My Silence Will Not Protect Me
It protected my abuser, and still does!
A female outcry, deep roars, and banging noises pull me out on the balcony. A brawny man in a bicep-hugging shirt is chasing my petite downstairs neighbor.
Sssssssshhhhhhhh!
she cries from beneath her curtains. The ogre continues to scream.
Anxiously perched over the railing with my phone in hand, I wonder where the other neighbors are. Am I the only one noticing this?
Raging, he disappears momentarily, before returning, clutching what looks like a broken furniture leg. Holding it up, she lets him in.
Sssssssshhhhhhhh!
she repeats.
Sealed behind triple-pane windows, I have no way of telling if she’s ok. I’m scared to knock, so I dial 112 when I remember that I have her roommate’s number.
Better start there.
Better not draw too much attention.
Roommate confirms that everyone’s safe and everything’s ok — before apologizing profusely.
I’m relieved, but not convinced. I’ve seen this scenario before — I’ve been at the center of it more times than I can count.
Each time I did what she did. I hushed him:
Sssssssshhhhhhhh!
Not so the neighbors can hear!, I’d plea as I hurried through the apartment, sealing the windows shut.
I don’t give a fuck about the neighbors! he’d yell.
But I did. Apart from not wanting to be a nuisance, I cared about what they thought of us. I was ashamed. If anyone saw me, curled up in fetal position, bawling and begging him to stop, how could they respect me?
I’ve never been one to let people see me weak. If I’m going to suffer, let me do so, silently and in hiding, like an animal retreating to lick its wounds.
My own sense of pride demanded the world see me only when I was strong, so whenever I wasn’t, I hid. When things were good, I paraded us around to a congruent affirmation: You two are so amazing together! You are my couple-goal. I want what you have.
I couldn’t let them down. So I held on to the image with such fervor that I believed it myself. Sure, we had some “communication issues”, but I had it under control. We’re making progress, I thought. It’ll get better, I told myself. His anger is the cause of childhood trauma, and I’m heroically helping him heal. As a matter of fact, I’m saving him—he needs me!
And, we were pretty amazing… in public.
I’ve always been the tough one. The confident, outspoken and fearless older sister. The diplomat — collected and in control. You’re one of the strongest people I know! is a phrase I’ve heard countless times.
It’s true. I AM strong, and not only mentally. Naturally, I’m equipped with a solid physique, wrapped in feminine curves. I’m the one who hauls my friend’s suitcases onto the overhead racks. I headstand the longest, climb the highest and ride my bike the fastest — while wearing heels.
In elementary school, I spent my lunch breaks arm-wrestling the boys. Being both badass and fiercely feminine—a Nordic warrior goddess—became intrinsic to my personal brand.
Things changed after the birth of our daughter. Suddenly we had a live-in witness.
Sssssssshhhhhhhh!
I’d beg. Not in front of her. Wait until she’s sleeping! But he didn’t listen, and unlike my neighbors, I couldn’t simply shut her out. Instead, I was forced to watch her watching us—to see her go pale and silent, in what I can only imagine a combination of shock and confusion.
Litte deteriorates the love for your partner like having them violently rage at you, their face contorted in fury — with your defenseless, fear-struck baby on their arm.
A perched lioness, I’d wait for the first chance to snag her and escape. If your rose-colored, new-parent-bubble hasn’t burst yet, try running down the street, escaping a ravage, while crying apologies into your baby’s neck. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, forgive me…
Through her, I saw: We weren’t making progress. It wasn’t getting better. And I certainly couldn’t save him.
Petrified to entertain the idea of leaving, I tried to unsee. I played the same old lies on repeat. But she kept reminding me.
Around her first birthday, she’d cry and hit at him when he got close.
Bewildered by his daughter’s resentment, I bit my tongue and lied between my teeth to appease him: It’s normal at that age, don’t worry.
But this was different. She was scared of him too.
Hardened from treading eggshells, resentment replaced my fears. My walls grew with each word I swallowed to curb his looming fires.
Sssssssshhhhhhhh!
With every appeal, a piece of my previously untouchable veneration wilted.
It took me falling for someone else to finally nudge me over the edge.
Unexpectedly and unintended, but perhaps subconsciously manifested, someone appeared that saw me.
I read later that being in a relationship with a narcissist can be compared to staring into a reflection-less mirror.
My crush didn’t just see me but adored every part they uncovered. Through them, I saw my forgotten reflection. Through them, I remembered who I was. Looking in their mirror, I uncovered my true strength.
So, when in a last outpour he yearned, I’m trying to change. It might take years. It might take the rest of our lives. And then we’ll fucking die. It’s going to be fucking hard! I dared to say No! I don’t have another day. I already gave it a decade.
He blanketed our vast circles with his story, portraying himself as the grieving victim of infidelity. Attempts to counter his campaign felt futile, so I folded.
Sssssssshhhhhhhh!
Don’t bother, I told myself as I watched our ‘friends’ coddle his bruised ego and feed his bemoaning body, which wondrously dwindled from bearish to boney in a matter of months. His eyes, empty, encircled in blues and purples, I’ve never seen a more convincing sufferer. Me, on the contrary, the entire galaxy had returned to my gaze. I almost don’t blame them for buying his bunk.
Two years later, I still protect him with my silence. Even hiding under a pen name, I’m spooked to share my story.
I know Audre Lorde had bigger fish to fry than a narcissistic ex with rage issues, but her words never cease to move me:
Your silences will not protect you […] What are the words you do not yet have? […] We have been socialized to respect fear more than our own need for language. […] At last you’ll know with surpassing certainty that only one thing is more frightening than speaking your truth. And that is not speaking.
Reading her almost two years ago, I was brought to tears. I’d walk around my apartment and read them aloud to feel a fire rise—I need to write!
Revealing my story marks the point where my dread of not speaking has surpassed that of speaking my truth—when I chose to abandon fear in favor of my own need for language.
Sssssssshhhhhhhh!
I hush my inner critic as they try to rattle me back into submission. I tell them that my silence never protected me, and it never will.