Words

When I speak, it’s like I’m alone in a padded room.

The words that leave my mouth bump into the padded walls, falling with muted thuds onto the padded floor. Then they roll soundlessly into a dark padded corner where no one pays them any attention.  

Being in this padded room with my shriveled up words is starting to make me feel a little insane.

“I might be going crazy,” I say to myself, “because no one in this family listens to me.”

It’s true. When I talk, nothing seems to penetrate the ears of my husband or children.

“The only person who pays attention when I speak is…. me,” I say. Suddenly it’s obvious why I’m always talking to myself: when I talk, I listen. I remain my own best audience.

When I ask myself to take out the trash, for example, I comply. When I suggest that we be on time for school, I act accordingly. When I announce that dinner is ready, I wash my hands and sit down at the table. If I were competing in a family listening contest, I would be the unmistakable winner.  

Curiously, the only time my family chooses to listen to me is when I’m saying something I don’t actually want them to hear. Like when I’m driving my car, which is an SUV so cavernous that shouting is the sole form of effective communication, and I happen to utter a profanity under my breath (e.g., “This traffic is so freaking shitty!” or “Damn it, this funeral procession is making us late for the soccer game!”). From out of nowhere, a chorus of accusations erupts (e.g., “Mommy said a swear word!”, “Mommy has bad language!” etc. etc.).

From a scientific viewpoint, it makes no sense. How in the world is it possible that they hear me when I’m cursing at just 15 decibels in the front seat of my tank-like car, but they give no indication that I exist when I’m hollering inside the house at a whopping 85 decibels, many times directly in their faces?  

“It’s baffling,” I declare.

“I agree. I understand why you’re frustrated,” I reply to myself.

“Thanks for the validation, Laura.”

“You’re welcome, Laura.”

I am confident that one day in the distant future my family will begin listening to me, perhaps even appreciating what I say. But until then, I hang out in the padded room, retrieving my neglected words from their dark corner. I carefully dust them off and tuck them into the refuge of my pocket, giving them some of the tenderness they deserve.