Beneath the Silence: The Silence is Loud
- Aug 8
- 6 min read
I didn’t notice it at first.
The quiet.
The way the air between us sometimes felt heavy even when you were smiling.
It was so subtle, it slipped past my guard.
When we met, you were magnetic. You made me feel like I was the only person in the room. You listened, or at least it seemed that way. You laughed at my jokes like they were the funniest thing you’d ever heard. And after so many years of being overlooked, that attention felt like sunlight after a long winter.
You spoke to parts of me no one had bothered to see. You asked about my dreams. You told me you wanted the same things. It felt like fate — like two people who had been wandering finally found their home in each other.
But then came the moments I didn’t know how to name back then.
The offhand comment that made me question myself.
The way you’d go quiet when I said something you didn’t like — no discussion, just withdrawal.
The shift in your tone that made my stomach twist, even if your words sounded harmless.
And then… it stopped being subtle.
The silence was joined by sharp words.
Name-calling that cut deeper than any quiet ever could.
Threats that left me wondering if you were the same person who once swore to protect me.
You’d tell me I was worthless, or crazy, or impossible to love — and then act like I was overreacting for feeling hurt.
It wasn’t just in the heat of arguments — sometimes it was calculated.
You’d start a fight over nothing. Pick apart something I said, twist it until I was defending myself.
You’d call me horrendous names just so you could storm out.
Sometimes, before leaving, you’d guilt me into having sex — like it was proof I still loved you, or that we were “fine” — and then you’d grab your keys and head to the bar to drink with your friends.
Other times, you’d come home drunk after one of those nights, reeking of alcohol, acting like the fight never happened, expecting sex as if it was your right.
It wasn’t always “asking.” Sometimes it was taking.
Sometimes it was ignoring my “no.”
Sometimes it was forcing me into things I didn’t want, and then blaming me afterward for “making you feel unwanted.”
There were times when the anger turned physical.
Hands gripping too hard. Being shoved out of the way. Being held in place so I couldn’t walk away.
It was intimidation, and it worked — my body learned to freeze before my mind could even catch up.
By then, my body was never at ease — shoulders tight, breath shallow, stomach knotted — because I knew there was no safe way to refuse without inviting more rage.
And all the while, I was home every day, caring for eight kids. I was constantly trapped in a house where the chaos never stopped.
I tried to hold it all together — the cooking, the cleaning, the homework, the baths — while navigating the landmine of your moods.
But even your kids started becoming more distant.
The closeness we’d shared in the beginning faded, replaced by careful space, as if they, too, were learning how to stay out of your way.
It made the house feel even heavier, like the walls themselves were pulling back from me.
I didn’t realize yet that every insult, every guilt-laced demand, every shove, every unwanted touch, was planting something in me.
Each time I swallowed my hurt, another seed took root.
You weren’t just wounding me in the moment — you were rewriting the way I saw myself.
A Part From My Journal Entry:
"I feel so small tonight. I don’t even know how it started — you were fine one moment, furious the next. You called me pathetic. A waste. A bitch. You said I should be grateful you even stayed this long. I gave in when you wanted sex because I thought maybe it would stop the fight. It didn’t. You left anyway, saying you needed to get away from me. Now you’re at the bar. The house feels cold and loud all at once — my ears ringing in the silence you left behind. I’m sitting here with my knees pulled to my chest, replaying your words, wondering if they’re true. I notice I’m apologizing more — for my tone, my thoughts, even just existing wrong. No matter how small I make myself, it’s never enough. I can feel new beliefs forming inside me — ugly ones I never carried before. That I’m the problem. That I’m unlovable. That I should be thankful for whatever I get. And the scariest part? A piece of me is starting to believe it."
At first, I brushed moments like that off. I told myself you were tired. Stressed. That I was reading too much into it. I made excuses, the way people do when they want so badly to believe they’ve found something real.
But those moments started to multiply.
You’d pull away without explaining why, leaving me scrambling to win you back.
You’d rewrite things that happened, making me doubt my own memory.
You’d share just enough affection to keep me hoping… and just enough cruelty to keep me chasing.
That’s the part I didn’t see soon enough — the pattern.
The push and pull.
The way my need for connection became your control.
And in between it all… there was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that fills a room like smoke, creeping into your lungs until you can’t breathe right.
The kind that makes your chest ache and your thoughts spiral.
The kind that makes you question what you did wrong — and worse, makes you believe it’s always you.
I used to think silence meant safety.
Now I know it can be the loudest warning of all.
This is where my story begins — before the breaking, before the leaving.
In the quiet and the chaos, where the damage started long before I had the words to name it.
If I could do things differently, I would.
If I could go back to that version of myself — the one sitting in the silence, thinking I was the problem — I would tell her to trust her body when it felt unsafe.
I would tell her that walking on eggshells is not love, that guilt is not intimacy, and that being afraid is not normal.
I would tell her that “just getting through it” is not the same as living, and that she doesn’t have to prove her worth by enduring more.
I would stop trying to fix someone who didn’t want to be fixed.
I would draw boundaries before the first name-calling.
I would leave before my belief in my own value could be stripped away.
And most of all, I would remind her that you can love someone and still choose yourself.
The Signs Were There
Looking back now, I can see it so clearly — the Universe was already trying to get my attention.
Little nudges. Moments that didn’t feel right. The heaviness in my chest when he walked into the room, the way my energy would shift when I heard his car pull up, the rare flashes of peace when he wasn’t there.
It was all there, whispering to me that something was wrong.
But I didn’t listen.
I convinced myself it was stress, or bad timing, or something I could fix if I just loved harder.
And so I stayed, ignoring the signs that were meant to guide me out.
I know now that the Universe will keep sending those nudges — over and over — until we’re ready to hear them.
And sometimes, it starts as a whisper before it has to roar.
If you’re reading this and you see yourself in my story, I hope you don’t wait for the breaking point. You deserve to feel safe in your own home, safe in your own body, safe in your own mind. You deserve love that doesn’t require you to lose yourself to keep it.
This is part of my series, Beneath the Silence, where I share my story of breaking free from manipulation, control, and abuse — piece by piece, moment by moment. Each entry pulls back another layer. If you’ve lived this too, you are not alone.
Next up: I Thought I Could Heal Him — the hope that kept me holding on. Coming early September.
Comments