I think I mentioned a few posts ago that I wanted to do an OU course on religion and controversy but was having problems due to one of the assignments being a spoken presentation. I was told that arrangements could be made so the course would be accessible to me. I found out that, for those arrangements to be made, I had to register with the OU as being disabled. I have done so, as I really want to do the course, but I did it with very mixed feelings. I've had a stammer since I was 11 years old (the reasons are another story), but now have it more or less under control so it only tends to show when I'm tired, nervous, or had a few too many. (I'm the only person in the pub that gets quieter as the night goes on...) I don't see it as a disability. Yes, it holds me back - I would love to be able to phone people on the spur of the moment, but phones are a stammerer's worst enemy. Yes, people have judged me on it - lack of words seems to equal lack of brains in some people's opinions.
When I started working at school, I knew I wasn't going to get away with hiding things for long, so made the decision, for the first time, to tell a select few colleagues about the problem (I don't stammer in front of the children for some reason). The result? They didn't care, which was such a relief and surprise that I wondered why I'd tried to hide everything for the previous 20-something years. I think the only staff member that's truly seen me in action is the school secretary, when she took a call for me and passed the phone over. After seeing me standing in tortured silence, she now drops everything to make calls for me, for which I love her dearly.
I can't stand Dr Seuss, but this
turned out to be true.
I would like to go to OU tutorials and amaze fellow students with my verbal dexterity, but I went to one and made an idiot of myself, and once was enough. Actually, it wasn't such a bad experience as I met a fellow sufferer. She was a rather scary-looking girl around my daughter's age who was paired up with me for discussions. We had to introduce ourselves to each other. Why do so many courses start that way? I like learning things, but hate going on courses for school because I dread that first 'ice-breaker' from the moment I sign up (which is sometimes weeks in advance). I tend to end up going to courses with fellow teaching assistants, and we've often made great plans on how my colleague will go first, and then kind of introduce me at the same time. Sometimes it works. Other times, they've started at the wrong end of the table and I end up having to go first. I went on a course with the Boss Lady once, (on staff well-being, ironically) at which there were over a hundred people. No problem, I thought. No way are they going to ask all these people to introduce themselves. But they did. Our table was near the back, so I had ages in which to work myself into a cold sweat. I got so anxious, the Boss Lady asked if I was ok. She said later that she thought I was going to pass out. Now that's a good one - I may try that next time. Anyway, back to the OU disaster. My punky partner and I made attempts to introduce ourselves to each other. 'Sorry, I'm rubbish at this,' I said, 'I've got a stammer.' 'Me too,' she answered and so we got on fine, and broke the tutor's rules by writing everything down. Her stammer was caused by MS, which made my problem seem tiny by comparison. We got into trouble through laughing and writing notes to each other and both decided never to go to another tutorial again.
Whilst looking for Creative Writing inspiration, I found this article which explains everything better than I can. It's a few years old and starts by mentioning the film The King's Speech, which I found incredibly hard to watch, and continually cried through, making the Husband and Son Number Two want to move seats in the cinema.
Anyway, I've written far too much, perhaps bolstered by the bit in the article about how a stammer can make writing such an enjoyable experience. I don't see it as a disability, though. I think in some ways it's been the making of me.
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