Silence can be telling.

It suggests a coming storm; the calm before the thunderclouds burst and send forth a deluge.

It implies inner peace; a moment of meditation and thought on the mountain above the valleys of turmoil.

It reeks of fear and tension; the shadows formed from unspoken truths between brothers, sisters, enemies, neighbors.

It speaks of hope; the unsung dreams of millions yearning for something they cannot yet reach.

Mostly, silence tells us nothing without us.

For we are the ones speaking in the silence:

…dreaming…hoping…fearing…warning…

Photo by Mitch Dobrowner

My silence is no different.  It has been all of these things and yet none of them.  For I am the one who ultimately must make use and meaning out of my silence.  Last time I entered such a phase, not even writing for myself, I was in a darkness that has continued to haunt me to this day.  Self-doubt, fear of failure, the fraud police, and self-hate all kept me from seeing my way through.  As I’ve written before, eventually I found a way, but it’s easy to forget how much those shadows can cling.

For months now, the silence and shadows have been creeping back into my life, dimming the light a little.  Even as I have finally opened up about my struggle with depression, fear, self-loathing, and self-loving, I have found myself sinking again.  Life began to feel like wading through muddy water.  For awhile I was fatigued each day for no reason, physical reactions to my mental state.  I’ve isolated myself…just a little bit really…and I second guess myself at most turns.  My effectiveness at work has suffered (I hide it well so I don’t know how many even notice), and my motivation in general is stunted.  I’ve stopped caring as much (though the important things, my friends, family, creativity…I still care about those).  It doesn’t help that I’ve been at a crossroads in my life, trying to make decisions and move forward only to constantly have it thrown back at me that I might just not be worth it…or even adequate enough to consider (or warrant at least a response).  It only makes the shadows darker, makes my head foggier, my heart heavier, and my hope a little smaller.

You see, for the first time in years, I’ve actually thought about self-harm.

There, I said it.  The words that I’ve refused to say aloud.

Not suicide, nothing dangerous, not even cutting…but the thought of it…that feeling it might somehow…some way…release the built up pain and anxiety and fear for even just a moment.  In that moment…to feel the hope again, to feel grounded.

Let me be clear, I’ve never harmed myself.  The closest I’ve come is digging my nails into my arms…holding myself so tight that it helps me focus on the pain on my skin instead of the pain in my head and heart.  For most of you, and most of the people I try to explain this feeling to in person, it sounds completely and utterly crazy.  I’ve longed for someone who could say, “I understand.”  I have yet to find that person. Yes, I realize this urge is a problem.  It’s the same feeling I had the first time I asked for help back in high school.  I had that thought, that urge for pain, and I went sobbing into my mother’s arms.  I didn’t understand it at 17.  At 31, I’m starting to get it.

Once again, it’s this hope for release that has made me remember to stop being silent.  So here I am.

My final realization that I needed change came just over a week ago.  You see, this girl I knew, a beautiful 23 year old wonderful person, died.

Suddenly.

We weren’t close.  I hadn’t seen or spoken to her in years, but I did babysit her when she and her sister were small.  She lived next door to my cousins, and the four of them were the best of friends, which is how I ended up taking all of them to the pool or playing pretend in living rooms.

I was already stewing in my own emotional bile when this happened. I didn’t expect her death to impact me as much as it did.  However, the sadness and fatigue became deeper, darker, and I just couldn’t see through it all.  I guess, in the cliched way, it was my bottom.

I don’t want to be the 31 year old with no hope or motivation.  I don’t want to be sitting in the darkness glaring at myself.  And I don’t want to be afraid anymore.  I want to let go of the self-loathing and that fear of failure and discover positive moments hidden in the shadows.  I want to know that when my end comes, that I have lived, truly lived, and left something positive and real in my wake. I just hope I have years upon years to do so.

And so I’ve made a start, by talking: To my husband, my family, my friends. I’ve started to let them see this darkness, because it exists in me.  It will probably always be here, and if they can love that part of me too, then I have one less thing to fear, one less thing to loathe, and one more reason to see love within.  Also I’m going to start counseling, because that third party can help if I’m willing to let them.     I am definitely willing.

Already, little things like talking, writing, going out and actually doing have made a difference. I’m rediscovering the simple love of family: talking to them, being with them.  I’ve reached out to hopefully develop some new, fun, positive friendships.  Even a little wonderful private Facebook community has ended up being the best support group…something I hardly expected.  In there, I don’t need to speak to feel the outpouring of compassion and hope and to also feel the camaraderie with those who are struggling as well (sloth hugs to you beautiful folks).

So, the changes have begun, but it is just a start.  The difference this time is that I won’t let myself stay silent.  I’m holding myself accountable by being vocal.  This is no cry for help or attention.  Here, I am sharing my pain and fear, shedding the shame of it, and embracing hope.

I guess I made meaning in my silence after all.