Amanda Rountree

The bad sore throat/cold that’s been going around caught up with me last weekend.  Whether I picked it up from its tour of the cast/crew of the show I’m in or from it’s usual hangouts around any of the classes of kids I teach, I know not.  But I was pretty self-satisfied that I seemingly squelched it in a mere matter of a couple days.  However, as soon as I thought I was in the clear, BAM!  I lost my voice!  It seemed to come out of nowhere, this sudden hoarseness.  And I was left silent, trying to rearrange my schedule and/or find substitute teachers to carry-on my classes this past week.  It is now going on day 4.  I can muster some painful-to-hear sounds, but my voice is still too hoarse to really talk.

And in the absence of this ability, dear reader, is where I have found my own personal hell.

I didn’t realize how much I talk.  And I’m not even referring to chats among friends or performing in shows or leading workshops and classes–sure, yeah…I talk a lot then–but I’m referring to all the things I say when I’m alone!  I spend a great deal of time alone.  I live by myself in a cozy little studio and am a homebody whenever I have the chance.  I cannot tell you how many, many times in the past few days that I have had the natural inclination to say something aloud when I’m alone.  It’s anything from little noises and seemingly nonsensical expressions (see previous post) to giving myself a little what-for or pep talk.  Sometimes it’s just singing or the occasional obvious comment on something that just happened.  (e.g., “Now, that is a delicious sandwich!”)  I could go on and on.  (Apparently, I usually do…)  But now, now it’s all just jammed up in there.  I need a neti pot for my thoughts.

This has got me thinking.  Well, that’s all I feel I can do right now–think.  And thinking isn’t processing for me.  Talking about what I’m thinking or talking as I’m thinking or talking after I’ve been thinking–that’s how I process.  I suppose I write, of course–and that helps me process.  But even when I’m writing, I’m talking.  Just while typing this, I’ve had the urge to say some thoughts aloud to feel how they sound before typing ‘em.  Maybe the reason laryngitis feels like torture to me is the sense of detachment.  I’ve become a prisoner in my own head.  Don’t get me wrong.  It’s a great place to visit.  I just don’t want to live there.