The Unquestioned Silent Observer

I lost my voice a few days ago. Three, as of today. If I hadn’t posted about it on Facebook, I’m sure no one would have noticed. I haven’t had a reason say much out loud these days. I don’t go out much.

I don’t want to demean anyone who doesn’t physically have a voice but wants one, but I have fallen in love with the silence this has afforded me.

I realized this when I woke up and tested out my voice to see if it had come back yet. I was not disappointed to hear just a breathy whisper. If it does come back (which is most likely will, as I only have a cold), I confess I’ll be disappointed. It’s not as though I’ve fallen in love with the pain of having a dry throat and raspy communication. I just love the fact that I don’t have to waste my words.

I’ve never been one to care for meaningless banter. I took a class on how to make other people feel comfortable by engaging in small talk. I didn’t do well. I just don’t care. I don’t care for impersonal things that fill the air with waves, but never make it to the heart.

I do not want the world to be filled with deep sounds all the time. I simply want the words that are spoken to be the ones that matter.

What would happen if I was never able to use my voice again?

I could never talk on the phone. I couldn’t be a teacher. No one would hear the delicate difference of my accent in comparison to that of another person’s. Words would be lost to me, and I would dwell in my comfortable world of hazy thought-pictures. I could never sing again, not deep from my diaphragm, nor through my nose, nor in pitches too high for the normal person to not be impressed by, not in harmony that may or may not match up with the current tune, nor in rhythmic chanting, nor in unison with a thousand voices of every pitch, nor in the breathless echo of a rocky river bed, nor in the silence of a dark-swollen forest, nor in the light of a hundred candles, nor in every language and tone, nor for Christmas carols, nor for birthday parties, nor for choir, nor for someone I love when we‘re alone. I would miss singing most.

I wouldn’t wonder why no one was listening, though. I’ve always chosen invisibility as my dream super power because if I were invisible, I would never have to wonder why no one noticed me. If I were invisible, I could spend time noticing other people without being caught staring awkwardly. People are fascinating, you know.

If I had no voice, I could be excused from having to introduce myself to people. I could avoid being pushed out to that place where I feel like I’m drowning. I could deny the necessity of awkward conversations. I could stay in my pleasant observation.

Neale Donald Walsch apparently once said that Life begins at the end of your Comfort Zone. Some people take great comfort in this, and use it as motivation to help them accomplish things they wanted to do, but were afraid of.

I can’t say I find similar utility in this quote. It’s not that I’m afraid of talking to people. I experience anxiety about it, yes. But I don’t think that I am afraid of them, just that I would rather not speak to them. I’d rather not spend that 10 minutes of awkward conversation, the meaningless reverberations of sound falling dead across my eardrums and slipping away to a promiseless, “well, talk to you later.”

People will tell me that I must try. That I must push myself to do things I might not be good at the first few times. That I must act like I care. That I must have friends, community, relationships, acquaintances, family, and love. I must try to speak, to let my voice be heard, to shout from the mountaintops because I think I’ve found what everyone should be looking for. Because I’m right?

What if I don’t think I’m right, but I have no words to describe why? What if there are no words? What if my whole life I’ve been expecting to find myself in society, culture, religion, relationships, ecosystems, academia, or some other institution? What if there are no words, though? What if there never were words to describe what I am or where I belong? What if all those words were meaningless?

With no physical voice, I am able to truly hear.

I don’t have to be successful. I don’t have to put myself out there. I don’t have to be aggressive. I don’t have to have high expectations. I don’t have to be what I have never been good at being. I can simply be the unquestioned silent observer.

Perhaps I’m being ungrateful. Perhaps I am expecting too much support from those around me. Perhaps I’m a burden and should just stay holed up in my anxiety-ridden blanket fort and never use my silent, but still discrete voice. It’s a lonely place, the world with no sound. People assume you have nothing to offer. People hope you’ll get better so you don’t slow down their conversations. People have to stop and stare at you to try to guess what you might mean because all you can manage is a whisper, a shadow of what you might have been able to say.

But just because I’m not what you’re looking for doesn’t mean I’m worthless.