Underneath my silence

As a child, I was taught that my humanity was a liability. That to show my pain on the outside was to open myself up to misunderstanding, gaslighting, feeling even more alone.

Before I was hospitalized for anorexia at 14 years old, I was not okay for years. As a child, I showed many of the signs of being sexually abused: persistent nightmares, bruising, regressive behaviors, changes in eating habits, fear of being alone at night.

I was expressing myself in ways that made sense for my age. And I tried to express myself with my art and writing too. No one heard me.

Silence is its own kind of speech. Nightmares are their own kind of communication. Same for changes in the otherwise ordinary: eating, showering, sleeping.

I didn't feel heard. I didn't feel seen. I kept trying to communicate what I was feeling, my needs, my confusion, my story, the fact that I was being sexually abused by my teacher. And my trying led to many more wounds.

This was the truth bound up in my silence. It's not that I didn't want support. It's not that I didn't want the abuse to stop. It's not that I didn't want to be heard, comforted, held, loved, supported. It's that trying to access support had been the prologue to some of my most painful memories.

Silence became at once protective and its own kind of pain. Its own kind of deprivation.

About the Layers collection

How much of what we perceive has to do with depth? The willingness to peel back layers and to look underneath? To scratch the surface, get a peek, and then keep digging deeper and deeper and deeper?

Healing feels like an ongoing process of peeling back layers and building new ones. To lift a mossy rock and dig through the dirt underneath. And to build a home where I can be free on newfound solid ground.