Power of Silence
Worst Form of Punishment or the Best Healer
I've experienced both sides of silence. Growing up in the 1970s with a functioning alcoholic father, a War veteran, who was raised by an abusive, alcoholic father created the perfect recipe for a dysfunctional home.
I remember when my dad returned from the war; I didn’t recognize him. He wore green army fatigues, and I have no memory of the emotional welcome-home moments often depicted on social media, where a child runs to their father crying. It was more formal than that—like a handshake.
When he re-entered our lives, he claimed all the space with an "I am the king of this house" stance. His verbal attacks on my young, developing mind felt like a pounding drum on my soul. I’m not sure if I was naturally a quiet child or if I became one, shrinking to hide from his overpowering presence. My silence and the ability to hide became my armor, a skill I honed into adulthood to shield myself from his relentless verbal assaults.
I understand him better now, as we have discussed the past, sharing tears and apologizing.
This is not solely about my relationship with my father and the verbal abuse; it is about healing and how silence can both harm and heal.
One valuable lesson I learned from my father was the devastating power of silence. Whenever things didn't go his way, or if I upset him for any reason, he would ignore me for weeks. No eye contact, no words—nothing. It felt as if I had become a ghost, and only he could bring me back to life. I would retreat to my bedroom, away from the suffocating silence, where I would write in my little red diary and daydream. I wish I could remember what I wrote, but I believe that journaling is what ultimately saved me.
Then, just like that, he would reappear and start talking to me again. For many years, I strived for perfection, fearing he might withdraw his love at any moment.
Now, that silence calls to me once more, but differently. This new silence invites me inward, asking me to trust it, to wait for answers, and to sit with the discomfort of my internal wounds. It felt like I would be engulfed in a void that mocked me, making me want to scream for answers. I felt neglected, just like that little girl from my childhood. But I learned that sitting with the pain is the work. The silence encourages me to ask, to feel, and to tend to my wounds. Silence can be reverent, peaceful, and healing, like a butterfly's wings.
As I embrace this space of silence, I sense its gentle, quiet spirit, entirely different from the sting of my father's silence. This new silence feels like being in my mother's womb—a sensation of being held, cared for, and not needing to do anything other than simply be present. I allow this silence to touch my heart, soul, and spirit, teaching me that my father, too, was a hurting person who didn't know how to heal his pain, so he passed it on to me.
Now, I look forward to my moments of silence. I sit in meditation, still the ruminating voice in my mind, and embrace the silence that loves me, teaching me not to fear it any longer.
"I’m not sure if I was naturally a quiet child or if I became one." Right? Learning the answer to this question and others like it. Isn't that the essence of the journey?1 Sloughing the "ideals" that we embodied, that helped us feel safe THEN, so that we can return to who we were created to be. I love the title of one of Karol Turman's books, "Remembering Wholeness". Re-membering, like pulling the pieces together again; figuring out who we actually are. Thank you for sharing this.
The way you described the 'suffocating silence' and the feeling of becoming a ghost when your father withdrew his love... it's chillingly familiar. I too grew up in a household where silence was wielded as a weapon, leaving me tiptoeing around on eggshells, constantly seeking approval. It took me years to realize that I wasn't the ghost, but the silence itself was the specter haunting our home. Thank you for sharing your journey – it's a reminder that we're not alone in our experiences.