I am a quiet person. Last winter I lost my voice for almost a month; few noticed. The simple fact that I am quiet does not bother me, for I like a fair helping of silence. Beyond the noise level, a legitimate problem lies in the fact that I am apt to take the adage "if you can't say anything nice, don’t say anything at all" to a dangerous extreme. I am so used to measuring words, a master at wringing them until they have lost any possible controversy.
I lied to myself for years, placing a filter on emotion as to cut out access to my own thoughts on difficult matters.
Still now, when I am upset with someone or feel especially useless, I keep quiet. The unsavory thoughts pile up, a wish-wash of what’s true and what may not be, with no outlet. I will be angry with someone and have no palpable reason why, nor the rationale to tell them. I stew.
Those I allow close to me occasionally take a sideways glance and shake me for words, looking to help or state their frustration at my lackluster skills in the field of in-the-moment communication, yet still all I know to do is pull away. I worry so deeply that others have made me periphery in their lives while at the same time I push them back to the fringes of my existence out of fear.
Surely it isn't fair of me to be angry with people, especially for reasons I could never find logic for or fully express to those involved. Maybe I want to find a way to say:
“It feels safest to keep my silence today; my heart hurts and I lack the means to express it with any accuracy. Maybe you said something or didn't say something, nothing blatant enough to warrant a legitimate complaint but a matter enough to pluck a nerve somewhere, and I have no way to tell you.
“I say nothing and hope you will somehow pick up on the fact that this particular distance, this once in a while blankness is inherently different from the tens of other silences we have shared.
“I want to make it your fault. It isn't. But because I cannot make it your fault, I must make it mine, and to amend this requires neutrality I cannot manufacture without making myself blank. I would cry, if I could. I would yell, if I could. I can’t.
“It isn't that you bother me terribly. You don’t. You never do. It has more to do, I think, with my envy of your words. Sometimes you will say simplest of things and I sit here wanting dearly to tell you, without logic or niceties, to please shut up and understand that I am aching with the fact that I cannot find words or, when I do, allow myself the luxury of letting them free.
“I cannot rationalize outwardly expressed anger for myself; somehow silence crept in as the acceptable, only, choice of action available to me.
“The fact of my silence becomes a problem in and of itself, draws questions I am helpless to answer. I don’t know how to say things, period, without risking tremendous guilt. I hold a double standard for myself—maybe I welcome others' complaints and stories so wholeheartedly because I feel so completely useless at putting forward my own.
“I am silent for reasons I am still struggling to bring to the surface. I hope against hope that, in some small way, you will understand.”
The words, stacked as they are now, slightly sicken me; I blot them until the built up anger loses its greasy sheen. They make some sense here, tucked neatly within paragraphs and freed of rough edges.
I don’t know what to make of them.
Still now, when I am upset with someone or feel especially useless, I keep quiet. The unsavory thoughts pile up, a wish-wash of what’s true and what may not be, with no outlet. I will be angry with someone and have no palpable reason why, nor the rationale to tell them. I stew.
Those I allow close to me occasionally take a sideways glance and shake me for words, looking to help or state their frustration at my lackluster skills in the field of in-the-moment communication, yet still all I know to do is pull away. I worry so deeply that others have made me periphery in their lives while at the same time I push them back to the fringes of my existence out of fear.
Surely it isn't fair of me to be angry with people, especially for reasons I could never find logic for or fully express to those involved. Maybe I want to find a way to say:
“It feels safest to keep my silence today; my heart hurts and I lack the means to express it with any accuracy. Maybe you said something or didn't say something, nothing blatant enough to warrant a legitimate complaint but a matter enough to pluck a nerve somewhere, and I have no way to tell you.
“I say nothing and hope you will somehow pick up on the fact that this particular distance, this once in a while blankness is inherently different from the tens of other silences we have shared.
“I want to make it your fault. It isn't. But because I cannot make it your fault, I must make it mine, and to amend this requires neutrality I cannot manufacture without making myself blank. I would cry, if I could. I would yell, if I could. I can’t.
“It isn't that you bother me terribly. You don’t. You never do. It has more to do, I think, with my envy of your words. Sometimes you will say simplest of things and I sit here wanting dearly to tell you, without logic or niceties, to please shut up and understand that I am aching with the fact that I cannot find words or, when I do, allow myself the luxury of letting them free.
“I cannot rationalize outwardly expressed anger for myself; somehow silence crept in as the acceptable, only, choice of action available to me.
“The fact of my silence becomes a problem in and of itself, draws questions I am helpless to answer. I don’t know how to say things, period, without risking tremendous guilt. I hold a double standard for myself—maybe I welcome others' complaints and stories so wholeheartedly because I feel so completely useless at putting forward my own.
“I am silent for reasons I am still struggling to bring to the surface. I hope against hope that, in some small way, you will understand.”
The words, stacked as they are now, slightly sicken me; I blot them until the built up anger loses its greasy sheen. They make some sense here, tucked neatly within paragraphs and freed of rough edges.
I don’t know what to make of them.
