Coprolalia coined in 1885 by pioneering French neurologist Dr. Georges Gilles de la Tourette literally translates copro- “dung, filth” + lalia “to speak, prattle” is a fancy way of saying obsessive use of obscene language, either through mental illness or perversion.
This is why I am drinking alone, in a corner of the shop, willing my muscles to relax so that the physical tics associated with TS don’t cause me to embarrass myself. Starring into my Rocket Raccoon mug, part of me wants to climb inside, body and soul. Though I haven’t mastered shrinking, there is something I can do to let go of the tension building up inside me.
With correct posture the back of the chair feels good against my spine. Shoulders back, inhale slowly, feet flat on the floor, hands resting on my thighs palm up, eyes downcast. Swirling monkey mind thoughts slow down.
The faculty of hearing is both a blessing and a curse for someone with TS. Common sounds like sniffles or throat clearing can trigger mimicked vocalization.
My siblings frequently reported uttered expletives. Dad believed if you spare the rod you spoil the child. Our trips to the woodshed were a regular occurrence. A buildup in tension during trips to the woodshed, to the point I felt the verbal tic needed to be expressed, almost against my will. Dad preferred silence but since even he could tell internal pressure cookers were boiling up inside me, he requested that I count aloud each stripe to my backside.
A TS diagnosis filled my parents with angst, recalling punishments dolled out to me over the years, for perceived wrongs. To absolve his conscience, he took me to the woodshed one last time. Using a leather strap on mother's rug, he instructed me to scream. I howled like ferrets in a thrasher. When my gob smacked siblings appeared, we were bent over with laughter. I love my father and in my mind's eye he still watches over me from beyond the grave.
He wouldn’t want to see me boarded up in my room like a heroin addict trying to detox or a child placed in the corner. So here I am at Beans & Brew. Sipping an earl gray tea, I call, the Jean Luke Picard; typing words into my laptop, simultaneously with other introverts. We call it a Write In.
Thanks Dad! You’re always there for me, if only inside my caffeine addled brain.
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