A Silent Story -by the unbound writer.
I have an insatiable desire to be heard. I often find myself wishing for people to want to hear the thoughts that linger on my tongue, the words that are caught in my throat. I want to be asked questions, I want to share my opinions, I want to tell the stories that exist only in my heart.
When I finally have an audience, however, I find that I have nothing to say.
My mind is racing, far faster than my heart could ever beat. My chest is filled with memories and hopes and desires that are trying to burst through my ribcage, to spill out into the world. Every moment of every day, words are clawing at my throat, begging for me to just speak!
I glance into the eyes of my peers. Expectant. Waiting for me to join the conversation. Waiting for me to speak. Waiting perpetually. My lips are locked together. The stories in my head vanish without a trace and my heart pounds deep within my chest. I am silent and I don’t understand why.
I was an attention-seeking child. Fifteen years ago, as a kindergartener, I had my first solo in the school’s PTO program. Every year since, until the age of ten, I made sure to reserve a role in the spotlight for myself. I felt heard when I was on stage. All eyes in the room were on me, forced to listen to the things I had to say. I basked in the attention.
I think the change occurred when I went to middle school. None of the classmates that I had known for the past five years had joined me. I was isolated. Thrown into a sea of eleven- and twelve-year-old’s that I had never met. It was hard to make friends when they all already had their groups. I was just another empty face in the crowd. The words began to build up in my throat, but I refused to allow them release. Something in me was afraid of them being heard. Afraid that somehow my thoughts would isolate me even more.
I began to wear a mask. The words that poured from my lips were no longer my own. I only said what I thought my peers wanted to hear, altering the stories and thoughts in my head to match theirs. Maybe I thought it was safer that way. I wouldn’t have to struggle to fit in if I was just like everyone else.
But the words people heard from me did not come from my heart. They were more like a pacemaker, in a sense. They were nothing more than sounds that I had convinced myself were keeping me afloat in the sea of people. They kept my heart beating long enough for me to pour the thoughts that were entirely mine onto a piece of paper so that they could be heard in silence.
If they were not spoken aloud, then perhaps I could avoid the fear that grasped at my throat. Perhaps I could still be heard and find someone who will listen, all without me risking the friends that I have worked so hard to keep. They were thoughts that never had to be uttered aloud, kept safe from the hearts of my peers. If I were to express myself through my writing, rather than just speaking them into existence, some kind of buffer is created. Maybe I can convince readers that these thoughts are from my mind—not my heart—and they are solely dramatized for entertainment. To say them aloud, however, I could never make such a claim about the words that escaped from my throat.
Writing became my way of being heard. A way for me to distance myself from the thoughts and desires that live in my heart. It allows them a place to reside, a place that relieves me from the aches of all these pent-up stories.
I don’t understand my fear of being heard, especially when I long for it so badly. It puts me in the center of a dark sea, opposing waves crashing into me in relentless repetition. The contrast is unrealistic. Unbeneficial. Sometimes I think I’m drowning.
The worst part is, I have the life preserver. It’s in my hands. All I have to do is put that orange and white ring around myself so that I’ll stay afloat. But something is stopping me. Something I don’t understand. A deep-rooted fear that seemed to form from nothing has such a strong hold on me that I refuse to use the life preserver and save myself.
I sit in silence. A choice that doesn’t feel like a choice. My writing says the things I can’t bring myself to say, but I’m still nervous about finally being heard. Readers form opinions and make assumptions that I can’t control. The idea of judgement fills me with a fear that I know I can’t avoid.
But there will come a day when I have to realize that I can’t avoid judgement. I can’t continue to live a silent life, because a silent life is hardly a life at all. When asked to share a story, and realizing I don’t have one to share, I was forced into a rude realization. How is it that I’ve lived without having a story to share? Perhaps it’s because I have not lived at all. I’ve sat in silence for so long that I have thrown away much of my life.
I have an insatiable desire to be heard, but what do I have to say?
