Laryngitis of the Soul - 3rd in a Series

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

Disclaimer:

We are headed into deep water, so be prepared? If you think the toddler swimmie you grabbed from the local drug store last summer to keep your youngest afloat will do the job in the days ahead, rethink things now. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

This series is about a writer who contracted laryngitis of the soul and lost her voice. I told you that. I told you professional bloggers with much Google-fu advised me to lose the fraidy cat and rebrand.

I want you to know I admire, respect, and appreciate their advice. Given their understanding of analytics, SEO, and branding, they make a valid point. If I embrace my inner fraidy cat, brands who wander by here may tend to shy away.

In embracing who I am, I diminish my validity and marketability. I may as well have a big ole ‘L’ for loser right across my unprofessional forehead – especially if I miss a comma or two here and there at three in the morning. I get that. I do.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative 

So, when I left the shores of Captiva behind, wheelbarrow loads of conference speak buried me neck deep. Those words mixed and mingled with where I was in life until I lost my confidence, my courage, and my belief in myself.

I became overwhelmed with the need to do more, better, faster and to master everything at once. The urgency of it all became more than I could bear. I burned out before I really got started.

I mourned privately and lurked on my professional blogging groups. I pinned blog minutia and supported the shiny, spit polished platforms others were creating. 

I thought, “One day, I’ll need this and get back to it. Oh, who am I kidding? At the rate technology changes, by the time I get back to it, this info will be obsolete.”

I had to have weekly immunizations for envy and jealousy as my blogger friends met and exceeded goal after goal while I tried to think of one I could set.

Before I knew it, six months had elapsed while I tried to pretend I was not a writer and that I’d never had a blog to begin with. I don’t mind telling you, it was pure agony.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

And, in those months of quiet, my private life became even more chaotic. A hard fought for marriage kept slipping more and more out of reach no matter what I prayed, what I did, or who the counselor was this time.

I think I realized how close the end was the first time I heard Christina Aguilera and Great Big World sing, “Say Something”. I can’t remember the last time I cried til that moment.

I don’t think I even cried in the fifty-six numb days between life and death when my courageous, conscious, fully lucid mom lingered on a ventilator.

But that song, that song, reduced me to sobs that would not stop for hours on end. It was as if all the tears I had not cried in almost twenty-five years found their voice on the wings of that song and would no longer be silenced.

And, this my friend is where my story stops being one only writers can identify with and becomes one for any fraidy cat who has had laryngitis of the soul. 

If you know me, you know I am a person of hard fought for, down in the dirt wrestling, sweaty-ugly faith. If you are just meeting me – I’m not one to sugar coat things about my faith. I hope that won’t set you back too much?  

I know there is a God who cares, and I don’t think he is the one that sits on Bette Midler’s ‘distant shore’ watching me with cold indifference.

I do understand the irony when I turn around and say I am not always sure where he is showing up in my story. Shoot, a lot of the time I wonder if he is aware of my story at all. There. I admitted it.

I was having one of those nights of arm wrestling with God. The house was quiet enough to imply my two insomniacs had finally drifted off for good.

The debris of the day was scattered around me like a World War I mine field. Mocking me. Reminding me I had bills to pay, boxes to pack, school to plan, cabinets to paint, one-hundred other things that one person simply could not do alone, and a marriage in the last gasps of death.

The soulful strains of “Say Something” gripped me by the heart, and floods of tears drenched the computer keyboard. I don’t know why I wasn’t electrocuted.

Yes, I know it’s a secular song, but as that song filled the room, I cried out to God. “Look at this mess. Do you see me? DO YOU SEE ME? I.can.not.do.this.alone. It’s humanly impossible. Do you see?”

And into that forsaken misery it seemed a whisper filled my heart:

Yes. I see you. I know your circumstances are untrustworthy and have been for as long as you can remember now. I know you cannot depend upon the earthly one who promised to be the most dependable to you in the entire world. I get that. I do. 

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

Now I have a question for you. In the midst of everything that is untrustworthy, do you trust me with your untrustworthy circumstances? Do you?”  

Well, I told you this journey was not for the faint of heart and that drug store swim wings were not going to be sufficient. I told you this is a story for anyone who had ever suffered from voice stealing laryngitis of the soul. Believe me now?

I see you, fraidy cat. If you are longing to come in from the cold, you are welcome here. You don’t have to explain a thing. I get you. I do. Love you long and strong. See you soon?

Isaiah 33:2 (ERV)
Lord, be kind to us. We have waited for your help. Give us strength every morning. Save us when we are in trouble.

Click below to follow the series: 
 Part 1 and Part 2   

When a Writer Loses Her Voice – Part 2 in a Series

(Stop! Before you do another thing, look to the left and subscribe to the blog? It’s the only way you’ll see all the posts in order of appearance. And, I’ll sleep better tonight if I know I am not alone. Ahhh. There now. That’s better.)

My head was a hurting, spinning mess as I stumbled up onto the shuttle to head home. My heart and soul were in worse shape.

I was torn between two lovers: the desire to use the one thing I have left to earn a living (words) and the drive to be true to who I am and to the one who made me (Christ).

“Can it be that hard,” I wondered, “to figure out who I am in the midst of the expert voices telling me whom I ought to be and how to be me? Oh, why did I ever get so high and mighty as to come to this conference?”  

That’s where this story gets trickier, messier, and, I hope, more compelling. It wasn’t what the ninja bloggers said or how they said it that infected me with laryngitis of the soul.They were just the unwitting petri dishes in which the virus mushroomed and took over. 

The beach slipped away, and my desperation deepened. I drank in the view trying to imprint it all and fortify myself for what was coming.

Past, present, and future swirled in a vortex. I closed my eyes and saw her - a little girl welcoming her parents home from the beach. It was winter and prime shelling season. I dug down deep into the bag anxious to see the treasures hidden there. 

I shrieked, threw down the bag, and jumped away from the warmth of the fireplace. “What’s in that thing?”

My mom chuckled a little and said, “I’m not sure. What happened?”

My fraidy cat was on high alert when I peeped into the bag before I reached. Two starfish had twined tightly around each other. I guess it was their last dying gasp after so many hours without life giving salt water.

The bus jolted, and little girl me was gone again.

I looked over at my California bound friend. Trying to cram a year’s worth of that ‘thing’ between long distance friends into less than an hour’s ride, we exchanged bits and pieces of hurried conversation.

She is brave and beautiful and knows about the broken places when God is up to something that must make sense in Heaven but makes no sense when you are living through Hell.

I wanted to say, “I’m the starfish, and I’m running out of time,” but, time had run out. I hugged her hard wishing osmosis between us would fix my broken places.

And then, I was alone to contemplate my brokenness and the laryngitis of my soul.

If you have come here expecting answers in five-hundred word bullet lists of ten easy items you can check off on your lunch break while you manage your Twitter and paint your nails, it’s time for you to bounce.

Answers to our deepest longings are not stumbled upon in the ADHD fractured musings of our high octane lives.

And, if you know me, you know I do not pounce on and conquer a story before the commercial break. I sneak up on the story from behind and end up taking us where I did not know I was going until we all get there together. I live dangerously like that.

If you get me because I get you, I hope you will come back again soon. Invite a fraidy cat friend you know who has lost her voice and can’t figure out where to find it.

I think I can keep writing if you keep coming back for more.

You may wonder why I end many of my posts by telling fraidy cats they are welcome here. I tell them this is a safe place to come in from the cold.

I do so because it’s hard for fraidy cats to feel welcome in this Pinterest perfect, have-your-best-life-now televangelist drenched world.

You are welcome here. I see you. I pray for you even when I don’t know your name or your fear. I get you. I do.

Click here for #1 in this series and for Part 3.

Ephesians 2:10 (NRSV) For we are what he has made us, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand to be our way of life.

If Facebook is where you want to keep track of this community:

1) Go to Facebook and search for Confessions of a Fraidy Cat.

2) Hit ‘like’ on the upper right of the COAFC page, so it registers a check mark.

3) Click on the ‘following’ button right beside it, so it registers a check mark as well.

4) Watch for the COAF posts in your newsfeed. 5) Come check my page if Facebook doesn’t send me to you?

Love you long and strong. See you soon.

Monday Meet Up - Week 5

I never heard more shocking words. I was a nervous first time mom about to give birth any day. My friend pulled me out of the office fray. Her eyes were earnest, dark with intensity.

I have to tell you something. There will come a moment in time, in the early weeks of motherhood, when you will be exhausted almost beyond what you can bear. You will find yourself wishing you could throw the baby against the wall. You won’t, but the thought will cross your mind.

When that fleeting moment comes, remember this conversation. Remember I told you every new mother has feelings like yours. You are not shamefully abnormal. You are just a new mother. 

People are afraid to admit what I’m telling you for fear of what others will think. Thinking about it is normal. Doing it is not.

Courtesy D. Scott

I looked around to find out where I could go to get out of this motherhood mess I had foolishly gotten myself into. Had I not known what a wonderful mother this friend was, I would have thought she had gone a little off her rocker.

Barely eight weeks later, I found myself sitting on the top stair outside my son’s nursery. It would be years before I heard the term ‘sensory processing disorder’, but I could tell you right then and there - the scream he let out when I cranked his mobile for the first time was anything but normal.

I was sobbing and promising I’d never crank that hateful mobile again when it hit me. I knew the desperation my friend warned me about. I felt alone, confused, desperate, and exhausted beyond anything I could have ever imagined.

How thankful I was my friend had assured me I was normal. I took a deep breath and knew we’d make it.

Chapter 5 of Desperate: Hope for the Mom Who Needs to Breathe carried me back to those early, never ending days and nights of motherhood. I often say God gave me two children spaced seven years apart because none of us would have survived if I’d had lots of littles.

Sarah Mae and Sally Clarkson speak candidly about the often ill-addressed reality of young motherhood: sleep deprivation and its twin depression.

When you are a mamma of littles, you are just tired and have to weather it. There is no solution. . . (p. 56) you don’t notice you’ve been falling into the dark until you wake up one morning and getting out of bed seems to be the most difficult task of your day. (p.58)

Sarah details the telltale signs of depression: feelings of isolation, failure, decreased motivation, and apathy.

Well, hello! Young mothers are isolated. Success is often measured by whether the day included a shower or not. Who can feel energized when you are in a constant state of state of microburst sleep?

Sarah was blessed to find a woman like Sally to guide her through the days of young motherhood. I think of how different her life is from the life of the young woman I met in the doctor’s office a few days ago.

That young lady was overwhelmed and alone. You could see it in her eyes. There was no one to turn to as Sarah could turn to Sally.

Our chance meeting left me desperate for older moms like me to carry copies of this book around just in case we meet a mom in the desperate mode.

While I am Sally’s age, I read her gentle guidelines for Sarah and saw myself, even now, peeking back from in between each line:

1. Do you need sleep?
2. Have you been reading your Bible?
3. Do you feel alone?
4. Have you been watching your health?
5. How can you get help?
6. What do you need to invest in the joy factor of life?
   (p. 61-62)

Courtesy and in Loving Memory of Christina Jones Hooker

No matter what stage of life we are navigating right now, those are issues with which we all wrestle in this hurry-scurry world.

These realities increase my excitement regarding the in(RL) community and events scheduled for April 26^th and 27^th. If you are a young mom who feels desperate and alone or an older woman who has wisdom to share, come be a part of this world-wide event? 

Last year, some groups were as small as two and others were larger. To be honest, I’m a little afraid of throwing a party only to find no one’s coming. See, that’s the fraidy cat in me.

Nevertheless, God has burdened my heart to see older and younger women connect. Women just like you and me. I hope you’ll join me wherever you are.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

Grab a copy of Desperate, and reach out to an older or younger woman. Sign up for in(RL), and let’s begin to build community right where we are. You know if a fraidy cat can, you can! 

To see the trailer and register for in(RL): click here

To read the story of the desperate young mom in the doctor's office: click here

Courtesy B. Creasy - 2010

To purchase a copy of Desperate, click the book link at the top right of this page.

Psalm 27:5 (NASB) For in the day of trouble, he will conceal me in his tabernacle; in the secret place  of his tent, he will hide me; He will lift me up on a rock.

    

River of Tears

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

I jabbed the radio button letting the soulful Latin strains swell up and around me until the music became a magic carpet. I didn't understand a word of what I heard, but it didn't matter. I floated up and away till I was weightless. The relief was unexpected, welcome, and shocking.

More and more in the last few weeks, I sought this same refuge. At first, I was afraid to trust my magic carpet of escape. This time I sighed a ragged sigh of emerging trust and let myself be washed away.

I felt like a fern unwinding from the tight furl of infancy. I let myself float above the storm that consumed me. I tried to remember when I had not been holding on to rigging for dear life.

From the safety of my magic carpet, I looked below. I saw a river of tears, twenty-three years in the making, stretching out behind me. I could feel those tears pushing me along into a future I could not see. The current had been subtle and quiet until the storm reached a final frenzy. Then, the current erupted into an irresistible force.

May 2012

Looking back, I could not explain how the current was born or why it became strong enough to spur me to act in ways I never imagined. I had been without a gyroscope so many times but always found my way. This time was different. This time the storm had ripped away the mast, rigging, and motor of my life along with the gyroscope.

The words began to rain down around me like scud missiles of the soul. The boom was deafening and soul-shattering. I had endured before. This time the words were almost fatal. "You! This is your fault! You started this. Now you finish it!" It was a gentle introduction compared to what would follow.

When it was done, nothing was left. Not even a hint of who I had always believed myself to be. I folded inward in the days afterward trying to match the me I was with the me I had been dubbed. What

was true? What was false? How to know the difference among the voice that echoed in my head.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

When the current began to build into an irresistible force, I reached for the two-year-old bottle of pain pills. Three cracks in one leg had not hurt nearly as much as a broken soul. I swallowed one and eased away on another kind of magic carpet. A few nights later, one pill became two. Before too long, I found myself reaching for a third.

I held it in my palm and wondered how long before two would fail to numb the pain. How far was the leap from one to ten magic pills, and when would I stick the landing with both feet planted fully in the land of addiction? I dropped the pill back into the bottle and went cold turkey waiting for sleep that would not come.

I ventured out into public with decreasing frequency. I was sure that if what I had been told about me was true, I should cloister myself to protect me from public ridicule and disdain. If those epitaphs were false, I could not remain where I was and survive. I was dying a slow death of the soul. Of that fact, I was sure.

Slowly, slowly I began to fight may way back. I told myself I was up to the task. I could make peace with where I was and where I was headed. Success lay in the ability to quiet the noise in my soul. Drown out that angry voice, and I would survive.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

If only it had been that simple. The storm would wax and wane but never wear itself out. Looking back at my river of tears, I count the cost of each one. Was it worth it? Will I ever know?

I thought of Lot's wife, turned to salt because she disobeyed the angel's warning not to look back at the life she was fleeing. She was fleeing to safety in advance of God's hand of wrath, and yet what she was leaving was too familiar, maybe too comfortable, to believe flight to safety was necessary. She looked back and was frozen in time – a pillar of salt.

Oh, I am not her and yet I understand being frozen in time. I understand looking back and wondering 'what if' and 'what now'. A future I never dreamed of looms ahead. It is ominous. I close my eyes and let the music carry me away. I tell myself the one who created me knew this day was coming. I tell myself he saw twenty-three years of tears.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

What about you fraidy cat? Has life become a river of tears with a past that drives you into a foreboding future? You don't have to say a word. You are welcome here. Walk with me? Come back again. I'll be here.

Psalm 56: 8 (The Message)You’ve kept track of my every toss and turn through the sleepless nights, each tear entered in your ledger, each ache written in your book.

Skydiving, Velcro, and Me

2011 

It was one of those, “Oh no you Di'n't!” kinda moments. My friend had just jumped out of an airplane at 14,000 feet. You can imagine the flip-flip my heart went into just reading the comment. She had the nerve to post a picture to prove she completed the audacious feet. My heart is in over-drive right now just writing the words.

I thought we were friends. She knows what fraidy cat I am. The only thing she could have done to come closer to giving me a heart attack was to post pictures of a snake. My friends know. They sign a sort of prenuptial-friendship agreement. If you wanna remain friends, it's easy: no snakes!

Just ask the ones that have violated the 'no snakes' clause. They'll tell you breaking up is hard to do when the break up is over violation of that clause. Now it looks like I'mma have to add a 'no sky diving' clause.

Courtesy A. Hughes

You know me. I'm a push over. It doesn't take me long to kiss and make up. So it was that when my friend and I met after this adventure of hers, we shared a long hug and laugh. Truth is, I held on longer because I was glad she survived her brush with insanity. We talked non-stop trying to make up for lost time.

We talked about pushing ourselves beyond our fraidy cat limits and how change follows like dominoes. I tried to cover up the ugly truth about how I really felt. If I had to admit it, I was just a teeny-tiny, eensy-weensy bit jealous. Jealous of her backbone. I thought it was a big fat hairy deal to get on an airplane. She got on and jumped out at 14,000 feet. Show off.

My unremarkable flight was the gift of change that keeps on giving. I can only imagine that her escapade is going to reap much larger rewards over a much longer period of time. So, I asked, “How do you think you've changed after taking on such a daunting experience?”

Her face went somber. The staccato of conversation and laughter softened to a hushed and pensive quiet. I watched emotions flit across her face as she organized her thoughts and took stock of them: 

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

You know, I am different. I have recognized sin in my life. It's something that has haunted me all my life. Somehow, I see it now like I never have before. I have always been the kind of person who listens to the opinions of others and takes stock of myself in light of what they say. If I heard anything negative, I immediately identified with it and adopted it as my own failing.

It was as if I had Velcro strips all over me. I wore those and waited for any negative label to come zinging toward me. Every time I heard one float through the air, I'd grab it and plaster it on even if it didn't apply to me. Somehow, I'd find a way to make it apply and accept the guilt and blame for that fault, failing, or sin.

As she spoke, her hands floated through the air as if grasping words floating by. She'd pluck the invisible word out of the air and pat it down to stick it tight to a waiting Velcro strip. Maybe you had to be there, but the moment was riveting: 

Courtesy My Free Falling Friend

Pure and simply, accepting all that guilt, all that blame was sinfulness on my part. Taking all that on was a twisted kind of selfishness that made me the center of my own negative universe. I was refusing to accept the righteousness of Christ and live in peace with myself. I feel free now. Free to live as the new creature I am: redeemed, forgiven, made new. I am free from the selfishness that enslaved me.

We sat back and looked at one another basking in the moment. I said, “If you realize this much so soon, can you imagine where you'll be a year from now?” Then, it was time to rush on to the next things on our never ending 'to do' lists. We hugged again as we savored the victories of life and the sweetness of new found freedoms in Christ.

In the days since, I have rejoiced over the opportunity to share her journey and her victory. I think about the unseen Velcro strips that adorn my existence and the unwanted labels they bear. The burden is heavy. I am weary from the labor. I reach down and grab one as I think of how it has haunted my days. I hear the distinct sound of Velcro tearing loose. Enough is enough. In my mind's eye, I see myself at the door of the plane. I jump. I am in a freefall to freedom.
                                           
Who knows? Maybe the next time she jumps, she won't be alone. ;-)

2 Corinthians 5:17 (Amplified Bible)Therefore, if any person is [ingrafted] in Christ (the Messiah) he is a new creation (a new creature altogether); the old [previous moral and spiritual condition] has passed away. Behold, the fresh and new has come!

Courtesy B. Creasy - 2010

Matthew 11:28-30 (The Message Bible) Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.

20/20 Vision From the Rear View Mirror (pt. 2)

Courtesy A. Hughes

When I began this homeschooling journey almost 16 years ago, the choice was a stop-gap solution. Every year after, I looked for a sign indicating we could return to normal. Normal being a traditional school setting. When Son #1 was a 2^nd grader, it was a foregone conclusion that all would be 'normal' again by the time he reached middle school.

A funny thing happened on the way. By funny, I mean God was up there slapping his knee and doubled over as he laughed at my wisdom. He was laughing as my definition of 'normal' changed.

Life is but a Vapor

On the cusp of middle school, I realized what we were doing was not broken. Our approach did not need repair! I still hyperventilated over what his adulthood would look like and how it would unfold. I feared hearing him ask, “Why did you do this to me?” more than I feared hearing the naysayers harrumph and whisper, “See! I tried to tell her!”

Now that I am perched on the edge of a soon to be empty nest, I appreciate how much faith has been required to continue this journey. Altho' I have not chosen to homeschool because of religious convictions, my faith has been a pivotal and foundational marker of our journey.
                                           
I have callouses on my heart and knees from the time spent praying for wisdom and discernment. In some situations, answers came quickly. One year, I came home from the local homeschool resource store with a lighter pocketbook and heavy heart. Our academic testing results had not arrived before the time had come to purchase curriculum. It was during our season of homelessness, so every penny really counted.

 
As I perused the aisles and leafed through books, I cried out in prayer for guidance in choosing. The next week, test results arrived. I realized I had chosen the resources needed to foster my son's strengths and reinforce his weaknesses. It was a sweet day indeed knowing God had heard and answered my prayers.

Courtesy M. Horrocks

Other answers have been harder to see and longer in coming. Many times the prayer has been, “Lord, just don't let me screw this up! This is an entire future for two men in the making we are talking about! What if I get to the end of the journey and either of them fails to launch successfully? What if the naysayers who question socialization are right and one or both of them can't find their stride out in the 'real' world? Who's gonna be sorry then?”

Today, Son #1 is taking a non-traditional route to his Bachelors degree. He will receive an Associates degree next spring after three years of college. Along the way, he has traveled to China and Australia for work-related experiences that have strengthened his academic vision. He is now working as an intern web designer and taking part-time classes.

Sometimes, he frets about taking a different path than his high school peers. I remind him that his dad and two uncles, all traditionally schooled and professional engineers, took longer than four years to graduate. If he's asking, “Am I normal yet?” The answer is, “Yes. You've always been normal.”

A Metal Head and His Peeps

Son #2 is considering his options - including making the jump to a local charter school that will allow him to graduate from high school with his Associates degree. Despite his Asperger's diagnosis, he never meets a stranger and has a heart full of empathy. He is developing a ministry for disaffected youth that gravitate to the heavy metal music scene. Some days I'm so proud of him. Other days . . . I'm scared to death for him in an 'Oh my goodness! What is he getting into now' kinda way!

Am I still uneasy for the future? You betcha. I wonder every day if and how they will attain the American Dream. In that regard, I am no different from friends who are university faculty with four traditionally schooled graduates. As I poured out my angst to my longtime friend, she smiled. She told me her husband, a man with two Ph.D's and four very successful children, sat in my very chair and cried literal tears, “Am I enough? Have I done enough? Are they ready for the world out there? Have I given them what they need to make it?”

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

As I gaze out through the rear view mirror of life with the 20/20 vision it affords, I see the answer. It is so simple. No. We are never enough. We will never parent and/or school perfectly enough. All God asks is that we, as parents, do our best in consecrating our efforts to him. He did not give us the task of being 'enough'. Because if we were 'enough', our children would never need him.

Oh, fraidy cat, do you fear never being enough? Take a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Relax. We don't have to be enough because he is. Love you long and strong. See you soon?

Courtesy B. Creasy 2010

2 Corinthians 12:9 (Amplified Bible)But He said to me, My grace (My favor and loving-kindness and mercy) is enough for you [sufficient against any danger and enables you to bear the trouble manfully]; for My strength and power are made perfect (fulfilled and completed) and show themselves most effective in [your] weakness. Therefore, I will all the more gladly glory in my weaknesses and infirmities, that the strength and power of Christ (the Messiah) may rest (yes, may pitch a tent over and dwell) upon me!