Essays From The Shadows
Volume One
Sitting in my bedroom, a book open on my lap. The sound of the front door slamming shut. The distant voices lowering and a sickening dread rising in me. This is it. A drawn-out moment of nothing while he checks his mail. The sound of doors opening, and I know the moment has arrived. All afternoon I waited. Waited until my father came home. The silence before he calls your name is coated with a thick and menacing threat. This won’t end well. It never does.
I don’t remember what I had just done or said, but it must have been bad. I know because his face had gone really red, like steam was about to come out of his ears. He wove his way across the room, avoiding desks and staring right at me. He was like a big, angry animal, a bear maybe. Teachers were different back then; there were no rules. He arrived and just hit me, around the head. Hard. I screamed a torrent of abuse at him. Every bad word an eleven-year-old boy knew. The silence was deafening. Nobody moved. Here I am — headmaster’s office. No idea what to say. He hit me. Isn’t that enough reason?
Can you tell me what your relationship is like with your father? Do you get on with him? Do you do things with him? He says he takes you fishing. Do you like doing that with him? Do you find him easy to talk to? Has he ever hurt you? You can tell me; you won’t get into any trouble. Perhaps you have arguments; he says you can be a bit difficult, would you say that was true? Same time next week? … How to answer you. I really can’t use words; the deadly silence of my eyes should tell you everything.
I can hear your rasping breathing and smell you, a mix of your aftershave and sweat and sex. Twisted sheets are coiled around me, and I know I won’t forget this afternoon. You got what you wanted, and I got what was left of me. Years later, I will remember the feel of the blanket under my fingers and everything you just did to me. My skin is sticky, and my mind is trying to forget. I need to silence these memories.
I told you everything as I saw it. I gathered all I knew and wrote it down. If I do it this way, I can choose my words carefully. Facts without emotion, nothing hurtful or unnecessary. If it is all laid out and neat, it might hurt less. I’m not trying to make things worse; I am, if anything, just trying to state the truth once so we all know everything. If we can just agree this was done to me, and that I’m not to blame. At the risk of sounding like a Jewish mother, you never write, you never call. Not one word. Do you care how I am doing, coping, getting on? Would it kill you to ask? Silence.
Standing on the edge of a riverbank. A long drop into deep, icy, fast-flowing water. It would end everything and stop this feeling, all feeling. It is cold, but it won’t matter soon. Two steps forward or one step back. These moments are never a shouting match, just a silent struggle with yourself. One step back. Turn and walk away.
Softly, wearing his socks and carrying his scuffed and battered Converse, he slips the latch on the side door and slips outside silently. The morning air is chilly; he looks around, nobody in sight, the streets are empty and quiet. He slides his feet into his shoes and drops his backpack onto his right shoulder. He starts to walk quickly away. He doesn’t look back, no glance over his shoulder, no long look of regret. This is the moment. Leave silently and never ever return.
He tried to tell them. In many small ways. Without words. When he did manage to say a whole sentence, he wasn’t entirely sure they believed him. They made all the right noises, nodded and agreed and said they understood. They seemed to want to help, but eventually, when it came to it, when he thought he had done enough, he was met with a wall of silence.
Survivors are silenced in a hundred ways, by people, family, institutions. By circumstances and by our own belief that we are somehow to blame, and that thought alone reduces us, makes us feel less than. We need to learn to speak, speak out, and speak loudly and clearly. We need to break the sound of silence.