Recently I got really sick and lost my voice so completely
that I couldn’t make a sound squeeze through my vocal cords. This is a helpless
feeling. I didn’t realize how much I do talk until I actually couldn’t – at all.
My daughter and I figured out a way to work around it. We had a little system.
She would talk and I would answer via extreme gesture or with text messages. My
puppy was just forlorn. He kept looking at me with his giant puppy dog eyes
begging me to praise him. But I couldn’t. I tried to continue normal life and
even called into a work meeting but unable to make a sound it quickly
deteriorated as they relentlessly made fun of me while I answered back via
instant messages that my male co-worker read out in a high pitched whine. It
was humiliating.
On strict vocal rest, but bored out of my mind, I decided to
brave the work softball game. Every Thursday night in the summer, a large group
of faithful fans gather to cheer on our coworkers as they play other local
teams (and usually lose). While there is cheering going on, there is much more
talking and laughing as these times are often the only time I see these friends
even though we work in the same building.
I figured I could at least go and be with people, even
though I couldn’t speak. After all, I could listen. I didn’t realize how
difficult this was going to be. For some reason, that night it felt like
everyone wanted to talk to me. They asked me questions and I had great answers
and I wanted to talk but I literally couldn’t. It was the most frustrating
thing.
But that night something happened that I won’t forget. My
friend Jillian stepped in to be my voice. At first, she just told people I lost
my voice. But then when a question was asked of me, she would know the answer and
she would tell it. She knew stories about my week, my kids, what the doctor had
said to me. A few times I would text the start of the story to her and she
would finish it unaided. So many people laughed and finally her roommate said, “I
didn’t realize you knew so much about Amie’s life.”
Up until this point, if asked, I would have called Jillian a
good friend –but I probably would have thought that my main role in her life
was as a mentor or listener. That was typical for me and a role I was comfortable
in. But in that moment, I realized how much Jillian knew me. Like really knew
me. In sharing life together, I had told her stories from mine – examples,
heartaches and even current struggles. Not all at once, but bit by bit over the
last year. And she had listened. And heard me. And wasn’t afraid to tell other
people.
While this seems normal to most people, this was new for me.
I listened to others, asked good questions and made people feel heard. But I
rarely shared what was going on with me and was rarely asked. This was probably
less about the other people and more about the giant brick wall I had firmly
built around my heart. After years of rejection, I no longer really even tried
to let people in. I stopped hoping for someone to even realize a wall was
there.
But somehow this 25-year-old girl had broken through the
wall and I hadn’t even realized it. I hadn’t been paying attention.
But in this moment – at this silly softball game, it was
obvious. She knew me so well, she could actually speak for me and advocate for
me when I literally could not.
Of course, my voice eventually came back, but I think it was
that very moment of realization that I started to wonder what life would be
like if I started to dismantle the wall and let people see me. I wanted to be
known like this. It felt right and affirming. I felt more alive than I had in a
long while.
I looked around myself at the players in my life and didn’t
see anyone like me. This had always been my excuse in the past. I was older and
had kids and had struggles that people couldn’t understand. But there were
people here in my life. There was this 25-year-old girl and a 27-year-old
single guy and a bunch of other “not age appropriate” people who seemed to
enjoy talking to me. I decided that life is what you make it and you can only
play the game with those who are willing to step up to the table. And these
were my players today. Was I willing to take a risk?
Apparently I was. I slowly and deliberately started to tear
down the wall – brick by brick. And while it has not been without fumbling missteps
and buckets of pain, I can say this. I have learned more about how important it
is to feel emotions and be real from that 25-year-old girl than I ever have
from anyone else. I have learned more about loyalty and sticking with people in
the midst of their mess from that 27-year-old guy than I would have thought
possible (and he has forever redeemed the male species for me). I have learned
that it is okay to be a mess and not have it all together and that if people
really like you they will allow you to fall apart and not make sense. I have
learned that there are people willing to drop everything and talk to you when
you are just sad and don’t know why and that won’t run when you need to have a
difficult conversation even when it makes them uncomfortable.
I have also learned that friendship hurts and is hard. And
that sometimes it feels easier to have a wall protecting your heart from pain.
But even with the pain, there is nothing that can compare with knowing that you
have someone to call in a crisis. Someone that won’t hesitate to help – even if
it costs them. There is nothing that can compare with that feeling of being
known – someone who knows all of your stories and your contexts and your crap. The
wall is firmly down now, and hopefully won’t be rebuilt any time soon.
Who knew laryngitis could change your life forever?
No comments:
Post a Comment