A few days before my eighth birthday, my parents took me to a child psychologist. I stuttered. The psychologist did the things that an intelligent and introverted child expects: draw your family, draw your mother, your home. Then he spoke with my parents and, when we left, I found two parents who were not those I remembered, those of an hour before, in short. My mother listened to me, my father smiled. They talked to each other. They smiled talking to each other. Not good, I thought, who are these? This curious situation lasted half a day.
On my birthday, they were already ignoring each other again, and they began to ignore me again. My mother resumed her grudges, resting momentarily on the desk of the psychologist and put them back in her flowery-shaped dress. My father took his feelings of guilt and returned to keep busy for not think: the garden, the books, then the TV.
The cause of stuttering is not clear: they say anxiety, repressed anger, inheritance. In fact, I felt like stumbling with words because I wanted to be heard for a while a little longer and I had so much to say. But it did not happen that someone listened to me. That they would listen to me. It almost never happened.
At my house, we are very silent.
All images © Katia Morichetti
By Katia Morichetti