Our Voices: Are They Instruments of Peace or Weapons of War

A number of years ago, I worked as a phone answerer at a telephone crisis intervention center. One evening, a woman called, and in an unusually calm voice said, "My son committed suicide about a month ago."

No one who is a parent or who has ever considered becoming one can hear such a statement without feeling some of the grief of the person who has lost a loved one. My grief was also tinted with some amount of fear. I had only been working as a counselor for several weeks. What was I going to say to a woman who was devastated by the loss of her own son? But wait, I remember thinking, that's not the way you would sound if you were devastated. The voice I heard had been almost void of any feeling. It was as if I were talking to someone who was merely recounting a quite normal occurrence.

"I need help," she said, her voice breaking in on my thoughts. "I loved my son more deeply than you will ever know, but in the weeks since his death, I have yet to be able to grieve. I can't cry. I don't lie awake at night feeling lost. I don't do any of the things I think one would normally do under the circumstances. It's almost as if I lost my heart when I lost my son. I can't even feel the pain of that loss. You've got to help me," she said. "I don't know what to do. Somehow, I've got to be able to grieve. I've got to be able to let all my pent up feelings out, and that scares me to death. Because when I finally let go, when I finally feel all that pain and despair, I don't know if I will be able to take it without going mad. You see," she continued, "I haven't told you everything. We found a note he left. The note says. . ." I heard her unfold the paper as she spoke. "The note says, 'It's time for me to leave this life. But then you probably won't notice. After all, you never noticed me while I was alive.'" I don't remember what I said next. I opened my mouth to speak and all I can remember is that my voice shook when I spoke. What, after all, can one say at such a time, 'I'm sorry. . .' "I know how you must feel. . .' How could I possibly know? How could I even begin to feel what this woman would feel when she let go? And as for 'I'm sorry,' somehow, at that moment, it seemed so very trite. I remember thinking that if I was to help this person do what she must do, I would have to help her more with my voice than with my words. I would have to let her know that I cared about her, not by just saying, 'I'm sorry,' but by actually feeling something of her sense of loss and by letting my feelings show in my voice. And that thought gave me an idea.

"I would like to help," I said, "But I have an idea which may allow you to do more for yourself than I could ever do for you. Do you have access to a tape recorder?" She did. "I would like you to find a quiet place, turn on the recorder, and actually speak aloud a conversation you might have had with your son while he was still alive. Don't take a lot of time trying to find just the right conversation, just turn on the recorder and start talking to him. The more you talk, the easier it will become. If you like, you might even speak the words that he would have used to answer you. Call me after you record the conversation and then maybe we can talk about how you feel." She said she would give it a try. We talked for a few more minutes and then she said goodbye.

Several weeks went by without any word from her. When she finally called, her voice instantly told me that we both had a very real problem. She had definitely found a way to grieve. In tears, she said, "I did what you suggested. It was hard at first. It didn't feel right talking to a tape recorder sitting in an empty chair. I finally tied a scarf over my eyes. I thought that might make me forget about the recorder. It's really strange," she said, "closing my eyes opened a kind of dam. Without sight, I was better able to concentrate on the sound of my voice, and what I heard it say was enough to make me despise the person I am. I have thought, more than once during the past three weeks, of taking my own life. I'm still not sure that I've gotten beyond that temptation. Anyway, this is what happened. When I turned on the recorder, I imagined that my son and I were having a conversation which we might have had some time ago. I heard myself tell him how proud of him I was. I heard myself say that even though I didn't agree with many of the ways he was currently choosing to live his life, I agreed with his right to be the person he wanted to be. I heard myself say that I understood, and that his father and I loved him, no matter who he became or what he did."

And then she stopped talking for a long time. When she continued, her voice was heavy and thick with emotion.

"My actual words," she said, "had boasted of the pride I had in him. They said that I was an open, loving person, willing to let him be the person he wanted to be and willing to love him no matter what he became. But then I stopped to listen to the way I said those words. The sound of my voice was distant, uncaring, and often very cold. I think I honestly heard myself for the first time. My words said that I respected his point of view, his way of life, but the tone of my voice, the very way I spoke, said that I disapproved of his very existence. I heard myself as he must have heard me, judgmental and scornful of the life he chose to live. Do you understand what I am saying?" she said in tears. "I failed him, both as a mother and as a friend. I pretended, with my words, to be so open and so honest, when all the time. . . My son went to his grave hearing the lies my words pretended and yet, somehow, he heard the truth between the lines. I don't think I can live with that truth."

It was almost two years to the day when I again received a call from the same woman. I can't promise her that I have quoted or am continuing to quote what she said to me with exact accuracy. Perhaps some of what I feel myself has crept into the telling, but somehow, I don't think she would mind.

"I have done a lot of thinking," she said, "since the night we last talked. I have cried a million tears, and I don't think I'm done crying yet. Do you know how hard it is not to be able to undo what you've done? Nothing I can say or do will ever bring my son back to me. Nothing I can say or do will ever let him know that I am sorry. Yet, I often feel he knows. I think he knows that if I had it to do over again, I might say many of the same words, but I may now understand more about what I say between the lines. I know a lot more now about what my voice can do to cause others pain. It can be, and sometimes is, a weapon of war, and I am not always aware when I am using it that way. Maybe my not being totally conscious of what I am really saying with it is for the best. I don't know, perhaps, if I had had ultimate control over the way I used it, I would have been guilty of a bigger lie. I might have discovered that I could learn to sound like I accepted my son's often reckless life, even when I did not. Maybe it's good I said the things I did, because maybe, although its hard to admit, maybe I really meant them.

"Sometimes I get real discouraged. For sometimes, even after I have thought about the way I want to speak to a friend, or the way I wish to express myself at work, people still misinterpret my meaning. I guess that's how it will be sometimes. Maybe all I can do is clear up possible misunderstandings by talking openly with my friends about the ways they perceive my voice. Maybe all I can do is work toward the day when my voice will be more an instrument of peace and less a weapon of war. I owe my son, and myself, at least that much."