My voice seems to be changing. If you heard me, you might wonder if I’m recovering from laryngitis, if it hurts to talk.
It might be weak from disuse. I’ve always been more of a listener than a talker, all eyes and ears. But now that I live and work alone, some days I barely utter a paragraph.
I've always envied singers and actors who master their voices no matter how much they speak in a day. Words gush and seep from their whole bodies like molten lava. My words get tangled in my teeth.
I tried music in grade school, practicing hymns while strumming my guitar in my bedroom. At dinner one noon, with my four siblings snickering, my dad asked me to sing more quietly. I’m guessing he also was weary of Kumbaya. I rarely sang again.
I tried acting. When a group of parents congratulated me on my impassioned performance, my dad laughed, “That’s not acting. She yells at her brother like that every night.” I never acted again.
But I tried other roles. Forensics champion, epistle reader, college teacher, for crying out loud, I was a public relations executive and a CEO for years. Still my voice…
As I write this, my throat is tighter than ever. I’m not sure if I need to cry or scream. With my whole body.