Breaking Free of a Voiceless Cell

I am sixteen years old and look the part, but I cannot talk to you about football, or video games or even what I want to eat for dinner.  I am a boy without a voice.

As a chubby faced toddler, I peered into the eyes of my mother, who stood before me, cookie in hand. The cookie stood between us like a silent invader. “Cookie,” my mother implored, “Just say it, Daniel. Just try.”  Her face spoke the words deep within her heart.  Her eyes gave voice to the despair that resonates every minute of the day when a child goes from angelic baby to struggling toddler.

But the word would not be spoken.  Not by me.  Nor did I speak the numerous words my parents begged me to utter. Swim, swing, pizza, ice cream, cupcake, pancake.  The favorite things of my childhood days were all there for the taking, if I only could say the word, but my mouth was my enemy.

The silent thoughts in my mind became the puzzle of my family’s existence.  Life became a battle between acceptance and perseverance.  Classrooms became a dreary part of my routine, as teachers presented lessons meant for a preschool child.  “Find the cat,” they would command, as the pictures lay before me like some mocking imposter of a friend who fills your life with seemingly positive intentions.

Just as my mouth served as a mysterious culprit, my fingers foiled every semblance of thought. I found pencils right before my eyes, but they were useless in my hands.  Like the broken wings of a bird, my fingers failed me.  Even pointing was a task too demanding.  The silly pictures all lined up in their precise rows became a chaotic swirl of colors as I willed my finger to follow the instructions in my mind.    

Years passed, and my faith began to faulter.  Life was monotonous.  I gradually came to believe that I never would be able to share even the most basic needs, much less the true passionate feelings of love for my family.  Help finally came in the form of a speech therapist named Erin. She sat across from me in her clinic with its brightly painted walls, her short hair styled like she just left a salon, stylish glasses propped on the rim of her nose, and she spoke to me, as if she could peer into my mind and see that it was brimming with knowledge. “Did you know he can spell and read lots of words?” she asked my mother. It was my life preserver in an ocean of abandoned hope.

            The moment was a turning point, though it would take many months before the optimism in Erin’s words was realized. My mother and I began a push and pull struggle, a war with my uncooperative body, made more complicated by the presence of uncertainty. “Spell, spell, spell,” she commanded, and the letters came in a variety of colors, sizes and materials. I began to believe I could overcome the monster within, the force that left me trapped somewhere in a world not one with my family’s. Gradually I found myself commanding the fingers that had never served me, and my mother began to urge me to type.  “Type it and you will get it,” she would say.  So I focused on the keys of an I-pad, and typed with the intensity of a surgeon.  Popsicle, popcorn, macaroni.  Her word was golden.  I got it all. 

            Books became the central focus of our days.  Listening to my mother read was a gift.  Her voice can convey such depth of emotion that stories come to life in my imagination.  She would pause as she read and asked a question about the story.  With each typed answer, my confidence grew, as did my mother’s faith. 

I believe that if not for my mother’s persistence I would continue to be imprisoned in a voiceless world.  For the entirety of my life, I would have been trying to be heard. Knowing that my family can now appreciate that I understand their every word fills me with renewed hope. Going to online school has changed my life. I no longer dread the future. The joy of being able to communicate cannot be expressed in words. It is immeasurable, but the moments when I finally shared words of love with the people who matter most will be the most memorable of my life. I  even have told my story on a blog with the hope of helping families like mine.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  I wrote this for my English class last year. I have not blogged in a while because I have been busy with school.