Oh the irony of it all...

Talking is an art form for me. I was born into a family of talkers. I learned at an early age that to get attention in one of our family gatherings it was important to get into a conversation, hold your own in that conversation and be able to talk to another group all at the same time. This was made truly chaotic as each and every family member seemed engaged in the same behavior creating a cacophony of voices and laughter. Friends brought into one of our gatherings would watch and listen in stunned silence often asking later how we possibly communicated in such a manner. This was on my father's side of the family. As the years have passed it has become undeniable that a fair number of us are not exactly poster children for mental health. Perhaps we were practicing for the mania that would later display itself in more than a few of us. Others of us slipped into long term depressions or heard voices and yelled at things that were not visible to anyone else. Others of us turned to drugs and alcohol which was my ticket into the family looney bin; Southern eccentrics to a fault if I put a spin on it.

Talking, storytelling, free advice, street corner b.s., long discussions about pretty much any topic and, following in my father's footsteps, talking to myself, have been my way of expression. The irony is that I am sick with something that is affecting my voice. I am in speech therapy. Friends find this hilariously funny! Talking creates exhaustion and muscular stress. My voice gives out when I am working and on the phone. Blip! I am talking and then I am croaking, at best, or unable to get a word out which is worse when a customer is on the other end of the phone.

Resting my throat muscles, my voice and suppressing my talkative nature is incredibly difficult. Everyone I know comes to mind and I think of something I need to tell them. I'm telling you this woman needs to communicate. It is in my blood. I have been sick in so many ways that I have lost track. This illness comes when I have begun working from home and am on the phone taking customer service calls. My perfect job, right? Flexible hours, helping people and talking to them is right up my alley! BUT the irony of it all is that my one prized possession, my voice, has turned traitor on me. Accepting things for what they are is not easy. Don't let anyone tell you it is easy. They are lying through their teeth. This is tough and I am not accepting it well. Oh, I'm not saying I can't talk at all but if I don't rest my voice and follow doctor's orders I can see that in my future. "Woe is me" sounds dramatic enough right now. Forthunately I am sleepy and ready for bed. I wonder if I talk in my sleep? Just sayin'!