Dec 4, 2014: The Sound of silence. Dead silence. Silence is golden.

Her counselor asks, “Why didn’t you tell someone or ask for help? Why did you keep silent?” Trixie responded. “You know, there are so many types of silence. There is silence, which isn’t even real silence.” “Imagine, you are alone in a damp wooded area, like the Wheeler Preserve. There is total silence, except it really isn’t the absence of sound. You hear the wind and it sounds less like a moan, and more like a low whistle. Then you hear the sound of the damp loose leaves skittering and dancing across the ground until they slap into the base of the trees born by the weight of the rain absorbed by the paper thin membranes. You hear the light rain hitting the muddy path, and the occasional splash of the drops into the already present puddles of water. You hear the very light chittering of the birds who are scrambling to huddle as tightly as possible, in hopes that many can help keep the one dry. You may feel, more than hear, the rasp of your breath as you inhale the scent of the rain and the wet dirt. You wish for someone to help you break the silence, but you they can’t because you are alone. Then there is another kind of silence. It is the silence of not talking, because you can’t believe that anybody, anyone listening to you would believe what you have to say. I was fortunate, in a way. I knew that my abuser didn’t believe that he was doing anything wrong, and he didn’t hide his actions.  I couldn't articulate why I was so unhappy. He kept telling me that I was taking risks and getting myself in danger, that I couldn’t be trusted to keep myself safe. He kept saying that he was only trying to protect me, and that is why he would find me in town, and take my keys away and insist on driving me home. Everybody always thought that he was so honorable, and responsible and  because he was open about his abuse, it seemed less like something bad.  I couldn’t believe that anyone would ever listen and believe me when I tried to tell them what he was doing to me. You may feel, more than hear, the rasp of your breath as you inhale the scent of the fear and the threat of the pain. You wish for someone to help you break the silence, but they can’t because you are alone. That is why I lived with the thundering sound of silence.”