I talk for a living, but I cannot speak. I’m not mute, my voice box can form sounds, and the relevant areas of my brain (Broca and Wernke’s) function perfectly well. But I cannot speak.
I haven’t spoken to you in twelve years.
Neither of us is dead.
I am a writer, and it is only through my hands that words become true. The sounds that I make are rarely true sounds. They are scripted, declarative, procedural. I can lecture and teach, but I cannot use my mouth to form the right words. When I like a person, I cannot tell them that I like them, and instead I use my mouth to fill the air with ideas that filter through me but are not from me. I can talk about the history of criminology, baroque music, renaissance art, the current geo-political situation. But I cannot speak the truth inside of me.
So, I haven’t spoken to you in twelve years. For those who don’t know my why, I am at best, a gullible child influenced by nefarious elements, or at worst, a cruel and ungrateful daughter.
Evil.
We are all born with such potentiality, an encoding so once we are ready to walk, we walk. And then we run, and then there are the fine motor skills. I was born able to speak, but my voice was bound before I could ever learn the resonance of my spoken words. Yes, not foot binding but voice binding. This is the best way to describe it.
By using this phrase, ‘voice binding,’ I can explain why I haven’t spoken to you for over ten years. I am not being spiteful. I am afraid. I am an educated woman, reliant on only herself.
But you terrify me, and I cannot speak.
Excerpt from “A debt that can’t be repaid” (Non fiction work in progress)
Word upon Word 