What does a mommy blogger do when her kids get a little older and tell her they don't want her to write their story, any story about them anymore?
Some of them get a day job. The rest of us write about our cats or go a little crazy or both.
But what do you do when you lose your voice? What do you do when you think you might go the rest of your life without anyone listening to you?
I was the youngest of three children. My worst fear, my biggest complaint about being the third was that no one listened to me. No one believed what I told them. It has been a residual fear through my adulthood. Somehow I got louder and more insistent at first. Then, when people interrupted me, when they looked at their phones while I was talking, when they cut off my conversation mid-story, when they put on the headphones so they could join their friends in videoland even though I was in the room talking to them, I realized I needed to go off to write.
But what then?
What if I've been writing here for seven years and all of those little blips on my stats are just corporate robots checking to see if I've mentioned their products again?
It helps that a few of you told me that you read this here. Thank you for that.
But am I mostly talking in a void?
I'm still trying to get back onto my feet after being fired from volunteering at the school. Did I tell you about that?
Probably. It's run through my head so many times, I forget where I've mentioned it. I'm like that girl whose crummy boyfriend broke up with her on Valentine's Day by texting her then ghosting her when she asked him to explain. None of her friends liked him anyway, but they have to listen to the story over and over until she gets it all worked out in her head, until she figures out a way to move forward instead of looking back. That's me, going over and over what I think was my mistake until I figure the whole thing out, until I can get closure on something none of the people involved have explained to me. Except I haven't quite figured it out without those missing pieces.
Yesterday, I stood in line at the grocery store and looked at Oprah's newest magazine cover. She looked fabulous, with wild hair flying out from her head like electricity. And there was an article about being your most authentic you. It's what Oprah is best at conveying, to be your most true self.
"You are not your looks," it said. "You are not your job. Find your essence."
I wanted to find my essence. Last month, I lost that job before I even earned any money, the job I'd been volunteering to do for two and a half years, the place where I'd volunteered for eleven years. I keep telling you about that, don't I?
I do. Sorry.
I'm having trouble getting through it, separating myself from that identity I had as a volunteer for children. Maybe I was too proud of that role. Maybe it was time that it ended so I could find my own true essence.
The problem is that I haven't found it yet.
The country may be in a Constitutional crisis, but I'm in a crisis of consciousness. Who am I? What is the meaning of my life?
Who am I without that crummy boyfriend? That contentious job?
See what I mean?
But that time after an awful boyfriend abandons us or after we're fired from a job where some people were dismissive of us, it is an important time, a time for introspection, a time to reset our own internals.
Did you ever notice that when you're at a job or in a relationship where there is animosity, you start to change, you become more like the people who bother you?
I'm afraid I was feeling rather superior, sort of entitled to that attention that I expected from being a dedicated volunteer. I was feeling irritated that some of these people had never bothered to get to know me in the eleven years I was there, had acted like I wasn't worth their time. Maybe I took up too much of that energy into my soul. Maybe I can get to be a better person by having lost this particular job, even if I did love trying to help those kids that I worked with. I can give up that pride and irritation.
The problem with eating this humble pie is that I've begun to question why anyone would want to listen to my story here. I've lost my voice and though I'm trying to get it back, I'm wondering at the futility of writing into the void.
And yet.
The bird sings. The sun shines. The fog leaves a sweet taste in the air.
I have always written. I have notebooks that go back to when I was thirteen. Before I could write, I used to scribble words on a piece of paper in little rows, talking out my stories as I wrote, until my brother laughed at what I was trying so desperately to do. I hated when people laughed at me. I still do.
So I will keep writing because that is what I do. It helps me figure out what I have to say. It might or might not be read. It might or might not touch someone's heart. Today, I'm not writing about my sweet son or about my cute cats.
Today, I'm just singing into the void, trying to hear my own voice.
Thank you for listening, jb
Some of them get a day job. The rest of us write about our cats or go a little crazy or both.
But what do you do when you lose your voice? What do you do when you think you might go the rest of your life without anyone listening to you?
I was the youngest of three children. My worst fear, my biggest complaint about being the third was that no one listened to me. No one believed what I told them. It has been a residual fear through my adulthood. Somehow I got louder and more insistent at first. Then, when people interrupted me, when they looked at their phones while I was talking, when they cut off my conversation mid-story, when they put on the headphones so they could join their friends in videoland even though I was in the room talking to them, I realized I needed to go off to write.
But what then?
What if I've been writing here for seven years and all of those little blips on my stats are just corporate robots checking to see if I've mentioned their products again?
It helps that a few of you told me that you read this here. Thank you for that.
But am I mostly talking in a void?
I'm still trying to get back onto my feet after being fired from volunteering at the school. Did I tell you about that?
Probably. It's run through my head so many times, I forget where I've mentioned it. I'm like that girl whose crummy boyfriend broke up with her on Valentine's Day by texting her then ghosting her when she asked him to explain. None of her friends liked him anyway, but they have to listen to the story over and over until she gets it all worked out in her head, until she figures out a way to move forward instead of looking back. That's me, going over and over what I think was my mistake until I figure the whole thing out, until I can get closure on something none of the people involved have explained to me. Except I haven't quite figured it out without those missing pieces.
Yesterday, I stood in line at the grocery store and looked at Oprah's newest magazine cover. She looked fabulous, with wild hair flying out from her head like electricity. And there was an article about being your most authentic you. It's what Oprah is best at conveying, to be your most true self.
"You are not your looks," it said. "You are not your job. Find your essence."
I wanted to find my essence. Last month, I lost that job before I even earned any money, the job I'd been volunteering to do for two and a half years, the place where I'd volunteered for eleven years. I keep telling you about that, don't I?
I do. Sorry.
I'm having trouble getting through it, separating myself from that identity I had as a volunteer for children. Maybe I was too proud of that role. Maybe it was time that it ended so I could find my own true essence.
The problem is that I haven't found it yet.
The country may be in a Constitutional crisis, but I'm in a crisis of consciousness. Who am I? What is the meaning of my life?
Who am I without that crummy boyfriend? That contentious job?
See what I mean?
But that time after an awful boyfriend abandons us or after we're fired from a job where some people were dismissive of us, it is an important time, a time for introspection, a time to reset our own internals.
Did you ever notice that when you're at a job or in a relationship where there is animosity, you start to change, you become more like the people who bother you?
I'm afraid I was feeling rather superior, sort of entitled to that attention that I expected from being a dedicated volunteer. I was feeling irritated that some of these people had never bothered to get to know me in the eleven years I was there, had acted like I wasn't worth their time. Maybe I took up too much of that energy into my soul. Maybe I can get to be a better person by having lost this particular job, even if I did love trying to help those kids that I worked with. I can give up that pride and irritation.
The problem with eating this humble pie is that I've begun to question why anyone would want to listen to my story here. I've lost my voice and though I'm trying to get it back, I'm wondering at the futility of writing into the void.
And yet.
The bird sings. The sun shines. The fog leaves a sweet taste in the air.
I have always written. I have notebooks that go back to when I was thirteen. Before I could write, I used to scribble words on a piece of paper in little rows, talking out my stories as I wrote, until my brother laughed at what I was trying so desperately to do. I hated when people laughed at me. I still do.
So I will keep writing because that is what I do. It helps me figure out what I have to say. It might or might not be read. It might or might not touch someone's heart. Today, I'm not writing about my sweet son or about my cute cats.
Today, I'm just singing into the void, trying to hear my own voice.
Thank you for listening, jb
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