I'm home. I'm the safest I've been in seven weeks. I'm sleeping in my own bed. I've kissed my husband. I've hugged my son. My life is supposed to be normal again. I'm supposed to be myself again. All this should lead to clarity, peace of mind, relaxation and more than anything, finding my voice. Now that I'm home the inability I struggled with--the lack of words, the vocabulary I needed to describe what I felt and saw that I could never seem to find--this was supposed to reappear. I was supposed to be able to write and share this. I'm safe, after all. This is where it was all supposed to come together. To date, none of this is happening. Words still escape me. I've got nothing. Nada. Nothing. I'm blank. I'm not sure I have ever been this frustrated with myself for the same reason for this long of a time.
Picture this. You're a chef. You love to make risotto. You've made it over and over throughout your career. You know exactly how to make it. People say it's good risotto. You're in your kitchen with all of your chef tools and the ingredients to make risotto and you suddenly can't remember how to make it anymore. You know the recipe is somewhere in your mind. You struggle to bring it to the surface and it stays buried. Nothing you do can make you remember.
You're a violinist. You take your violin and place it under your chin. You've done this a million times. You bring your bow up and freeze. You've forgotten how to play.
You're a surgeon. You've performed open heart surgery hundreds of times throughout your career. You know exactly what to do. You stand in front of your patient, all of your surgical tools right next to you and your skills escape you. You no longer remember what to do.
You're an artist. You go to paint and suddenly the oils, brushes, and canvas in front of you mean nothing. You can't conjure up anything. You feel artistically mute.
Coming home was supposed to mean I would find my words again. I would rediscover my vocabulary and everything that was in me for seven weeks was supposed to pour out. It's not. I don't understand this. It is the most profoundly frustrating experience I can remember having. It feels unreal. I don't feel like myself.
I'm staring at puzzle pieces. They're all in front of me. Nothing is missing except my ability to put them together. The missing piece is what? My ability to form words that give justice to what I saw. What does this mean? Linguistic amnesia makes me feel stupid and useless. This too shall pass? Someone please tell me it will.