“The Trouble With Ears”

They never asked why I didn’t answer them when they spoke, because mostly I never heard them at all. I didn’t know the sound of their voice or what music even was. I didn’t know what the word ‘sound’ meant until I was fourteen years old. I couldn’t play the guitar, I didn’t even know what it did. Just a bunch strings on a metal contraption that made no sound to me because I couldn’t hear. It had been eight years since I had spoken a word, the sound of my voice something I would never know.
A pad and paper was easier to communicate with than with sign language. Many people these days did not know how to many the signs, rendering it useless it day-to-day life. It was not like I did not know how to speak, of course I did. My parents had paid for countless speech therapists that ended up just being wasted money.
I still refused to speak. Pronouncing words did more harm than good, the sympathy in their eyes was just enough to p--- me off. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know what was wrong with me. People could say they were sorry for me, apologies falling upon a man who never listened, though that wasn’t intentional. If they weren’t feeling sorry for me, they were laughing at me. The way I talked wasn’t normal, for I couldn’t correct myself when I barely knew what I was saying. It was birth defect that had cursed me since my first cry as a child.
My ears were just useless pieces of skin and cartilage on the side of my head. Eardrums meant nothing to me when they didn’t work. Sometimes I wanted to rip the things off the side of my head, for all the feature had ever caused me was pain. The trouble with ears that didn’t work was that they were simply ornaments on the side of my head, a feature that didn’t tell you anything about who I was. Just because I was different did not mean I was bad.
When I was younger I didn’t realize how bad my genetics had screwed me over. I could pretend to almost be a normal kid, though there were obstacles that I couldn’t get around. I tried to make friends, be nice and loving. Open and caring, though I didn’t quite know what those words meant.
Laughing and playing with other children was a joy, though I couldn’t hear if my jokes made any impact. Toys were toys, they worked the same no matter what was wrong with the person connected to the hand that held them.
Eight years old was when I decided not to speak. A hard decision for a young child, since we relied on our voice to cry out for help. It was a while before I learned that people preyed on the weak and if you cried out, help wouldn’t come. Bullies were everywhere, laughing, pointing, even going as far as physical violence. Bruises were constantly littered all over my body, though I did my best to cover them. I did not want to worry my mom. I did not want her to know that I was weak.
It was as if I was at a constant battle with myself. Part of me wanted to raise my voice, tell someone, anyone, that I needed help. Another part of me thought it was best to keep silent, to not worry anyone other than myself. But one side had swords and the other armed with guns. It was not a surprise when I no longer wondered who would win.

The past was the past, though I struggled with the darkness on my back every single day. I tried to contain it, to be happy and uplifting to other. No one else deserved to bear the weight of my issues. Issues that were barely apparent, as I fought a war within myself.
I knew that one day I would be okay. I would win the battle, no matter which side. It was hard to even admit that the battle existed. The first step to solving a problem is admitting that you have one. If I could I would scream to the heavens, I have a problem.
I would be okay, I would be. If I kept repeating it then it would come true. The day I could accept myself was the day I could live at peace. I was always waiting for my day to come.