Way of a Staccato Speaker

Imagine being caught in mid-blink. Eyelashes frozen, quivering...eyes staring in desperation.

That's how I speak. I have ideas, delighting in their form, anecdotes that may bring us closer, observations waiting to make a difference...
But I will stumble mid-sentence...mid word. My breath will break into pigeon-hole syllables. My tongue will shrivel, my mouth fills up with irregular moisture.

They gave me reasons. The divorce, the change-over from left-hand to right-hand, insecurity, nerves.
I believed all of them. And then stopped.
I went to therapy. To speech pathologists. I did exercises o regulate my breathing and relax my muscles. I suppose they helped.
I don;t like to read aloud. But I gave a book-reading for 50-odd people. I gestured, stuttered, panted through it. A teacher came up to congratulate me. I told her it had taken guts. I'm not sure I didn't mean that literally.
I sometimes twist my words so as to avoid the pitfall alphabets. 'm', 't', 'b', 'k'. I talk best when I'm drunk, when I'm sick and when I'm sleepy. I've develped alternative means of communication. Writing, gestures, touch. I've given recitations and done theatre with all my love.

My world consists of those who mimic and those who understand. Those who ask and those who avert. Those who listen with sympathy...and those who just listen...