A letter to 11 year old me
Dear little me, I’m watching you in the videotape you made. I don’t think you realize that you will watch this tape in 21 years, but here we are. You’ve got the wide-eyed wonder of an 11 year old but the worries of someone way beyond your years. Watching you stutter, or rather, avoid stuttering, by contorting your body to try to get the word out breaks my heart. You panic, because being out of control of your speech is scary. You continue to have that recurring dream. The one where you’re screaming for help at the top of the steps but nothing comes out. Your mouth is open, the scream is loud, but only in your head, because your voice is silent. I know you hate being 11. Not because it means starting middle school, but because 11 is the hardest number to say. Your tendency is to hide – to internalize, to prevent the world from seeing you struggle. I know you’re scared of growing up. Anticipating what life will be like in 10 years. If you will open your mouth to say something in a big gi