all the while I felt
us, as a class, cringe collectively. We were all one body of young people,
watching this guy trying to speak and willing him to finish. Stammering is an
out-of-body experience because the cerebral part of you – the mind – is
watching the nervous part of you (in every sense) flounder. Under the ocean, I
was a Flounder.
My heart was racing, I
was sweating. I hate my body for many reasons but prime among them is that it
reacts so viscerally to the most fleeting misdemeanour. Finally, after what
seemed like a life-time, I bit the bullet and tried to say “journalist”. Just
one word. I was forcing through the “j” and so I stammered. J-j-j-journalist. I
opened my eyes as if to let everyone know that I was back from the depths of
meek misadventure and they class could move on.
And the class did move
on. They rattled off their intros like a well-oiled machine. The lecturer thanked
the class and rained platitudes on us about how amazing and diverse we all
were. He then continued with his lecture. But I was left there, stewing in my
own self-pity. Why can’t I speak! Why can’t I talk! I just want to talk
normally like everyone. If you wake up in the morning and your mouth says what
your mind tells it to, then I truly envy you.
This is what all my
friends say: “but Shravan we can hardly notice it – I think it’s completely
gone!” Maybe it doesn’t manifest itself as such a big deal to others around me.
For everyone else in the lecture hall that morning, it was 10 seconds of some
guy who doesn’t have his shit together. For me, it’s all I can think about for
hours. The shame and humiliation of not being able to do something that everyone
else does naturally. Let’s be clear: I don’t consider this a disability worthy
of anyone’s pity and my life has been granted obscene privilege - my health,
loving family, friends, money, education and Level 82 Gyarados. I always question
how much of my stammer is simply being ill-prepared and how much is an actual
mental disability. I err with the former because for the majority of the time,
I’m able to speak pretty well.
And there are three
occasions when I speak absolutely flawlessly: When I’m with a girl, when I’m
drinking and when I’m doing stand-up. When I was dating my last girlfriend, she
told me that I literally never stammered around her. I felt so comfortable,
accepted and respected that I didn’t have anything to defend or prove. But I
have to be able to excel without constant adulation from someone else. When I’m
in party-mode and a few drinks down, I feel confident and spontaneous. I trust
my lips to carry out the orders issued by my wits. But while alcohol gives me
temporary eloquence, it has also given me the worst experiences of my life when
I’ve had too much. The last one – when I’m telling jokes and performing for
people – is the most interesting case and something I’ll try to do more
research on.
Over the years I’ve
sought help from various people, including a hypnotherapist (which
you can read about in a piece I wrote when I was 18).
I’ve never been able to pin-point why
I stammer, but recently I got some good advice on how to over-come it. We had a workshop in public speaking at my
university and the instructor told me to approach everything like I was about
to do a gig. I should psyche myself up like I’m about to entertain an audience
because then I don’t think about speaking. It does work. But it can also feel
forced. Do I always need to be in “please
like me” performer mode – even when I’m with my friends? I can’t keep that
up.
I’ve also never been in a
situation in the workplace where I’ve been unable to do a task because of my
stammer. If I need to speak to someone important, I make sure I’ve backed
myself with all the knowledge I can get and then trust in the fact that I’m
coming from a good place of genuineness and sincerity. I just can’t figure out
why it’s become so bad at university. I feel like I belong here. I felt like I belonged in that class.
It’s funny actually
because I actually didn’t belong in
that class. I ended up dropping that course because it was way, way too easy
for me. All that drama for nothing. At least I have my Level 82 Gyarados.
