Embracing Silence

I used to run from silence as if my life depended on escaping it. And in a way, it did. Never having a moment of quiet or stillness is what allowed me to live a life that now makes me cringe; a life where I appeared to be fine but was slowly dying inside. This fear of silence perfectly complemented the ingrained sense of unworthiness that drove me to be constantly busy and striving for further achievement. From the moment my feet hit the floor in the morning until I fell into bed (always exhausted, often buzzed), I was either making or taking in noise: herding the children, managing the house, working, socializing. All while blasting music or the television.

Added to this was my intense dread of the narcissist’s favorite weapon, the silent treatment. Although at the time I didn’t realize what an infantile, controlling behavior this was, that it was strategically intended to erase me and my ability to express myself, I hated it. The silence felt excruciating and I just wanted it to end; wanted to get back to some semblance of harmony. Often, I’d apologize for something I didn’t do, or in the infrequent cases where I waited it out, I’d just be relieved, almost thrilled, that things were back to “normal”.

When I first left Stepford and “the marital home”, the downsizing of my life (no more household to run, no work, no social circle, never mind no more tiptoeing on eggshells) eliminated much of the noise. Thanks to relocation, litigation, and a trip down the rabbit hole of chronic illness, I had more than ever to keep me busy. But now the occasional silence was even more terrifying, so I unconsciously found new sources to replace the cacophony. There were meetings and appointments and conference calls. Happy hours and retail therapy. Rather than take a walk to clear my head, or sit quietly and breathe, I’d pick up the phone (an apology to all who unwittingly served as my blankie in those days, especially those of you who remain). Now I know that I wasn’t so much afraid of the silence as I was afraid of being alone. With myself. And my thoughts.

As with most of my evolution of late, I can’t identify a turning point. I’m sure that time and therapy and finally getting sick of my bullshit had a role. As did practice—experiencing that being alone with my thoughts wasn’t going to kill me and that, every now and then, it was actually beneficial. It took time to wear these new grooves into my frazzled brain. Slowly, imperfectly, I started meditating, and journaling, and leaving my phone in my pocket while I walked.

During these years, I also began to see the silent treatment (its use was unfortunately not limited to my ex) as a gift. The gift of a pause to observe a situation and analyze options going forward. A pause conducive to clarity.

Today, silence and solitude are two of my favorite things. Both have been instrumental in my growth and healing. As difficult as I found the Covid pandemic and quarantine, I do credit it with fostering this life-changing transformation. With providing me the laboratory to practice all that I’d been learning up to that point: that I no longer needed to drown out my thoughts and feelings, that alone doesn’t have to mean lonely, and that silence can allow me to hear what’s truly important.

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Thanks for reading.

GOOD THINGS

New venue. In my quest to get more involved with my community, I discovered a new studio that combines movement classes (yoga, mat Pilates, stretching) with a great little café (yummy stuff baked on the premises) and a gorgeous space, including patio, for hanging out or quietly working. Add special events and a tiny bookstore/shop with a touch of woo-woo, and I think I may have found my people. Yesterday’s class was a winner, and I’ll be trying several more.