Silence isn’t golden

When the night moves into the type of silence where sounds begin to meld together to create a melody unlike any other, I find myself wandering aimlessly in my thoughts, unaware of where I am, or where I’m going. I listen to my blood move through my ears, and wonder.

It’s been eight years since my father died. And these last years have held some of the most amazing and beautiful times in my life. But there have been days, more days than I will admit to those I love, where I have questioned my existence, my purpose, my life, my choices, and my future. I often scream into the deafening roar of my own thoughts to just be quiet. To please let me think and hear that thought, instead of grappling with all the tones and songs and pain and laughter just to hear what I’m trying to think. But often that’s too much to ask. My mind has too many things to think, and to be still means the pain could come, the guilt, the sorrow, the emptiness, the consuming anger; good things can’t hold a light to the blackness fear brings. So, I do as most, and stay “busy”, scrolling, watching, messaging, moving, cleaning, cooking, washing, wiping, playing, talking, anything to keep the thoughts moving. I knitpik my husbands actions because I feel inadequate. I doubt his love because I don’t think I’m worthy. I let guilt leave me raw because I’m not a good parent. I let my mind tell itself I’m worthless, and fat, and ugly, and having nothing left to contribute. Not because any single thing is the truth, but because silence is scary. Because I’m afraid of the dark thoughts that I’ve had. This isn’t how I want to live.

There was a time, after my daughter was born, where life seemed so full of light and love and things were finally feeling in a place of stability and happiness, but it didn’t last very long; 10 weeks to be exact. I was 23, hadn’t been married a year yet, but was so in love with life and my family that it felt like things were looking up. Like we were finally going to get out of the slump we had been in for too long. And then I got the phone call. You’ll never know how you’ll react to the call your mother is dead. When I got the call at 18 and heard my dad was unresponsive, I went numb, and paced the floor and desperately tried to get ahold of my boyfriend. At 23 I was holding my daughter, and vividly remember dropping her in my cousins hands saying take this. And screaming into the phone with my grandma. What a sick joke. It had to be fake. I called my husband at work. It was like I wasn’t even in my own body, it was someone else who was there, and I was outside looking in. When did I sign up to tell my brother, not once but twice, our parents were dead? Who decided I had to hold up my older sister and tell her it was going to be okay, for her to tell me to fuck off? When was I deemed the only one who could take care of everything? When I sit with my thoughts for too long, these types of questions just quit making sense. How is it at 25, I’ve buried my parents, kept my brother in his home, and managed to keep our fragile family together, but have struggled to even know who I am? I think part of the reason why, is because I can’t ask for what I need. I am always putting the needs of others ahead of my own. I don’t even know what I need, so how can I ask someone to help me? My mom knew what I needed when I didn’t. That’s what mothers do. My dad did too, more so than my mom since he was my best friend, but I don’t often think on that, because there are too many avenues of thought to take me away. I’ve cried more than once that I just want someone to know what I need and do it instead of asking me.

I’ve spent years trying to build healthy boundaries, and to understand what my body needs, but that means a lot of silence, introspection, and stillness. Things that I don’t handle all to well. But on the days I am feeling courageous, I listen to my heart and soul, weed through the emotions to understand what it is I am feeling, and attempt to lighten the burden on my body. I know no one but me can fix me, and though that doesn’t give me even a moment of comfort, I do find comfort knowing the only true way to fail is to give up and give in. So long as I keep making small, seemingly undetectable movements forward, I will continue on my journey to healing. Writing helps me heal, because even though I am “busy”, I am following my thoughts where they want to go, and releasing the emotions through reading the words I wrote. Allowing this sort of free flow thought processing has been something I’ve used on and off, but I always forget how helpful it can really be, simply because it is something that takes time out of my day, and it is only for my benefit, no one else’s.