My husband and I recently saw, and I was deeply moved by, the movie, "The King's Speech," with Colin Firth playing Bertie, who became King George VI of England when his brother abdicated the throne for Wallis Simpson. Bertie suffered from stammering, as he called it. I always called it "stuttering." The movie portrayed his struggles to speak fluently to his public, and his sometime stormy relationship with his speech therapist, played by Benjamin Rush. His wife was supportive and nonjudgmental.
I too stuttered badly well into my 50's. Although I am still a stutterer, I seldom stutter anymore. I so identified with Bertie and his struggles. I saw his body convulse as he tried to get past the block. I winced in my own pain when his father became very impatient with him, and called out one help after another ("Relax, Just get on with it!" and others.") I also identified with him as the words might come rushing out, especially if he had not really
planned to say them. My own journey was similar. As child, my stuttering did not upset me, but as I got older, it bothered me more and more, and that fear and shame--that I would stutter--made it impossible for me to speak fluently.
I remember trying to give a report in journalism class at school, and I stuttered on about every word, and really could not give it. My teacher kindly asked me if I would like to try again the next day, and I did and was able to give the talk--I suppose the worst had already happened. I would give reports to my book group and stutter throughout. I recall being asked to introduce myself at meetings and stuttering, and people saying, "What's the matter, did you forget your name?" I didn't speak up in class in high school or in college, even though I wanted to. There was one dear elderly teacher in whose class I must have relaxed, and so I could participate. I was often afraid to make phone calls, because people would have to wait on the other end while I was blocked. People would often supply the word they thought I was trying to say. It was often the wrong word and, although well meant, was somehow humiliating. There were many, many very painful times throughout my life.
I began to heal in someway, when I returned to college to get my MA in Psychology. I began to give small talks, often telling my audience that there may be pauses because I stuttered--which relaxed me and I usually didn't stutter much. Each step in that direction was a step to lessening my fear and shame. But the main reason for my healing was that I married a man who didn't care if I did/or if I did not stutter; I was fully loved for who I was. He would help me if I wanted him to or leave me be if I didn't need his help. I began to heal my shame.
As I look back on my stuttering journey, and remember the movie, I feel deep compassion for both Bertie and me, and honor the tremendous courage we each demonstrated over and over again as we tried again.
