While we’re on the topic of epidemics, here’s another one I’ve been reflecting on lately: the epidemic of fear-induced silence. It’s my own years of chronic suffering with this condition that prompted me to launch this blog, and I’ll fill you in on that in a future post. For now, though, I want to talk about how endemic I think fear-induced silence is in our society, and about one way we might help each other break free of it.
It happens pretty frequently that a good friend tells me something important that they are holding in their heart, but are afraid to reveal to another person they’re close to. (For the record, there have also been many times when I’ve been the one doing the revealing.) Whenever I am on the receiving end of this kind of heartfelt sharing, I feel so grateful. The fact that a friend trusts me enough to open up to me feels like a precious gift. It’s a real joy to hear them express what they need to give voice to, and to see the relief on their face when they’ve gotten everything out. (Also for the record, I feel this same joy when I open up to a friend, and I’m sure the same relief registers on my face.)
I am quite sure that what I experience with my friends is not an isolated pocket of infection, but, rather, symptomatic of an epidemic of fear-induced silence that has gripped nearly all of us, to varying degrees. Although many types of fear can cause us to fall silent, I believe one specific pathogen lies at the core of this epidemic: the fear that if we speak up and share what we feel a desperate need to share about ourselves, about who we are deep inside, or about our beliefs, then others will dislike – or hate, or reject, or disown – us for what we’ve expressed, for who we are.
I’ve experienced this particular fear more times in my life than I can count. Growing up, I allowed it to gain a stranglehold on me that led me to remain silent on so, so many occasions. How did this happen? I don’t remember ever being expressly told that I’d experience hideous consequences if I talked about what went on in our household. Did anyone ever threaten me explicitly not to talk about my father’s alcoholism? Not that I recall. And yet, I kept that secret. Did my father ever warn me I’d suffer even more if I ever revealed his abuse of me? If he did, I don’t remember it. (Which isn’t all that surprising.) And yet, I told no one about the abuse until I was nearing sixty. That’s how deeply I internalized both the fear of rejection and the habit of silence it led to.
Silence was a way of life in our family. We responded to everything by keeping quiet about it. Because of this unspoken protocol of silence, I was well into adulthood before I learned why my father’s mother and her sister were not on speaking terms. All I knew, when I was growing up, was this: Grandma and my great-aunt Luella were mad at each other, and we had to seat them far apart at holiday dinners, so they wouldn’t catch sight of each other across the table. It never occurred to me to ask why Grandma and Aunt Luella weren’t on speaking terms. I just focused on the holiday seating arrangements and asked no questions. I must have intuited that this question was out of bounds. (I’ll tell you what caused the rift, though: Luella revealed to my father’s older sister, Edna, that Edna had been born before her parents were married, and that her father had adopted her after the wedding. Grandma felt that Luella had completely betrayed her trust by revealing this information to Edna.) I must have concluded that if no one was offering to explain this situation to me – or any other sticky situation, for that matter – then this was just what people did. What everybody did. Years later, I attributed this information lock-down to a Midwestern tendency to keep private things private, but I don’t think that’s entirely fair. I’d say now that what went on in my family constituted a dovetailing of Midwestern culture with individual trauma responses.
The fact that the members of my extended family nearly always kept quiet about what was bothering them might have been bearable, if they had practiced quiet, peaceful reticence. Unfortunately, our family silence was of the tense type, and angry. Because of the taboo against bringing up touchy topics, no one said in words that they were upset. We could all feel when something was wrong, though. Even so, no one ever asked, “Is something bothering you?” because we could all also feel the anger beneath the person’s self-imposed silence. Who would want to dip a toe into that swamp if you could avoid it? So, in the midst of this thick atmosphere of unshared distress and the tension that arose as a result of our emotional isolation from each other, most everything remained unaddressed. After all, how can you resolve anything if you never talk about it?
Precisely because keeping quiet never led to positive resolutions in my family, the underlying tension and anger just built up inside us. On rare occasions, someone would have just had too much. When this happened, complaints and accusations would suddenly burst forth in vocal volleys. For example, I distinctly recall my mother shouting at my father that he was treating her “like something that crawled out from under a rock”. There were also the numerous, loud conflicts between my sister and our parents.
The fury I felt swirling through the house during these confrontations was much, much stronger than the anger that saturated the silence that usually reigned in our house. Always an (already) unspeaking bystander to these conflicts, and never the outburster, I tried to escape by fleeing to my bedroom, but the ramped-up anger easily penetrated the walls. I must have drawn what seemed like an obvious conclusion during one of those moments, as I sat there on my bed, physically cordoned off, but still not protected: If you dare to express discontent with someone else’s actions or views, this person will inevitably let loose a burst of intense anger against you. This prospect terrified me – into silence: I developed a deep fear of speaking my mind, lest I upset someone else and, thus, bring a torrent of fury down upon myself.
How could it have played out otherwise, given that no one in my family modeled positive, calm ways of expressing or responding to a dissenting opinion or desire? When, “Don’t do that. You’re hurting me!” is not something you ever hear your parents or sister or any of your relatives say to each other, it doesn’t occur to you that this is something you could say. And when, against all odds, you do manage to utter a phrase of this type, but no one stops what they’re doing to you, then you conclude that there’s no point in speaking up, (or even that it will be dangerous to do so). At that point, if you’re me, you stop speaking up.
But in recent years, I’ve come to understand how essential it is for me – and for all of us! – to find a way to express what we are feeling deep inside, and to feel safe doing so. That’s because when we stay silent about what’s most important to us, silence’s choking grip on us grows gradually tighter and tighter. This imperils us both physically and mentally, and spiritually, as well. Sooner or later, it will bring us to our knees. That’s what happened to me this past December, and what provided the impetus for this blog. (As I said before, that’s a story for a future post.)
But what do we do if we fear that sharing our innermost feelings and wishes and hopes with some of our family members or friends will bring rejection or elicit an angry or violent response? What if we’re not feeling up to the task of speaking out and dealing with whatever comes? I think most of us have been in this position. I, personally, feel that we are the only ones who can judge when it’s right to hold back from speaking, and when it’s right to take a deep breath and have our say. I just feel that when we do hold back from sharing something we feel strongly about with the people whose reactions we fear, it’s crucial to seek out someone we can open up to, and whom we can trust to respond with love – or at least, with kindness.
I also believe that, just as each of us needs to have someone we feel safe opening up to, each of us also can be this someone for others in our lives. This can be a tricky role to play, though. I feel strongly that when our friends do pour out their hearts to us, we need to keep their confidences confidential. Since I’m championing breaking the stranglehold of fear-induced silence here, maybe this seems counter-intuitive. But I don’t think it is. Just because my grandma shared an intimate truth with my great-aunt Luella, that didn’t give Luella the right to share it with my aunt Edna (or anyone else, for that matter). So, when a friend shares something private and sensitive with me, I do my best to recognize how difficult it may have been for them to open up to me. In fact, maybe they managed to do it only because they believed they could count on me to keep whatever they told me confidential. Reminding myself of this helps me be fiercely protective of sensitive information others share with me, just the way I hope they’ll be when I’m the one baring my soul.
It is a powerfully healing act to give our friends a safe space to speak, and then to commit to a loving reticence that safeguards them. When we do this, we are, together with our friends, transmuting the fear of speaking into the confidence that we can speak up and remain safe. I am grateful beyond words for the people in my life who have helped – and continue to help – me free myself from the grip of the fear that constricted my voice-way for so many decades. What I wonder, then is this: Can we be this loving, listening, transformative, reticent presence for each other? I know we can. I believe we already are. So, let’s keep on doing it! And as we do, know that we’re not just eradicating an epidemic. We’re also creating a strong bond of trust and love that strengthens us all as we move through life.
Sue Downing 