A Guide for the Silent: What to Do When You Can’t Leave (Yet)

A Guide for the Silent: What to Do When You Can’t Leave (Yet)

by Robert’s Daughter

This isn’t a survival story. It’s a survival moment.

If you’re reading this, you might be curled up somewhere right now — maybe on the floor, maybe in a bathroom, maybe in a car parked just out of sight — trying not to fall apart. You might be holding your breath, hoping this is the worst it gets. Or you might be realizing it’s already gotten worse than you ever imagined. Either way, I want you to know something right now:

You are not alone.

This is not a guide for people who have already made it out. This is for the ones still in it — still scared, still surviving. Still wondering if maybe they’re just too sensitive or too dramatic or too broken to be loved properly. I know those thoughts. I live with them too.

I write this from my own kind of silence. My own kind of prison.

Sometimes I look around at my scattered belongings and wonder how I got here. My wedding dress is still hanging in the closet like it’s waiting for someone I used to be. I cry in rooms that once held dreams. I whisper things like “I’m sorry, I love you, you’re going to be okay” to myself because there’s no one else to say them. Some days I survive just by staying quiet. Some days I don’t leave the house at all.

Here are a few truths I’ve learned that might help you hold on — not forever, just for today.

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1. You don’t have to justify your fear.

If your heart is racing every time a door slams, or your stomach turns when you hear their voice change, that’s not weakness. That’s your body trying to protect you. Even if no one else saw the moment they screamed in your face, or the time they called you disgusting in public, you saw it. You felt it. That’s enough.

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2. Keep something just for you.

I started writing things down — not for anyone else, just for me. A folder on my phone. A note I delete and retype every week. It doesn’t have to be deep. It just has to be yours. Somewhere you can say, “this happened,” and not be told it didn’t.

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3. Plan slowly, silently, and safely.

You don’t need to pack a bag overnight and run. You can collect things in secret. Screenshot important documents. Email yourself copies of IDs. Hide twenty dollars at a time. Think of it not as leaving — but as building a way out. Even if it takes a year. Even if you’re not ready yet.

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4. The good moments don’t erase the harm.

Maybe they held you and cried. Maybe they said sorry. Maybe they even meant it. But that doesn’t mean the pattern is gone. Abuse is a cycle. And it’s okay to feel confused by the good. It doesn’t mean you imagined the bad.

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5. Your pain is real, even if no one sees it.

You’re not too much. You’re not the reason things are broken. You’re not wrong for wanting tenderness, consistency, or peace. You are not the problem just because you’re in pain.

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6. You’re allowed to want more than survival.

One day, I hope you have someone who looks at you like you matter — not like you’re a burden to be managed. I hope you laugh without watching the door. I hope you sleep without flinching.

But until then, know this: your story isn’t over.

You don’t have to be brave all the time. You just have to keep breathing.

I’m still here, too. Still in it. Still holding on.

Maybe we can hold on together.