Losing The Words

I have known two things all my life (or, at least, as long as I’ve been old enough to know anything at all, which is probably somewhere around 40 years or so). The first is that when I get really really angry (as opposed to just very angry), I stop the shouting and the noise, and I show my anger by being completely silent. The second is that when I’m really really really tired (as opposed to just rather worn out and wanting to go to bed), I am also totally silent and I need to get away from everyone and just curl up in a corner and go to sleep.

These two extremes, the furious anger leading to silence, and the utter exhaustion leading to silence have always been part of my life. The first situation, the extreme anger, has always been put down to stubbornness, stroppiness, and a general wilfulness and unwillingness to compromise or to say sorry. I remember numerous occasions where I was utterly steaming mad and my reaction was to scream and scream and then to just run away and go and be completely silent by myself. I recall an argument with my father, sometime in my teens – at the time I kept a diary, and I remember writing up the experience afterwards and being frustrated that “this was my Dad, who usually understood me and was so like me and I opened my mouth to try to talk to him and no words would come out”. I can picture the scene now, me lying on my bed in my parents’ house, following some furious argument, the subject of which I cannot remember. I just remember feeling really really bad and that I couldn’t make any words come at all, about anything, not to apologise, nor to continue the argument, nor anything.

Equally, there have been times throughout my life when I have collapsed with total utter exhaustion. My mother and I were discussing these times recently, which have been known since my early childhood as “zonking”. She cannot remember exactly when “zonking” started, but she thinks that it was sometime after we moved house when I was 5 years old. I remember “zonking” as a child. I remember the absolute feeling of exhaustion, of being unable to move, of, sometimes, literally, lying down wherever I happened to be at the time. If I tried to keep going I would be sick, and would feel like I was terribly ill and had something terribly bad happening to me. A couple of months ago when I was discussing these episodes with my mother, she said that she remembers how my eyes would glaze over and I would go completely silent and unresponsive and I absolutely refused anything at all to eat. She said that the first few times it happened they were rather worried about it because it seemed so strange, but that they observed that if they simply put me to bed and left me with a glass of water in case I got thirsty then I seemed absolutely fine again the next morning. So nothing was done (and, to be honest, nothing really could have been done – if they’d taken me to a doctor in the 1970s and described these episodes then the doctor would almost certainly have been as mystified as they were).

And “zonking” was just part of my life and it always has been. I had these phases where I needed to go to bed and be silent and alone and I couldn’t interact with the world and I couldn’t do anything about it. It often occurred at times when I’d been out a lot and very busy, or when I’d been to parties or was away from home. It happened throughout my early adulthood and I simply went home from wherever I was and put myself to bed. It happened after I was married and I simply told my husband that there was this thing I did called zonking and that there was nothing to be done but to leave me to sleep it off and I didn’t know why it happened or why I was always silent, but I just accepted that it was a thing I did.

And for over 40 years I was a silent angry person who zonked from time to time!

Until I started to investigate autism. Until I ran away to hide in a shed in the summer of 2016 and didn’t let anyone know where I was for a while because I knew I couldn’t interact with them. Until I told someone by facebook message not to send any food over to my tent yet because I knew I wouldn’t be able to thank them for bringing the food. Until I realised that the times when I had this severe exhaustion were times not when I WOULDN’T talk, but when I actually COULDN’T talk. Because I started to try, even though I didn’t feel like it, and I found that the words were gone. I hadn’t previously attempted to talk at these times (a few “arguments” aside, when I just assumed that being cross rendered people “speechless” and that was what was happening to me) because I’d just run away or gone to sleep or cried or whatever. But as I started to experiment and to see what was possible, I realised that there was a reason I’d been running away or taking myself to bed or whatever all my life.

My. Words. Were. Gone.

Since I discovered this I have been doing experiments, such as described in Can I Sing? I have tried to talk to see what happens – I can make sounds perfectly well, but I cannot make words. The revelation, after over 40 years that I have been having nonverbal (or, probably more accurately, nonspeech, though I believe nonverbal is the usual term) episodes all my life, is quite startling.

And, although being unable to speak might, at first, seem odd from the outside, and, in some ways, can be frustrating because the world is so geared up towards speech, it DOESN’T FEEL BAD. In fact, what makes me feel ill, and sick, and distressed, is the effort of trying to keep talking when my words have gone. When I try to continue to be social and to act “appropriately” I start to get ill, as I described in Sudden Illness. When I let go of the speech, and just abandon spoken words, the nausea, the bad feelings, and all the illness feelings go away, and I can feel my system start to recover, either from the meltdown (in the case of the “angry silence”) or the shutdown (in the case of the “extreme exhaustion”).

I can also often feel the slide down into wordlessness. My sentences start to jumble and my speech starts to become unorthodox and to fragment (I’ll do another post about speech, and my different levels of speech sometime). After a while I become monosyllabic, and then, gently, the words just go, sometimes for several hours at a time, and even overnight. Although my written words can often be quite a big effort during this time and don’t always flow fluently, I am often able to communicate by typing written words when I am completely unable to produce speech, as I have described in Silence.

I can also feel the return. Initially the speech that returns isn’t totally fluent, and is a bit disjointed, with one syllable at a time. Then it gradually builds up until it is fluent again.

I am still exploring this. I am still discovering. I am still analysing my speech patterns and still experimenting. I know the feeling of being unable to speak rather well – I have been experiencing that particular feeling all my life – but I am only just starting to understand it.

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