I like to think that words hold each other’s hands like best friends, it seems like a reasonable explanation for the spasms that sometimes visit when I open my mouth to speak; the uncontrollable repetition of words joined side-by-side not unlike Siamese twins.

There are days when save for its reluctant shadow, I am convinced that my stutter has left me. Days when I am smug that I don’t miss it as much as it must miss me. Days when I am pleasantly surprised that our destinies weren’t as intertwined as they seemed after all.

Then, there are those days when it comes back and settles down comfortably onto the couch that is my tongue, like it never left at all, and I simply carry on with indifference. It is what it is.

When I was younger, the repetitions made me self-conscious, the thought of addressing unfamiliar people made my blood freeze even before my vocal cords froze. I was anxious because I stuttered and I stuttered because I was anxious. If a snake swallows its own tail…

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