Verbally Challenged

I've never been particularly good at speaking. This first became apparent to me when I received low marks at school in reading aloud. Not that I didn't love reading. I spent more time reading than doing anything else besides sleeping. Even then, I would stay up so late reading that I would fall asleep with the light on. This would irritate my father, and he ended up installing a special wall light by the head of my bed just so that I'd have no excuse to leave the light on all night.

Anyway, I had trouble reading aloud in class. I knew how to spell the words. I knew how to pronounce them. I knew what they meant. No problem, right? Except all those little words kept disrupting my stream. You know, the kind that you don't even get to take credit for in Scrabble because they're so short ... a, and, the, to, from. The kind of words that my eyes just glanced over in my desire to find out what was going to happen next. Ridiculously, I had to learn to slow down and read ... each ... word. Which I did, since I didn't like low marks in the slightest.

Junior high school was a blur of Valley girl speak. I can't reminisce without wincing. The turning point came when I had to record the soundtrack to a bookreport filmstrip and realized how badly I'd been flogging the English language. From that point on I made a concerted effort to speak like (ya know) the girl I was ... someone who spent more time reading books than hanging out at the mall. My mother must have been grateful to hear intelligible conversation from her erstwhile alien daughter.

In high school, in my senior year, I tried out for a drama class. I was actually in the math/science magnet program, but there were lots of crossovers between us and the performing arts magent students. I was thrilled to learn that I was placed in the advanced drama class. Not so thrilled when the teacher demoted me to the intermediate class once she realized I'd had no previous theatre related classes, but I understood the rationale. I only remember one critique from that semester. "Dora, watching you do a scene is like viewing a beautiful foreign film. You emote and move so wonderfully, but I can barely understand a word you say!"

I didn't take drama the next semester, opting instead for the Peer Counselling class instead. Besides being in class with some of my closest friends, it was the place where I learned how to actively listen, and what it was like to be actively listened to. Give someone the space to talk. Listen. Reflect back. Clarify. Discuss possible options and what the person sees as the pros and cons of different courses of action. It was amazing to me. This wasn't like being condescended to by an adult. This wasn't bossing around my siblings. This wasn't the hyperbolic highs and lows of pubescent chatter. This was a refining process that brought positive change.

In college, I had a tight-kknit group of friends ... all of whom had remarkable verbal talents and drama enough to use said talents. I found my role not so much as a talker, but as a confidant and sounding board. I worked my way up to a few leadership roles, which did require a lot of verbalization, but it was more motivational or organizational talk. One group adviser even complimented me on being good on my feet when it came to speaking to the group. Which was good and fine, but I can remember feeling frustrated at not having someone to actively listen to me about matters that really, well, mattered.

Fast forward about a decade ...

Yesterday I went for a pre-deposition meeting. The parents of a patient I cared for for two shifts a number of years ago is suing the hospital (where I no longer work). It's strange to be involved in the case, since I don't remember the patient at all, and have only my charting to remind me of what happened. The lawyer for the hospital had me come in to review what types of questions the plaintiff's lawyer might ask. In this situation it's crucial to understand the question in its entirety, answer only the direct question, and give no additional information. I find this to be very difficult. I want to elaborate, to find reasons why, to give examples of similar circumstances, to explain all the nuances of why things are done a certain way. And I shouldn't. As an example question, the hospital attorney asked me if I knew what time it was. I looked at my watch and said that it was a quarter to 11:00. WRONG! Without having looked at my watch, I should have answered, "No." I feel myself hamstrung, and have a hard time answering at all. I leave, frustrated at trying to limit my answers.

Later that night, at DOT, I find myself frustrated in an entirely different way. AA, an LDS therapist in the area, came to talk about her practice and process. She does not work for LDS Social Services, but her patient population varies from 50-80% LDS. She has an atypical social history in the church, and has had occassional bouts of friction with her ward and leaders. She practices Narrative Therapy, a form of psychotherapy that focuses on the telling of the patient's story, deconstruction of key events and people, and retelling as a way to empower the individual. This resonated very strongly with me. I've always felt that I am a very powerful person, even if I don't always use that power. I tend to think that I have all the abilities I need to change my life, and that where I fail is the lack of impetus or desire. I do what brings me joy, even if it's an unhealthy joy. I'm an optimist, and I feel that positively framing the events of my life gives me power over negativity.

And yet, as I participated in the discussion, asked questions and tried to make statements, I felt incredibly thwarted in my ability to say what I felt. It all just seemed to come out wrong. At one point, I wanted to ask how her stance in the church affected her ability/objectivity to counsel clients who decide that they don't want to be involved in the church anymore. When she started answering, I realized that she hadn't understood my question. And by the time she had finished (I didn't interrupt, mostly because I hate interrupters), someone else more succintly asked the same question.

And I realize again that I have trouble speaking about my deepest emotions. I almost never speak about the things that matter most in group settings. When I do tend to talk about these things, it's most likely to be in situations where I feel that I will be actively listened to ... one on one, in a quiet place, when I'm with the rare friend who gives me space to talk, and listens, reflects back what I'm saying, asks questions to help clarify my thoughts, presents options, and lets me make my own decisions when I'm ready. This is rare. There are not many people who are able to listen in this manner without injecting their own prejudices or projecting their own experiences. I confess that it's rare for me to listen in this manner, particularly when it's a close friend. Yes, it's rare, and magnificent.

(P.S. AA also said that LDS clients are demanding and cheap, although she phrased it in a much nicer way. We're generally taught to be self-sufficient. Sometimes more able to give than receive help. Sometimes she'll get clients that have struggled in relationships for decades, who want to resolve issues in two sessions. There's also the idea that one shouldn't be paying so much to just talk, because that's what home/visiting teachers and bishops are for. Also, our ideas on family are also tangled up in our ideas of salvation for spouse and children, close community ties, and personal and communal expectations. Anyway, I can imagine that LDS folk would rather see an LDS therapist, since there's so much framework to explain to those unfamiliar with LDS culture.)