It started with a phone call. Bad things had happened and more were coming. We rushed to be rescuers, but the damage was done. Life as we knew it was gone.
The changes were huge and came at me quickly. I, who had so much solitude, suddenly was surrounded by others and had no place to hide. I, who was not a mother, was all of the sudden called to mother many. I, who had as a professional helped others through crisis, was suddenly in the middle of crisis. As much as I was prepared to help others through trauma, my own trauma left me feeling adrift.
And almost immediately I lost my voice. There were no words to write. I could not even form an idea, much less find the words to express it. I used to lay my heart bare on a page and then share it with those travelers who stopped by. Now there was almost too much to share, but I had no voice.
Had I even still had my voice, it could not be my own anymore. Every one of my words would have a profound effect on those who now wholly depended on me for safety and support. My story was no longer my own. The story of one had become the story of many. There was no way to separate any of us out from the plot line.
How would I use a voice if I had one? The very ones that I must speak for are also the ones for whom I must also be silent. How would I use my voice for them if it came back? I cannot begin to imagine it.
There are some who view this as a necessary season of silence. Necessary or not, I feel bound and gagged. I wonder when this season will change. How will I recognize it? Will it start with a phone call?
