This Silence Isn’t Forever
This silence isn’t forever. At least, I hope not.
It’s been 275 days since I talked to you. It was 270 when I received your card in the mail. I found the envelope on the kitchen island and, at first, thought it was a thank you note from my best friend who got married the weekend before. She’s always been organized, if not always punctual. But it was too soon after the wedding, even for the most organized bride. That was when I thought to look at the return-to-sender address; it was yours. Then, only then, did I recognize your handwriting. I should have recognized it sooner, but your handwriting is harsher than I remember, more jagged than in the notes you used to leave me.
The front of the card is decorated with an embossed blue hydrangea. I can imagine you in the dollar store, picking it up and thinking of what you’d write to me. The inside reads, “I’m sorry and I love you,” but I don’t think you know what you’re apologizing for. I don’t think you know why this silence stretches between us. Silence is as much a form of communication for us as apologies — perhaps even more so. But my silence doesn’t hold the same meaning as yours.
You wield silence as punishment, and apologies as demands for forgiveness rather than admissions of guilt. You taught me to speak the language of apologies well. I’m familiar with how it sounds when someone doesn’t know what they’re apologizing for, when they don’t think they should need to apologize — I’ve done it enough myself. When we lived under the same roof, it became a necessity to learn the language of apologies. When you were angry with me, you had one of two reactions: Harsh words bitten out in the heat of the moment (like when you told me I was too selfish to be a mother, when I was still too young to even consider such a thing) or silence.
You often preferred silence, ignoring me when I spoke to you, refusing to acknowledge my existence even as we ate, slept, and lived under the same roof. It was an exercise in stubbornness and the worst games of chicken I’ll ever play. Who would break first? Sometimes you would forget your anger and return to our relationship as usual; sometimes I’d cave and apologize. More often than not, the weight of your silence grew too unbearable — it hung too heavy around my neck until whatever we fought about became less important than being able to breathe again. An apology was a gasp for air, it was the only way to exist again in your eyes.
The worst — your longest silence while I still lived under your roof — was after I disobeyed you: Five days. On the fifth day, I came home to a six-page letter outlining exactly how I had failed you. You told me I was a disgrace. You told me I was your last lifeline and I’d burned that bridge. You told me you had nothing left to live for — that I wasn’t worth living for. I was too young to recognize the meaning hidden underneath your words. I almost left that day. Instead I stayed, and listened to your apology. You had taught me the language of apologies and I could understand the lie in your words. It wasn’t an admission of guilt, it was a demand for forgiveness. You said, “I’m sorry,” and jokingly — but not so jokingly that I believed anything other than the truth in your words — revealed you’d thought about chopping off my hair while I slept.
It took me a long time to learn the real meaning of your words, silences, and language of apologies, Mom. It took me even longer, and years of support from my closest friends, to be able to connect that meaning with the way you treated me. My best friend voiced the meaning first — emotional abuse — and patiently waited through our many phone conversations about you, unknowingly coaxing the truth out of me. It’s still hard to say, though. I’ve grown so accustomed to the lies you and I and our family tell ourselves that the truth feels strange. It feels like a lie on my tongue when I say the words and on the tips of my fingers when I type the truth. But, I know it in my heart, and I’m beginning to know it in my head. Hopefully the rest of my body — my tongue, the tips of my fingers — will begin to learn as well.
I’m not using my silence as punishment, I’m not punishing you.
In the past 275 days, you have — albeit unintentionally — helped me realize the negative impact our relationship has had on me. This stretch of silence started off as your choice, but it became mine when you sent a message filled with hateful words. You called me selfish for being hurt and angry when you prioritized your silence over being there for me when a friend of mine passed away. That message caused me to break from our repeated cycle and I decided something had to change. I had come to terms with your silences, but I discovered I could never truly process your actions or begin to heal if you held the power of when we spoke. So, I made my own choice.
This silence isn’t about punishing you, it’s about giving myself space to process and heal. I haven’t told you the reason for my silence because I don’t trust that you’ll understand. After so many years of so many silences used as punishment and a twisted language used as apologies, I don’t trust that you’ll believe me. I don’t trust that you’ll allow me to take this time for myself. I don’t trust myself not to fall back into our old habits.
I spent so many years learning to be afraid of your responses to my actions, please give me the space to unlearn my fear of you and, more importantly, the anger that fear fostered in me. Your card, however well-intentioned, is merely a reminder that you don’t like how I’ve made this choice for myself, how you hope to take the power back in our relationship. I hope to one day have a relationship with you, one where power doesn’t matter, one where we can be truthful with one another. But I refuse to sacrifice myself to appease your demand for forgiveness.
I’ll hold onto your apology, but I’m not ending this silence — not yet. When I first saw the front of the card, I thought the flowers might be forget-me-nots. I should have recognized the hydrangea so much like the flowers outside our old house. Instead, I recognized the hidden demand behind the words inside your card. But I’m not ready to answer. I hope I’ll be ready to talk to you again one day, but I’m told it’s OK if that day never comes.
