03/10 Putting heartache into words.

      I was on the verge of saying I am clumsy with words.

      Strange, coming out of the mouth of the one who, by a succession of irrational fate only succeeded in the immaterial, utopic and chimeric world of litterature, words and poetry.

     I guess I am clumsy for everything but to put this flaw of mine's into words.

   I am sorry this post is going to be "depicting with no pictures".
But tonight I think I just realized something. Realized in both meanings of the word.

   I have pretty clear memories of my whole childhood, I wouldn't be able to tell which is the earliest memory of my life I can remember and this doesn't matter, as I know that it will come all in good time when required.

   When I was a child I had this "communication issue" they'ld say. In simple words the problem would be as follows: I refused speaking. At school this did pose somehow a problem, as you can guess, but worst, my parents were persuaded I got this unknown orphan disease. 

    Because you can of course refuse to speak to your teacher, because of being shy or introvert, but you can't indefinitely stare at your parents with no expression in your eyes, whenever they ask you a question, only if you're a mute...or dumb.

     So when I was 5, almost already 6 (but I remember I wasn't going to elementary school yet) my parents brought me to this "speech therapist".
     Understanding my "liberty of non-speech" was about to end, or at least to take a tragic turn with this fatal encounter, I just took a sit where I got asked to, and waited for mom to leave the room.
     With the door's mother-alike-soft slaping, I looked up at this unknown woman in front of me. I still remember every detail of that scene, the color of the room, the desk I got asked to sit fronting, the face, the hair color, the shape of this women's body, the handy stationery, the dress I was wearing and the flower's petal shaped collar of my blouse.

I looked at this woman and said :

-"Miss, I am not sick, I just don't wan't to speak with people",
-"Why not?" She asked me ('how silly' I thought)
-"Because this is such a waste of time, most people speak non-sense"
-"I see. Then I guess you don't want to discuss with me neither?"
I shook my head in a quiet "no"
-"Then we"ll make a deal" said the slightly podgy blond lady (when you don't speak, you have more time to contemplate I guess...) ''You're going to draw, do you like drawing?"
I nodded my head meaning a silent "yes"

The lady got out a long orange sheet of paper and a couple of felt-pens.
The image in my head says branded "Paintaleau".
Uncapping the brown one, I heared with an already distracted ear this woman, tight in her turtleneck white wool sweater, saying :
-"The deal is, each time your parents are going to bring you here, you'll be able to draw, in exchange, we'll both agree on saying to your parents that you're making good progress"


At that time I didn't realized the meaning of this "In exchange"
In exchange of what? Both ways were profitable to me. (The financially-innocent-me thought) and bending my shoulders over this new world I was granted, I silently agreed to...this non-sense.