Silence as a weapon

When my grandmother hit me on my forehead with her fist, I couldn't turn fast enough to avoid it. When my mother dumped soup on my head, I was so surprised that I didn't even think of wiping my face. When my father yelled at me, hit me, and raped me, I couldn't escape him. When my aunt fished me from under the bed to beat me, I didn't have enough strength to wiggle out of her hold. When my great grandmother hit my bottom with nettles, all I could do was bite into the pillow on the bed, lying face down. I didn't have anything I could do to those people, I was too weak, too little, too fragile. But I was stubborn. And the more I suffered, the more determined I was to develop my own weapon against them all. My weapon became my silence. If I couldn't hit them back, if I couldn't scratch their eyes out, cut off their penises or arms or wicked smiles, I could remain silent. 

It would drive them mad - my silence. I wouldn't utter a single sound, no matter how much pain was inflicted on me. The only thing I couldn't stop were my tears. They would roll down my cheeks, and I would get mad at them, mad at my not being able to stop them too. I'd press my lips together even more, and remain quiet. My aunt would go berserk at this, hitting me more. My grandmother would call me names, hit me more, but I kept at it. I laughed inside of myself, without sound, at watching how powerless they are and how powerful I am. I would go into this state of silence so deeply, it would take me days to get out. I can still do it, it drives my husband crazy. I do less of it now that I understand where it's coming from. I developed such pain tolerance that I could cut myself and not feel it. When I was 16, I had to go to a dentist for the first time. In Soviet Union, at that time, medical help was free, and so I got my tooth drilled. Without anesthesia. Because it was free, what did I expect! I didn't actually expect anything, I sat through it without sound, like nothing happened. When I was 10, I had my adenoid glands removed in the hospital. When other kids cried in fear and wiggled in their chair, I sat down quietly, opened my mouth and sat through the entire operation without a peep. The surgeon was very impressed. He told me that. I was very proud of myself. The ability to be silent became part of my identity. Whenever I couldn't solve anything or was in a middle of conflict, I would just fall silent. It was my weapon of choice. 

For many years I couldn't tolerate my kids crying. It would drive me mad. I thought - how annoying! Why do they utter anything at all, they should be quiet! The sound of crying, any child's crying, would get my hair standing, I would feel on edge. My head would throb, and I would get a headache. I'd hold myself together as long as I could, then I would leave the house. To not do anything violent. To let my husband with his infinite patience handle them. Until this year. I don;t have to run away from my house anymore. This year the grip of crying sound intolerance is letting me go, for the first time in my adult life. For the first time, I don't have to put an enormous effort to not react to my kids crying. I am ok with it. I can listen to it. I know I no longer have to defend myself. I know I can speak up. This blog is the manifestation of it. I am speaking, and this is my new weapon. It is not silence anymore. My weapon of choice. It is words, writing, spilling my story out into the world. 

I am glad my daugher cries when she is in pain, I am happy my son cries when he scratches himself. I hug her. I hug him, sometimes for 5 minutes or longer, to let him stop himself, to comfort him. I am happy he can experience what I never had. I am happy I can give it to my kids. Freely. At last.