speaking is dying. but better speaking and dying than dying without having spoken
i always thought it was better to die. that talking about myself, my needs, or my opinions was pointless. why waste my voice when i knew no one would hear it? when i was sure i’d be ridiculed, judged, or ignored? since childhood, i’d been silenced, told i had no right to speak on topics i knew nothing about. when i tried to set boundaries, express my needs, i was told to think about my behavior and was punished. so i learned to stay silent, to bottle up all the words that lay dormant.
over time, i began to notice that this silence was killing me every day. the things that remained unsaid festered inside me, making me feel poisoned, like i was dying, and the words were dying with me.
every day i decided to remain silent, i felt my inner child take another beating, as if i were signaling to her that her words meant nothing. it was as if i was sinking deeper and deeper into the pattern that had been imposed on me and repeating transgenerational trauma. i felt like i was treating myself the way my parents treated me – i didn’t give myself the right to my own voice.
every day i decided to remain silent, i felt my inner child take another beating, as if i were signaling to her that her words meant nothing. it was as if i was sinking deeper and deeper into the pattern that had been imposed on me and repeating transgenerational trauma. i felt like i was treating myself the way my parents treated me – i didn’t give myself the right to my own voice.
i imposed punishments on myself, but they were even worse than those i’d once received from loved ones. i punished myself for both speaking and being silent, for being brave and for being afraid.