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Silenced by My Own Thoughts
Silenced Between Heartbeats I learned early how to be quiet. Not the kind of quiet that comes from peace, but the kind that grows when noise feels dangerous. The kind that teaches your throat to close before a sound ever reaches your lips. Silence, for me, became a reflex—automatic, practiced, praised. “You’re so mature,” they used to say. What they meant was obedient. What they meant was easy. I remember the first time my body knew something was wrong before my mind did. A tightness in my chest. A twisting low in my stomach. A warning without words. I didn’t understand it then, so I did what I always did—I ignored it. Because good people don’t overreact. Because feelings can be wrong. Because making a fuss is worse than being uncomfortable. That’s what I was taught. So I smiled when my insides shook. I nodded when confusion pressed against my ribs. I learned to laugh softly, carefully, so no one would ask questions I didn’t know how to answer. The voice in my head became louder than any voice outside. It’s not that bad. You’re imagining things. Don’t ruin the moment. Don’t make it awkward. Every time I swallowed my discomfort, that voice grew stronger. Every time I stayed silent, it sounded more reasonable. It sounded like me. Silence doesn’t arrive all at once. It’s built—moment by moment, memory by memory. It’s in the pauses you don’t fill. The boundaries you don’t draw. The truths you fold into smaller and smaller shapes until they fit somewhere you can ignore. I became very good at folding myself. When something felt off, I told myself it was normal. When something hurt, I told myself others had it worse. When something crossed a line, I erased the line entirely. Because if the line didn’t exist, then nothing had been crossed. That was easier than admitting I didn’t know how to protect myself. There were moments I almost spoke. Moments where the words rose to the back of my throat, heavy and urgent. Moments where honesty felt close enough to touch. But then I imagined the consequences—the looks, the sighs, the disbelief. The disappointment. I imagined being told I misunderstood. That I was too sensitive. That I was making something out of nothing. And the words retreated. Silence felt safer than being wrong about my own pain. What no one tells you is that silence doesn’t disappear after the moment passes. It stays. It settles into your bones. It teaches your body to flinch even when nothing is happening. Years later, I’d still feel that same tightness. Still hesitate before speaking. Still apologize for taking up space I was allowed to occupy. I’d say “it’s fine” when it wasn’t. “I’m okay” when I wasn’t. “I don’t mind” when I did. Because silence had trained me well. I didn’t realize how much I had lost until someone asked me a simple question one day: “What do you want?” The room went quiet—not the uncomfortable kind. The honest kind. And I had no answer. Not because I didn’t want anything, but because I had spent so long burying my wants that they no longer had names. I could sense them—faint, distant, like echoes—but I couldn’t reach them. I felt grief then. Not loud grief. Quiet grief. The kind that settles behind your eyes and stays there. I mourned the versions of myself that never spoke. The boundaries I never defended. The younger me who thought silence was kindness. Healing didn’t begin with shouting or confrontation. It didn’t arrive as a dramatic moment or a perfect speech. It began with a whisper. A small, trembling sentence spoken out loud when no one else was around. “That wasn’t okay.” Saying it felt dangerous. My heart raced. My hands shook. The old voice screamed back—Don’t exaggerate. Don’t rewrite the past. But I said it again. “That wasn’t okay.” And something shifted. Learning to speak after years of silence is not elegant. It’s messy and uneven and often terrifying. Sometimes my voice cracks. Sometimes I cry before I finish a sentence. Sometimes I say things too late. But I say them. And each time I do, the silence loosens its grip. I’m learning that discomfort is not a moral failure. That boundaries are not accusations. That my body’s warnings deserve attention, not dismissal. I’m learning that being quiet is not the same as being safe. There are still days when silence tempts me. When it feels easier to shrink, to nod, to let things slide. Old habits don’t vanish just because you recognize them. But now, when that familiar tightness returns, I pause. I listen. And sometimes—gently, imperfectly—I speak. Not loudly. Not confidently. But honestly. And that is enough.
By Inayat khan18 days ago in Fiction
5 winter tourist location in USA
1. Aspen, Colorado – A Paradise for Snow Lovers Aspen is one of the most famous winter destinations in America, known worldwide for its incredible skiing and snowboarding resorts. Located in the Rocky Mountains, Aspen receives heavy snowfall, making it ideal for winter sports. People visit Aspen for its four major ski areas: Aspen Mountain, Snowmass, Aspen Highlands, and Buttermilk.
By USA daily update 18 days ago in Wander
The Other Woman
The video had been playing for six minutes when Maya realized the woman was describing her nightmare. Not a nightmare. Her nightmare. The one she'd been having for three weeks straight, the one that left her gasping awake at 3 AM with the taste of smoke in her mouth and the phantom sensation of drowning. The woman on screen—pale, dark circles carved beneath her eyes—spoke in a monotone that made Maya's skin crawl.
By Parsley Rose 18 days ago in Horror
Word of the Day: やらせ
I am really annoyed for some reason. I guess it's a lingering effect of talking to my mom. I think I am also annoyed because I ordered food, like I am hungry so probably my emotions are heighted so I am hoping I'll calm down after I eat food.
By Kayla McIntosh18 days ago in Confessions
to me
I know it had been over the last few weeks to a month since I have read and commented, but I have been reading very occasionally my notifications here on Vocal. Actually, over the past few weeks to probably a month I have been working on my study books that I have been writing, and I plan on publishing on Amazon when completed. I do have some good news to report for I believe that I mentioned that I have a volunteer book reviewing job for a magazine by the name of Story Monsters Ink for the past couple years along with a few others, but this past week I have been hired as a paid book reviewer for the online version of Story Monsters Ink and I have been reading and reviewing a few eBooks already for them already. I am sure glad that I like to read for the publisher wants reviews in 10 days after receiving an assigned book. I do plan on continuing to write, read and comment here on Vocal too.
By Mark Graham18 days ago in Critique
