I'm here

I grew up in a family of seven,

five kids including me.

So when our parents asked the ever so common question, "How was your day?"

Each of us had a lot to say.

We chatted over the top of each other with untied shoelace tongues tripping over the words in our mouth. 

Our stories tended to fall on deaf ears because honestly you couldn't hear a single story. We were a bowl of spaghetti, you couldn't just get one piece without pulling up another. 

So my mother began asking us one by one. 

"How was your day?"

Addressing each child in their chair, gradually working down the line.

We used to go on roadtrips, and with a lot of kids in one small car we started calling role call.

We assigned numbers to names, eldest to youngest, and being number four out of five it took some time to get to me.

My parents used to worry about my schooling.

Because instead of going 1 2 3 4 5.

It would turn into 1, 2, 4...3, 5

Or 1, 4, 2, 3, 5

Or 1, 2,  3, 5...what happened to four?

And often they would have to remind me that four came after three. 

But my report card spoke to the contrary with a stamped B where it was labeled MATH. 

The counting was reinforced at the dinner table when I was so full of what I wanted to say it spilled out of my mouth, because it took too long to make a single rotation around the table.

My mother would remind me it was another's turn to speak, and ask me to count to ten in my head before I said anything.

So I counted in my head and waited until it was my turn.

Speaking of turns, I often spoke out of it. My mouth, a car without a steering wheel that tended to get stuck in fifth gear. 

And I was often told it wasn't my turn, to raise my hand, to sit down. 

I heard a saying once that if you get told something enough you start to believe it.

I read another that stated your beliefs are who you are.

So that became who I was. 

I still chatted incessantly, and told stories to anyone who listened to me

But when it was time to be loud, I faded away

My choir teacher would always insist I raise my voice

My drama teacher would remind to project

My english teacher who constantly told me to be quiet in class wrote on my papers in all caps "GOOD VOICE" and he submitted one to a contest where I won.

And I learned that speaking is only okay when someone decided to listen. 

I didn't raise my hand, I didn't speak out of turn, I just didn't have anything to say.

I counted to ten each time someone spoke and by the time I reached the final number another person had already begun. 

I co-authored stories instead of writing my own. 

I never thought this to be a problem until I sat in therapy.

I had my legs crossed, fingers laced, back straight when she asked me "how can you sit there calmly?"

To which I replied, "do you want me to cry?"

She explained that I have a symptom of anxiety.

Called overrealization/depersonalization.

Where I remove myself from each situation, from reality.

So when hard things happen they don't feel real, making it easier to deal with the world around.

A common symptom: speaking and wondering if I actually said something.

I will respeak, repeat, rethink.

Because if no one acknowledges you do you really exist?

Respeak. Repeat. Rethink.

If no one listens to you, did you really say something?

Respeak. Repeat. Rethink.

I grew up learning to be seen and not heard. Respeak, repeat, rethink. My quiet conversation the tree that falls in the middle of the forest that no one chooses to hear. Respeak, repeat, rethink.

And I've produced this fear that I will begin to fade away.

So I'm taking this chance to say, I'm here.

I'm here. I'm here. I'm here.

And I have a lot to say.