The Still, Quiet Voice
I sent my older daughter off to school after I’d woken her up only 20 minutes earlier, walking around the kitchen with my hair all crazy, my mind foggy, holding a 26-pound little human to my bare chest who refused to stop nursing.
When I dropped that baby off at daycare nearly an hour later, bucking and screaming when I handed her over to the woman I felt empathy for, I ran away before she could say “No, not like this. Not screaming like this.”
I got home, made myself some food and a second pot of coffee. The dog curled up on the couch, then at my feet, thankful I’d returned home and hadn’t abandoned her like she’d assumed.
A lot of being a writer is not writing. Much of it is reading. I see these as two separate but vital things. The not writing comes in waves of piecing together, and for me it’s self-reflection; looking at parts of my life from all different angles, looking for the most vulnerable, tender spot for the truth. Sometimes it’s an act of chewing, or going through a piece I’ve researched to death and still don’t know how to talk about. Sometimes, when I am most lucky (which hasn’t happened in years until just recently), it’s in someone else’s bed, staring up at someone else’s ceiling, intertwined completely, listening to their contented sleepy noises, my nose buried in their hair.
Things find you. People. Words. Whole entire essays that sit down with you and see you.
“We—mothers who write, solo mothers who write and create—often, if not most of the time or all of the time, write for our lives. Being a mother often makes the act of writing even more urgent, more sanity-saving, more necessary. We can get lost in routine and duty, obviously, but getting lost in the love part—love of our children, love of writing—might prevent that. Part of that is self-love. Part of that is creative output. All of it meant to keep us connected to who we are, as creative beings, when external forces might sever or corrupt such connection.”
Khadijah Queen’s essay on “Mothering Solo” touched on so many aspects of being a sole caregiver without explaining, it came at almost a relief or sigh. Because I’ve felt the need to explain my situation for so many years. I think a lot of my writing in the last few months has been just that.
Since finding out about Coraline, I’ve fought-and sometimes lost-a horrible battle with a part of myself that slut-shames me. I don’t know how else to describe it. I feel people’s questions burning. The whens, whys, wheres, and hows. I have no explanation anymore. We just are. Us three.
Much of my social life is online. It’s where I share most of myself. Even now, in writing this, it will be my one chance to talk about my day. I never expect responses, or even that many readers. Writers are a special sort of breed that need to share their stories by writing them down for others to see. Even when I kept journals as a child, locking them up before hiding them so no one would find them, I hoped someone would. As a kid, I wanted to be like Anne Frank, with my diaries found and published years after my death so I wouldn’t have to experience the horror of people reading my thoughts. I think, even as a kid, I knew that part of it’d be hard.
My last post got picked up and shared by WordPress, and has since been read over a thousand times. Yesterday I watched, a little stunned, as the comments of love and support came in, and continued to this morning. “From the still quiet voice, that shouts in my mind, I am letting you know, that it does get better,” one said. “It won’t ever be perfect, but better. Please feel free to reach out to me should you ever need a friend or listening ear that simply understands.”
I started this blog years ago, before mommy blogs were popular, as a way to pick out pieces of my often lonely days with Mia that I wanted to remember. I needed to do that in order to stay sane, but also to be a present parent for her. If I spent even ten minutes remembering, and writing, later that night when she screamed and fought me over eating or going to bed, I could go back to that place where I meditated on the way her hands looked as she carefully picked up a crab with a yellow plastic shovel.
I called it, this website, “Still Life with Mia” then. Most of the entries have been set to private. I want to tell the stories in a different way, in an older writing voice. I want people to read about our life then, but not in the near-desperation of how I wrote about it then.
When I decided to be a “real” writer, I stopped blogging and refused to say the word. Almost a year ago, I started, slowly, taking selected past entries out of hiding and creating new ones. I never imagined I’d have many followers. I wanted to be a freelancer, and in order to get clients, I needed some kind of writing sample. I never thought I’d consider my own website as a true platform, or anything people would seek out. Now that it is, I can’t help but get emotional over the support people so freely offer.
Because it’s still just me, sitting alone, at a computer, staring at a wall of photos and grabbing a mug to take a drink of coffee that is long-since gone. I have to remind myself to get up, to eat, to stop staring, and walk around a bit.
I dropped my baby off at daycare this morning when she was upset and needing her mom so badly, running away from her neediness, so I could sit and listen to the still quiet voice.
What’s it going to say today?
When I used to have regular panic attacks, ones that’d come for no reason, ones that would cripple me into feeling like I was suffocating, ones that curled me up into a ball in a jacuzzi bathtub of a house I’d been cleaning, I found a mantra:
“I love you, I’m here for you.”
The further I got into this journey as a single parent, and found myself further and further estranged from my family, it became my mantra for life. I’d learned I couldn’t depend on anyone else, and fell back into myself as my only source of support.
Maybe that’s where I got my strength from. Reaching out became an action of weakness. Writing blog posts about my hardest moments were showing humility, admitting faults, in an action that is going against the grain of only displaying perfection. It feels necessary to me now.
Where we are raw is where we are alive.
Oh, wow! I feel you completely. You’ve captured so well and with such vulnerability the rawness of your life. This is timely as I grapple with how to share in a personal way without divulging all of those aspects of my life I’d rather keep private. Thank you!
I’m so glad for your writing. Keep on, mama.
Beautifully written. You have found a new follower in me, and I a friend, albeit distant, in you. Thank you.
Thank you for the inspiration to write this one!
WOW! and I mean WOW!! You are an inspiration to me. I feel like I work all the time and my son suffers for it. But you make it feel like I am doing the right thing. Thank you so much for what I feel like is support when there is so much negativity that I receive.
Amazing!!!!! Simply amazing
You touch the heart of your readers. Love the title, The Still, Quiet Voice. Reminds me of,
I Kings 19: 12 and after the earthquake a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire; and after the fire a still small voice.
As God spoke to Elijah in a still, small voice, He may speak to us in a whisper.
Thanks Stephanie for the reminder for this Mom.
You write beautifully and your words are a joy to read even though the connection I am making with them is one of a sad and resigned understanding. I’m also a single mom, working, paying a sitter to stay home with my girl at night so I can work, writing during the day and doing all the other little things necessary to make up of a life and a family of two. Then, of course, when I’m exhausted at the end of the day I always think I could have done more, I could have WRITTEN more, and the days go on and the cycle continues and we’re still trying to find something in the words.
I think many of us go through the, “I could’ve written more” even if it is 4 Am and I’m still writing. Sometimes the rest of our day gets in the way!
Wawwww! I can relate to you on many levels here Steph. The single mum, the reading and writing, the social life is much online, “the further and further estranged from my family” gosh! Are we long lost twins? Hehe
A beautifully written piece of work that had me wanting more!
I know what you mean about how it feels to have a post “take off”. That has to happen once in awhile. It know it keeps me encouraged. It brings in readers that otherwise wouldn’t have found me. This time it was a poem I wrote 3 years ago, and piano music I just wrote, wrapped up in a post for the man I write about in prison. “Tears For All The Years That Passed.” Those of us who enjoy blogging – which is most of us, I think – our social life is online, all over the world. That is wonderful. and being able to sit and watch the stats rise every time you refresh is mesmerizing. So many blogs don’t make it through the 2 year mark. They kinda drop off. Life changes, I guess. But the blogs that go on, mature and grow and are so interesting to read because a timeline is created. Like you, I started keeping journals when I was very young so blogging is a natural way to go. Keep it up!
Reblogged this on livingmombie.
“Where we are raw is where we are alive.”
I am going to sit with this and breathe it in. This sentence has an aroma that travels to the core.
Namaste – W38
i like your article, very inspiring and thank you for your post
Very touching- they grow up so fast it’s awesome you’re blogging about them now.
Well written and Inspiring! 🙂