Этот рассказ я прочел в англоязычной группе посвященной заикаинию , на yahoo.com. К сожалению пока нет времени перевести ее на русский, может быть сделаю это позже.
Ну вообщем суть в том, что человек смог вылечить себя просто за счет специфических дыхательных упражнений.
Понятно что каждому помогает или чаще не помогает что то свое, - возможно эта информация поможет кому то кто попытается этот опыт повторить..
"En la pagina..." the teacher began to read.
"Dos cientos sesenta y ocho," I took over, grateful for having been
spared the tongue-tying first word. If I could only keep up the momentum,
and not see trouble spots before I was ready to verbalize them, I had a
chance of getting through this with no added embarrassment. But if I
tripped up even once, panic would set in and I would stutter the rest of
the way. I felt my face flush, my forehead beginning to itch, and
perspiration to flow freely. By the end of the two paragraphs, I knew my
face was bright red. That reading assignment was one of the most difficult
things I've ever had to do.
When the teacher had announced this requirement, I stayed after class,
to talk with her. I told her I was unable to perform anything in Spanish
before the class without stuttering. She acquiesced only as far as to
allow me to stand at my desk and in offering to help me in getting started.
Over the course of the year I'd been plagued with stuttering, I had
learned to disguise these difficulties when speaking English. The store of
'tricks' I had accrued (like Porky Pig's "Well, it's time to g-g-g-
leave!"), were so efficacious, that even an older brother didn't know I
stuttered. But Spanish is liberally laced with l's; one of the phonemes
that almost always got stuck somewhere just north of my diaphragm.
Mysteriously, I found an absolute freedom from stuttering when I sang. I
later learned that this is "classical stuttering". My guess, is that
singing caused no problems for me because the words are pre-determined,
alleviating the search for the best word, and the mind is too busy
concentrating on the timing to question its ability to begin properly.
Ironically, during the height of my stuttering in 1965, I had to sing--on
stage--with three other teens. The verse on which I had to solo, was:
"Where have all the young men gone?" The 'wh' phoneme had long ago cured
me of asking questions: who, what, where, when and why were words for
which I had no tricks. Fortunately, my solo came off flawlessly.
Upon completing high school I found a book on self-hypnosis that seemed to
hold promise. It provided the hypnotic patter and all one had to do was to
record that paragraph into a tape recorder, lie down and play it back. It
might have worked, too, but the paragraph began with the word "now" and I
couldn't say it. Life's demands and distractions pulled me away for a
while when I decided to enroll in a junior college with my sights
ambitiously set on becoming a medical doctor. A counselor advised
acquiring a solid footing in French and I naпvely followed his suggestion
unaware that French, too, had a strong affinity for the letter l. After
only seven weeks I was spared further discomfort when I had to drop out.
The respite from French class, though, left me available for Uncle Sam's
draft and there was this problem in Vietnam. I made a couple of friends in
Fort Belvoir, Virginia, who were curious about hypnosis so I decided to
learn to hypnotize them to teach them how to hypnotize me. A number of
experiments taught me how to hypnotize but I was very cautious and didn't
take chances with their minds by doing stunts. An earlier medical
condition precluded my being sent to Nam so my request for a position as an
instructor was granted. I had to employ every trick I knew, and discover a
few more, to be able to stand before two new classes per week--thirty men
in each--and avoid verbally stumbling all over myself.
In the spring of 1974, I made another try for college. I felt the need to
prove to myself that I could pass the courses I had signed up for years
earlier. I had forgotten the trauma of French class and signed up for it,
again. It was a trying four-and-a-half months but I learned it well.
Upon completion of the class, I breathed a sigh of relief, and vowed
to never again put myself in that position. Much of my Spanish had slipped
away through disuse and I knew the hard-earned French would, too, if it
weren't reinforced immediately. It had cost too much in comfort to not
even try to save it but the only alternative seemed to be to cure the
stuttering so I could learn more.
The day before my registration date, I decided to try to understand
its cause in hopes that a cure would be evident after all the facts were
compiled; the schedule I would choose the next day would depend on the
outcome. If I couldn't find a cure, I wasn't about to take French.
I first recalled its origin; my older siblings wouldn't spare much time to
listen to me. I had learned to plan my wording so that in the brief
seconds during which I had their attention I could blurt out whatever I
needed to say. Focusing so intently on the first word while still
searching for a better choice resulted in my repeating the first phoneme.
That line of thought yielded no leads so I tried another approach. Since
I was free of stuttering when singing and when relaxed, it seemed logical
that the cause couldn't be entirely physical. That is, flat tires tend to
stay flat until they're repaired. There almost had to be some
psychological aspect, too.
The symptoms were easy enough to identify: my face flushes, muscles
tense up, and I take short, gasping breaths. I perspire heavily, become
confused, and make a quick mental search for an escape route. Failing to
find one, I stammer until I get through the sentence. These symptoms
involved the entire body and mind as if a powerful wave engulfed me,
sweeping me along with it. This state was similar to that experienced
during an automobile accident when one panics, and it seemed unlikely the
similarities were coincidental.
The intensity of the surge associated with panic probably meant it was
an emotion. Emotions, I had learned, come from the subconscious, which had
supposedly been responsible for our self-preservation while the
intellectually-superior conscious mind was developing.
According to one book I had read, the body is able to produce energy
by a certain breathing technique. The subconscious directs the
accumulation and application of this energy.
I wondered if it could be that the subconscious, in trying to rescue
us from what it deems to be a threatening situation, floods the conscious
mind with some form of energy to overwhelm it and gain control... only to
find its time-proven methods of dealing with threats--fight or
flight--denied it by society. Could the panic reaction with its rapid,
shallow breathing be the mechanism used by the subconscious to fuel this
'fight or flight' response?
If stuttering results from panicking, and if it's powered by this
pattern of breathing, then the energy build up might be able to be
undermined by deliberate slow, deep breathing. This should help keep the
conscious in control and a cure might be possible. The entire construct
sounded rational and appeared to hold promise but I didn't know if I could
relax so completely that the battle wouldn't instantly be lost. The depth
of relaxation would have to be so extreme that normal stresses would still
leave the anxiety level below the threshold at which stuttering resulted.
Years of experimenting with hypnosis to cure stuttering had taught me a lot
about relaxing, but not to this degree. I had to find out whether such
relaxation was even possible.
Following a formula taught in the books on hypnosis, and modified by
personal experiences, I made sure my clothing was loose enough not to
interfere with blood circulation. Then I stood and stretched as
deliberately and thoroughly as do cats. Without tensing any more muscles
than needed, I laid on my back and placed my arms at my sides. Starting at
my feet and observing every set of muscles to see if they were tense, I did
whatever was needed to relax all of the muscles over which I had ready
control. The rest I left for later.
I took three slow, deep breaths to stretch my lungs and prepare them
for what was ahead. Then, inhaling slowly, I filled my lungs as deeply as
I could without causing discomfort. Exhaling at about the same rate, I
emptied my lungs as much as I was able to comfortably.
While taking the next few breaths, it occurred to me that the smog in
my lungs from Los Angeles had to be impairing assimilation of the oxygen I
breathed. Tentative solution: consciously use the lung lobes that are
used the least often and should be the cleanest: those nearest the abdomen.
Inhaling, while keeping the chest immobile, should draw the air into
them--possibly even exclusively. It was so easy to do that it worked the
Only my chest expanded until it had reached its comfortable maximum,
and then I'd inhale whatever my abdomen could hold too. Next breath, my
abdomen would lead in the order of filling.
Then I began to wonder about the middle lung lobe on one side of the
chest: I wanted to make sure it was getting its share, too. Uncertain
whether this would help, I inhaled so that the chest and abdomen rose
simultaneously, between the already-established routine.
I tried this a few breaths and noticed my heart was beating seven
times during inhaling, and seven during exhaling. While observing, my
heartbeat climbed to nine. Since it wasn't beating faster, I must have
been breathing slower.
At one point, I felt like holding my breath, and counted that
too--releasing as soon as my body dictated. I included that phase into the
scheme, counting its duration following each inhalation.
Around the time the count got to thirteen heartbeats, I came to feel
no desire to inhale immediately upon exhaling. I was surprised at this
freedom from breathing: air is a far-more immediate need than food, shelter
and clothing! I enjoyed the novelty of the experience and counted its
duration, not inhaling until the desire came to do so. This step, too, was
included into the pattern.
The next thing I knew, I realized I hadn't inhaled in a very long
time. I had been completely aware of myself and my environment but I
hadn't been focusing on anything--and, still, there was no desire to
breathe! I examined this state of relaxation and found it to be complete.
There was a strange, unfamiliar sense of well-being.
As the desire to breathe returned, this ultimate state subsided into a
different--though still deep--state of relaxation.
My guess, is that 'listening' to the body's needs and not trying to
force my will upon it, taught my conscious and subconscious the cooperation
that most people learn naturally. I now knew that such a state existed. I
hoped it could be regained, but had no guarantee that it could be conjured
up at will. That wouldn't be known until it was put to the test, but I was
confident enough to sign up for French. I continued to stutter or resort
to my 'tricks' until school began.
The first day of French class I arrived early. I sat at a desk,
closed my eyes and took three abdominal breaths as I had learned to do from
the experiment. Previously, I had always spoken rapidly as I felt I was
imposing on others during the time I was speaking. But I had since decided
that God made all of us out of the same material, and, as far as I knew,
none of my peers were made superior to me. When I was called upon, I spoke
slowly and deliberately, defiantly refusing to talk faster than was
comfortable for me. The problem-causing phonemes had lost their power to
tangle my tongue. By anticipating stressful moments over the next few days
and allowing for them in advance by breathing slowly, within two weeks I
had completely forgotten about stuttering. Responses flowed smoothly and
I learned from a lady in that second French class that stuttering
manifests itself in forms other than the familiar verbal one. She was
proficient in French but froze up whenever she was called upon. Her face
would register a blank expression until the teacher began coaxing her with
assistance, after which she could only repeat after him.
I told her of my experiment after one of those classes, suggesting
that if she was interested, she try it in the afternoon when fatigue
wouldn't cause her to fall asleep. When he called on her the next day, she
thought a moment and then responded perfectly and calmly. Subsequently,
another friend short-circuited an asthma attack that had just begun when I
suggested she relax and breathe slowly and deeply.
I tested the effectiveness of this method in an assigned psychology
class presentation. Like the time in high school, it was to be done
individually. I decided to give it on this method while arranging as many
factors to my disadvantage as possible. My fifteen months of instructing
in the Army had taught me how to prepare for classes to minimize problems:
self-consciousness can cause less than total involvement in the subject
matter which can result in derailments of the train of thought; when you
get side-tracked in the course of an explanation, notes are priceless to
keep track of the point of departure; any nervousness is magnified in front
of a class, so I had had to do everything possible to ensure a low level of
anxiety; and adequate rest can make the difference in how a class goes.
Without notes, wearing shabby clothes in which I was very
self-conscious, and staying awake the night before, should have been
enough. But there were also women in the class: I had taught none in the
army. As an added bonus, a young lady with whom I had become involved only
the day before decided to sit in on the class. I felt that all of the
variables had been allowed for, leaving only the ability to relax on my side.
Fifteen minutes before class, I laid on the campus lawn to relax. I
regarded these obstacles as sufficiently formidable to warrant this extra
I told the class at the beginning of my lecture that I was conducting
an experiment but I didn't elucidate. As I began speaking, I remembered
the increased tension from eye contact, so I encouraged it. I hadn't
instructed a class in over seven years!
I was asked some good questions from attentive students that required
a moment's thought, perceived some cynicism, and had no trouble flowing
through any of it. The professor asked me to demonstrate the breathing
technique so I laid on a table, and did so. Later in the hour, even the
laughter at the snoring teacher caused no disruption of my level of
self-control. I must have been boring--but I was SO calm!
A classmate I'd noticed whispering to her neighbor during the lecture
told me after class that she had asked her friend if she thought I looked
relaxed: they had agreed I did.
This extremely low level of anxiety slowed me down to a near
stand-still. Ever since I had begun stuttering, I had always done
everything--except my art work--fast. Now, I found that to allow speech to
flow easily, I had to slow down to the typical pace but it was a conscious
decision. No one was any better than I so why should I be made
uncomfortable trying to hurry for them? If they were in a hurry, they
could talk to someone else. Of course, this didn't last long; I now speak
almost as rapidly as I ever did.
There are still occasions on which I will stutter on a word but they
are now the very rare exception rather than the rule, and they occur only
when I've been under very high stress for a prolonged period of time. The
only difference, is that if I begin to stutter now, I stop, say that word
as slowly as I need to in order to enunciate it clearly and continue on,
forgetting about it. These instances no longer concern me as I know I can
prevent them at anytime--even in the middle of a conversation--by taking
three deep breaths but I haven't even had to do this for many years. Most
of the time, I don't even remember that I ever stuttered. It is this
freedom from wondering whether I am going to stutter that I consider to be
the 'cure'. Planning what one is going to say and considering the
possibility of stuttering just before speaking increases its likelihood.
Forgetting about stuttering cures it.
I now think the first couple of steps that led up to my filling
alternating lung lobes is unnecessary although it may be in order to attain
the degree of concentration required. The 'relaxed concentration' that is
produced by continuing to count, however, is essential.
This has helped most of the people I have told of it. A possible
explanation for those it didn't help is that they didn't set up an occasion
to test it as my first day of French class provided for me. I would
appreciate hearing your results.
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