Suffering in Silence

If a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it still make a sound? This age-old question mirrors the struggle of suffering in silence—enduring pain and injustice in solitude. If no one knows about this occurrence, does that mean it didn't happen? If you don't see or hear what’s happening behind closed doors—about the gaslighting, the blame-shifting, the way your pain is twisted and turned against you—does it mean it’s not real? Your experience may remain unseen, but like the tree falling unheard, it undeniably exists. Silence may obscure the truth, but it cannot erase it.

​Certainly, that’s what he would hope. That nobody knows, nobody needs to know. Keep the crime a secret, and the criminal can remain free.

You always tell them everything that’s going on. Maybe if you didn't have to tell them everything, they wouldn't hate me, he spits out during one of the fights. It’s because you tell them everything that they hate me. His words land sharp and pointed, forcing you into retreat.

You remain silent as his rage grows. Gradually, in the final weeks and even months of this relationship, your reactions shift; you fight back less and less, resorting to shutting down and going quiet. The growing futility becomes clear—what’s the use? Speaking up only seems to intensify the violence. So you do your part, play the role you’re meant to play, and stay quiet and small.

You always need to tell your mom, your sister, your best friend, or even your therapist about what happens between us. What happens between us should stay between us – it’s for us to work through without anyone else’s opinions. What do they say anyway? You guys just talk shit about me, and bash me, and they tell you to leave me – I know your sister wants you to leave me. It’s just a man-hating conference about how much of a monster and piece of shit I am.

Somehow, you became a mirror for his demons, inner wounds, and biggest insecurities. He saw a reflection he was not willing or ready to see. He began to self-label his actions in the heat of these arguments: “monster,” “asshole,” “piece of shit,” “you think I’m such an idiot, that I’m beneath you,” “you make me sound like an abusive piece of shit,” and finally, “you don't love me; you never loved me.” These descriptions say more than you realize. Hearing each self-deprecating remark, it was hard not to question if his spoken fears were the truth lurking beneath the surface, even though you never uttered them toward him. Yet he distributed them about himself so quickly and easily. The reflection he saw displeased him, yet he did nothing to change what he saw in himself. And the thing about labels is that the more we label ourselves, the more those labels solidify, becoming an inescapable reality.

You think the thing you never said out loud to him: Or, what if I had nothing to tell them to begin with? What if you didn't treat me this way, and I didn’t have anything like this to say? My mom and my sister don't hate you because I told them to hate you. They hate you because of how you treat me, because of what they’ve seen you do to me. They see how I’m a shell of a person since being with you. They hate you because of you. Because of who you are, not because of me.

Instead, you remain silent. You don't fight back. With each incident, you become more aware of his insecurities. You learn to carefully manage them and to anticipate how to better temper situations next time. Each adjustment is tied to an emotional caution—always tiptoeing around his mood, his wounds, and his trauma to avoid another lashing.​

You’re just different with him. You … you aren’t yourself. Near the end of the relationship, your mom begins to open up to you, her tone changed by concern. You don't seem happy. You used to be happy. I’m just… I’m very concerned. Until now, she’s stayed out of the mix, deliberately uninvolved, not voicing her opinion. For months, you shielded her ears and eyes as best you could. Now, it’s become a “don't ask, don't tell” silent agreement, a palpable shift from uninvolvement to silent worry between you and your mom.

At times, you would try to hide in another room. Sometimes, you took intense phone calls in the bathroom with the water running—anything to keep the sound from reaching her. And when you visited your sister and a fight would ensue, you stayed in the basement, shielding the tension with as many walls and floors as possible. It didn't work. Your sister would later tell you that she could hear you sobbing from the floor beneath her. Hearing you suffer pained her. Countless times, your mom and sister witnessed someone they love and look up to be torn down and crumble. You didn't have to tell them a thing. Your tears and broken spirit said more than words ever could.

It isn't until several months into the relationship that your mom carefully and delicately announces her concern for you and your safety. As she speaks, you can't look her in the eye – you look at the wall beside her head or down at your hands. I know, Mom. You finally say quietly, head dropping, unsure what else you can tell her. You feel her worry and disappointment. The two of you finish your lunch in silence, she holding her tongue as best as a mother can, while also fearful and wanting to protect you with a fury, the way moms do, from any future harm. She hates him. She would never say she does, but you know she hates him. You deserve so much better than this, she says, breaking the silence, ensuring her final words are on the record.​

At this point, you’ve become a master at living separate lives. You feel the weight of this balancing act—another delicate plate, one misstep, and the whole tray comes crashing down, shattering into pieces. You have your relationship with him, and your relationship with everyone else. In the latter, silence has begun to take over. Some people speak to you less, either out of disappointment, anger, worry, or a mix of all these emotions. They tell you: It’s really hard to watch. Even when you do speak, it’s strained; their disappointment now weighs on you and fills the air with tension. And tension is no longer confined to your relationship with him; it has seeped into your other relationships, increasing your isolation.

This is how isolation works. Little by little, the abuser lures you away from your pack, your safe and trusted community. Don't tell them anything. Don't hold them to as high regard as you once did. And certainly don't give them more or anything as close to what you give him. He is your priority. Period.

Eventually, that does happen in some cases. Your sister hardly speaks to you. And when she does, it’s laced with disgust and disappointment in you. What are you doing with someone who treats you this way? This isn’t you. She says. You sense her hurt and frustration. You bite your tongue, hesitant to share your own emotional exhaustion. I’m finding my way, you finally respond, because telling her any more of how hard this is requires more time and energy than you can bear.  

By the time the breaking point hits, you handle it alone. You drive home in the middle of the night while your mom, sister, best friend, and therapist are sleeping, ignorant of the torment you just endured. It takes days before you tell them, and sometimes weeks or months before you share the worst moments. All this time, you’ve been holding secrets like a bomb—afraid that speaking them would bring detonation. It felt as if you could make this hurt less true by keeping it to yourself. As if what happened was less abusive the less people knew about it – the verbal attacks, putdowns, criticism, blame-shifting, gaslighting, manipulation, and love bombing.

The thing about secrets is they don't keep you safe; they keep you captive. And keeping this secret only benefits the criminal while it further punishes the victim. Silence is yet another way to maintain power and control, another way to hold you prisoner. But silence and secrecy are virtues. And like loyalty, they must be earned.