Mute

A good friend of mine recently made a breakthrough with EMDR therapy. It’s left me thinking a lot about my own mental and emotional health – especially as we approach the six year mark.

I am not well. Not in a functional, well-adjusted way.

When I was in school, I played the cello. I loved it (albeit I hated practicing) – I loved being able to make music that moved my own soul. Saint-Saens, especially. There were numbers that we’d have to use mutes on – devices that handily clipped onto the bridge, between the G & D strings. Round disks that felt like rubber and helped control your volume. I wasn’t a fan – it made that luminous sound fall away into something ethereal and almost whiny. Mind you, it worked for that specific sound, but I loved plucking that disc off and really getting into a more primal melody.

I feel like my life is on mute. Some days I can feel the pinch of the mute on my skin – reminders that I am functioning, but not at my best. I read miracle stories and feel a pinch. A tear, singular, and a swollen throat are my only reaction for the moment. I re-frame my mindset, because my knee-jerk waterfall of jealousy feels so wrong. I tighten the mute, and move on.

However.

The mute keeps me muted from everything – not just the pain from seeing other happy six-year-olds and miracle situations. It keeps me from feeling that deep-set joy that I used to feel – I don’t get that exhilarated rush on the first beautiful day after a long winter. I recognize my life as it is and I am grateful – especially for my daughters. I acknowledge that they are my entire life and I would go full Game of Thrones to keep them safe.

But my laughter? It’s fake. My smiles don’t feel real.

I’ve lost my joy, trying to mute my pain.