Middle school was the height of my existence. I stuttered but it was just a part of how I spoke. It was never a defining characteristic. I was happy. I was teased now again. Typical school-children making their silly remarks and smiling at my stammers and exchanging glances trying not to laugh as if they had just passed a dirty note in church. But I expected it. I was hurt by it, but it never got me down. I knew they were clueless. I saw myself as classy, intelligent, joyful, and loving. I believed those qualities made me better than the children that sank so low as to make fun of my speech, and I was the better for it.
This tradition continued on in some ways when I began high school. There was a comment here and there and handful of stifled giggles, but I had already begun my war with depression and was hardened by it, making me strong enough to stand up to the ignorant snakes that would kick me while I was already so far down. I left high school at a sprint that would make a cheetah drop her jaw.
Then there was relief. There was a great and wonderful peace in the few months after high school and even during my first semester of college. I was at peace with my speech. I had the courage to stand up in front of my English class to do a presentation. No one commented. No one exchanged glances. No one stifled a laugh. They understood. I loved college and I was flying.
Everything was different.
Everyone understood.
No one laughed.
I could live the life I always wanted.
I was wrong.
