Breaking Free From the Gripping Shackles of Silence

My inner child deserves peace

For the longest time, my mother reigned queen over my being — not the way one might expect as a normal parent. My voice was silenced, shrouded in doubt and insecurity stemming from a tough childhood under the iron fist of a narcissist.

Mom instilled fear in me from the time I started school. She made it clear if I veered from her command, corporal punishment would follow for the slightest transgression.

I was in first grade when I received my first spanking. Sister Pancratious mixed me up with another little Black girl who disrupted her class — there were only two of us. When my cousin picked me up from school, she told her to tell my mother I had misbehaved, handed her a note to be signed and returned.

I wanted to correct her, but contradicting an adult was against Mom’s rule. I bit my tongue, bled deep down inside my soul for fear of the coming punishment based on a misdemeanor I didn’t commit.

Fear kept me from speaking up for myself. Mom didn’t even ask for my side of the story. She kept her word, made me lie across her bed and spanked me with a wide black belt. I was six.

My grandmother was my only redemption. When she was three thousand miles away, I was on my own to navigate Mom’s irrationality in California. I can remember as a budding adolescent beginning to emerge from the nucleus of a cracked shell — I tried my voice on Mom one night when I was in the sixth grade.

She had let her best friend perm my hair and style it in a buster brown haircut. I hated it. It was my first attempt at managing the weird new hairdo. Perturbed after washing my hair, I couldn’t get the hang of a roller set. It was a Sunday night and I dare not risk embarrassment in school the next day.

An argument ensued because mom refused to help me, said I had to learn to do it myself. Out of frustration I yelled, “why can’t you just do it?” She yanked the few pinned down rollers to my scalp out of my hair and raged for thirty minutes.

After the storm cloud passed, left emotionally bruised and crying a bucket of tears, I snuck into the bedroom, called my grandmother to ask for her advice.

She said, “just be quiet, she can’t argue with silence — it takes two.”

My mother had stolen my voice outright, rendered me silent. It became harder for me to speak up for myself. Instead, I would bury everything I felt inside the crevices of my heart, never to let anyone see me drowning under an emotional waterfall. The only place I felt free was in the classroom — in school with my friends.

I learned silence would be my only recourse with her, a defense mechanism — not realizing it would become a signature trait, spilling over into most of my relationships, leaving room for conjecture.

When silence prevents your thoughts from verbal expression people will assign you a label.

Mine was aloof, as I had a quiet confidence that disallowed anyone to label me meek — thanks again to my grandmother. I was a mystery to myself and others. Out of my love to laugh, I created a mask with a sunny disposition.

Most of the television shows and cartoons I watched as a kid were slapstick humor, like Bugs Bunny, The Three Stooges, and I love Lucy. I learned to laugh to keep from crying with a developed sense of humor.

Friends

I lived under the whim of a young woman who would pack us up and leave at a moment’s notice. Back and forth from the East coast to the West, I never had time to nurture friendships that last a lifetime. An only child, I’m good at being alone.

Since I knew I could be gone after a few months, friendships were fleeting. In third or fourth grade, I developed a certain amount of detachment to shield myself from feeling hurt or disappointed when I had to leave friends behind — never trusting the time I had to get to know if someone was an actual friend.

Fast forward to my first year in high school as a Jet Magazine centerfold model, I had more fake friends than I’d ever needed in a lifetime.

Breaking the Silence Then and Now

Once free of Mom, living in the dorms at college, I started breaking the silence by stepping out of my comfort zone. Yet silence encouraged me to overthink everything in my head.

Still reserved around authoritarian figures — my intuition would often warn me of being slighted, but I couldn’t find my voice to articulate my misgiving.

Leftover angst from childhood encouraged me to recoil from getting into any kind of trouble — I’d rather be quiet than suffer consequences. I also learned to circumvent those occurrences before they happened — I was no goody two shoes either. Sometimes silence worked well as my best defense, but left others puzzled in the dark.

Spreading My Wings — Exploration and Discovery

Although I had a few summer jobs in high school, after graduation, I took some time to explore my creative side. Throughout childhood I took modern dance, music lessons and loved to write, paint and sketch. At one point, I dreamed of becoming a fashion designer or clothing buyer. My ineptitude in math scratched those lofty ideas.

I would have kept a diary, but the fear of my mother finding it overpowered my desire to fully express myself on paper — I’m sure it would have done me a world of good. I later discovered my singing voice.

Somehow, I didn’t let fear stop me from allowing my innate talent to take flight. My singing voice offered me a new freedom — flew me to Europe, landed me in a recording contract I later requested a release from because the music industry bullshit made me want to barf — it’s worse than anything you’ve heard.

I said adios and left for another adventure in Hawaii, where I further explored my singing voice with a diverse group for fun.

I was flying high, conquering my fears one by one. I rented my first apartment, worked three jobs. One was a street cart vendor for Chipwich. I was part of their first team after they launched the brand on the island of Oahu.

I became a top seller. Go figure. Mom cringed at the thought of her degree toting daughter doing anything less than building a respectable career in an executive office.

The little girl inside without a voice selling ice cream sandwiches in the bright sunny streets of Waikiki was her nightmare. It was all fun and games pushing me to break my soul free from the cages of an imprisoned upbringing.

Back to Reality

After a couple of years living completely untethered to Mom, and understanding I neared my end to free floating on an island, I moved back home and embraced a more traditional lifestyle with an actual job.

A nine to five where my talents halfheartedly appreciated caged me once again inside a box at an advertising firm. I learned people will steal your creative ideas and tout them as their own to benefit themselves. It was a hard lesson to learn, a slash across the canvas of my soul.

When someone steals your words, they steal your heart. I became deeply disillusioned.

It was a turning point in pursuing a creative career. From there, it was all about the money. The only good thing that came out of it was a modeling gig. Approached by a photographer who was visiting the creative department one day noticed me behind my cubby outside of the VP of Sales office.

I would accompany a model he was using for a break dance poster that ultimately sold at Blockbuster stores. He encouraged me to pursue modeling and supplied my portfolio with the photographs — completed a month before I met my future husband. I threw it all to the wind — gave it up for love, never looked back.

Love, after all, was the center of my imagined fairytale. It was a dream come true to love and be loved unconditionally in return.

Home Stretch

A young bride in my twenties to a man 10 years older taught me I had a lot of growing up to do. I reverted to silence those times when I was unsure of myself in a disagreement. Then became a mother not long after marriage— an education within itself.

Because I moved to a new city, I wasn’t keen on giving my newborn to a sitter I didn’t know. Immersed full time in motherhood and wifedom, I was happy to stay home with my children for 14 years.

In whatever spare time I could find when the kids were at school, I began creating craft art — designing sweatshirts with my own sketches in fabric paint, and door stops made to look like a miniature couch. I sold them at the flea market and to family and friends.

My creativity, destined to emerge — directed from a soul yearning to express itself. I read empowering books for women, became serious about writing, even purchased a writing program. It seemed as soon as it arrived, after a few attempts to manage it alongside home life with required study, lessons and homework, life got so busy I couldn’t keep up.

The oldest child was entering a private high school — we decided I’d get a job to help with the added expense. My entire paycheck covered his tuition every two weeks.

Never have I been fond of a traditional work culture, but I saw an opening to advance and make more money in the hospitality field. It was the hubby’s idea to try hotels —I think of him as my best friend. I would have never thought about this line of work.

Within four years, I became a Director of Sales & Marketing of all things. It’s still hard to believe to this day. The only reason I can think of for my success is I genuinely like to help people.

Over the years, pushed so far out of my comfort zone, I worked hard to chisel my voice. I’m comfortable with silence, however, no longer use it as a defense.

Truth be told, I’m so over this nine to five — could quit tomorrow if I had the wherewithal. I lost 14 years of wages — gained the wisdom of a lifetime. Not complaining, that’s my reality.

Mom left us in February, 2021. I could no longer carry her baggage. Writing became my therapy — catharsis was the impetus to jumpstart my journey through this passionate dance with the written word. Nothing can stop me now.

I’ve vowed never to be silenced by eternal forces again unless my life depends on it.

Good riddance and NEXT.

There’s a reason the windshield is wider than the rearview mirror ~ Joel Osteen