Sometimes, when I’m trying to explain to people the intense anxiety I feel when I have to use my voice in public, the best I can do is tell them it’s like being a vampire. Just as a vampire can’t see themselves in the mirror, I must speak without hearing myself, and reader, for this introvert it’s an exercise in weird.

Because I used to have average hearing, my voice can usually get the job done—people tell me “but you speak so well!” (hi, not actually a compliment!) or ask me where I’m from (France is one I get a lot?) Usually, I’m told I’m too quiet (I can’t judge background noise well). But all of this is secondary to the existential weirdness—the feeling of being disconnected from my “voice,” the very thing that is supposed to be so singularly representative of me.

This is what I love most about ASL, and about writing: I can see myself again. In ASL, my body literally becomes my thoughts. In writing, I can see what I’ve said right there on paper. And even better, I can go back and change it to make it better.

Micromanager here