Dear Richa,
It’s a bit odd to write Dear Richa, but all letters start that way.
Because you’re my neighbour and you’ll be going to my school, you should probably know why I don’t talk.
The most important thing to tell you is: I want to talk, but I can’t talk.
They call it Selective Mutism, or SM. I hate that name. I wish I didn’t have it, but I do.
My vocal cords and everything work. I talk at home, almost as much as Brianne and Ryan do, but my voice sounds loud to me when it comes out and I don’t like it.
I don’t know why I can’t talk when I’m not at home. There are lots of things that don’t make sense and are difficult to explain.
I don’t remember a time before SM, but Mum says it began when I started school. I can read and write really well and that’s sort of taken over my talking, replacing it.
When I try to speak to someone who isn’t family the words get stuck. If feels as if my throat is too tight, like someone is squeezing it.
It can hurt.
Panic and worry and horrible thoughts swirl around inside me. Sometimes I can hear the words I want to say getting louder and mixing together inside my head with nasty thoughts.
Sometimes the SM is like a bully saying hurtful things to me: I’m stupid or useless, and the more I try to beat the bully and push out the words, the worse it gets.
My body can get stuck.
When I freeze I feel horrible, worrying about everyone watching and thinking I’m a freak. It’s better not to be seen at all. The worst thing for me is everybody staring.
One day I will beat my SM.
I can dance, I’m a good dancer, and even though at the moment because of my SM I can’t dance in front of an audience, one day I want to perform in The Lion King. That’s why I really liked it when you said my hair was like a lion’s mane.
Don’t worry – I know that nobody can be friends with someone who can’t talk. I understand if I don’t see you again. I just wanted to try and explain.
Bye.
Leo
(the trampoline boy from next door).
This letter is my ninth or tenth try. Our recycling bin has lots of ripped up or scribbled out attempts. It took ages, hours of embarrassing effort that felt pointless at times. I hate the fact it’s not perfect, but I can’t keep starting over because it’s tying my stomach up in knots.
I leave the letter folded under my pillow most of the weekend, then I show it to Ryan. He cuffs me on the shoulder after reading it and says, ‘That’ll do the trick, Bruv. Nice one.’
To be extra safe, I show it to Brianne. Her eyes go all gooey when she reads it. When she says, ‘Perfect’ to me, her voice cracks.
After that I put it into one of Mum’s fancy envelopes that she uses for important letters. I lick it, taking in the lovely new paper smell and stick it down. Then I write RICHA on the front and, because I can’t risk anyone catching me, Brianne is the one who posts it through next door’s letter box.
After that I worry and worry about what I’ve done, but it’s too late by then to change it.