when we are silent

I first discovered the safety and prison of silence when I was very young.

In silence, I didn’t have to prove anything – there was no “my word against his.”

Silence didn’t explain away my “little misunderstanding” or minimize my hurt.

It didn’t ask me questions I couldn’t answer.

Silence never asked me why I let him do it. It didn’t demand an explanation.

The absolute safety of silence was that it never confirmed my worst fear –

That the whole thing was somehow my fault. That I had invited it.

In silence, everything I thought was still mine to think.

No one could put words in my mouth or take my words and throw them away.

But silence was a prison.

And even as an adult I am under lock and key.

Words are precious and elusive and unpredictable.

When words are required to prove myself, I crumble.

The terror I will not be believed locks me down.

The fear I will be misunderstood is crippling.

My words evaporate and answers perish in my throat, unspoken.

And when I am dismissed or minimized or silenced, I am seven again.

And alone. And filled with fear and self-contempt.

This pain I can never explain or describe.

But it is rarely far away.

The fear of this pain hovers over every text I write,

Begging me to not leave room for misunderstanding.

Every conversation is an act of courage.

Every email a tribute of bravery.

“How can this be?” says my husband, who thinks I will never stop talking.

Silence can be noisy. It can be a lot of words that don’t matter at all.

All the while the deepest things I long to share lie stretched out on a prison bed.

And what is it I am asking you to do with this knowledge?

Why do I share this deeply personal and jarring bit of information?

That you might understand the silence of those around you.

And hold your judgement and interpretation,

“If things were that bad, why didn’t they speak up?”

Exactly.