Staying Silent

Looking at myself and my journey with and through my darkness, I recognize the pressure that comes with it.

There is pressure to be quiet. To wear a mask. To make life comfortable for everyone else while I am crumbling underneath it.

Maintaining appearances takes energy. It also makes me a good actor. Perhaps even a good liar, because you might believe that I was never in pain. That I was never suffering.

The better I become at hiding my suffering, the less credible my suffering becomes when I finally speak about it.

The mask becomes evidence against the pain.

I learn to hide what is happening so no one asks questions. Because if I become a burden, everything changes.

If you knew the truth, you might look at me differently. The energy between us would shift. You might try to fix me instead of listening to me. You might not believe me. You might misidentify what I am experiencing and reshape it into something that makes more sense to you.

And suddenly, I am expected to prove an experience that I have spent years learning to conceal.

You might make my pain about you.

Then I would have to take care of you. I would have to reassure you, prioritize your feelings, and make sure you were comfortable with what I had just told you.

My pain would stop being about me.

Even my staying would become about you. My continued presence would be measured by what I provide to others rather than what my experience means to me.

And somewhere in that process, I disappear again.

So what is the point of talking about it when the result is the same?

Sometimes staying silent feels easier than being misunderstood.

Not because I have nothing to say.

Because I know what it costs to be heard incorrectly.