My week-long cold has given way (finally!) and I’m feeling human again. And while my head and body are getting back to normal, my voice has given out completely. I’ve been compared to a 1-900 operator, a 1920s starlet and, oddly enough, Sigourney Weaver.
I was pretty miserable this past week, and feeling very bad for myself. My fever and weakness led to a mental and emotional whirlwind of angst. I think I am usually busy enough that I plow through whatever doubts I have about myself or my path. But it is when I slow down that I sink into the mire I’ve put aside. This was not an attractive moment for me. I’m almost glad that L. was out of town, so I could wallow on my own.
The truth, though, is that even though I am feeling better, I have to take note of some of the things that came up in this last week: the doubts and fears that crept into my fevered dreams; the irritation that I felt at some aspects of myself and my career.
Last night was my brother’s 40th birthday party, and I was surrounded by love and family. It snapped me out of my funk pretty easily (well, that and a new, pretty dress), and made me grateful for what I do have.
And now, I feel like I’m in this resting place where I have to marinate in the thoughts and sadness that I felt without acting too quickly or rashly. For some reason, I feel as if my voicelessness is a bit of a gift right now. I’m forced to listen, and not respond. There’s nothing else to do about it right now. Just listen and acknowledge.