“The cruelest lies are often told in silence.”
–Robert Louis Stevenson
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The most practical lie I know and one that kids today seem to forget or don’t understand is the lie in showing respect to people you don’t respect at all. When faced with individuals whom act in manors that we ourselves see as bad form but hold positions of power or authority . We force ourselves to step back and monitor our words and actions around that individual so that we are not put in positions of scorn and ridicule for lowering ourselves to that persons behavioral position. In doing so we spout lies to ourselves and to others who agree with that person and are influential to our own survival by tolerating and condoning what they do. Then turn around and make excuses with those in our position justify why we lied.
I told a lie in silence. I told people that I was fun, funny, smart, cool and sweet. I told everyone that I “had it going on.” My hair was coiffed; I smiled; I laughed; I told jokes. I told everyone that I was perrrr-fect!
(hmmm, what a lie(!))
I was not perfect. I was a mess. I was screaming inside and nobody heard me, not even me. I was screaming about the lie that I was told in silence– and here it is:
I was raped–as a child–over and over and over–by my brother. I was told not to say anything. I was told that I would die. I was told that they mystery that is me would cease to exist. I was told to be buried and bury it.
I was told I was told I was told.
In fact, I was not told any of these.
In fact, I was told by society to bury it–by my parents to be perfect–and by the world that I was wrong. I was wrong for being an eight year old little girl who had been violated. I was wronged–a little different from “I was wrong.” (funny how words can change with two letters..)
now I know
now I’m telling
now I refuse to “shut up”–sorry bro (here it’s not just a term of art)
hmmm–what shall I say
hmmm–I could say that he put his fingers in me
I could say that he squeezed by breasts waiting to see if something could come out
I could say that he made me vomit–then and today
I could say that the horror that was me–and the the horror that was he
became one and the same.
I could say that I will never lie again.
I could say that the earth moved just to allow me to live
I could say that I am so angry that the birds can hear my horror
and I could say this:
I will never shut up again
I will never allow the horror that is me
and the horror that is he
to ever EVER ever speak ill of my childhood
Should anyone dare to do so, I will come over and set you straight
I will tell you that you are wrong
I will tell you that the happenstance of our worries are someway connected to death–or perhaps dearth (their it is again–that one letter..)
I will tell you that when I worry–about a deadline, a meeting, paying rent, going to the bathroom properly so that I excrete healthfully and without worry, I actually think I am more worried about my safety than I realize. The dread that I feel–all the time–that I’m now only even beginning to realize (i.e. I’ve lived with it for so long–didn’t even know it was there–TIL NOW!) is going to go away because I don’t have to be scared anymore.
He will not put his fingers in me ever again
He will not use me like a rag doll EVER
He will not cease to suffer until I do
and when that day happens, I will release him
release him the universe
Let them take care of him
I think I am done doing that
(Thank you for listening and paying witness and I would love this to be posted, but understand if it can’t due to “its graphic nature.”)
Carry on lovelies, carry on– I certainly am.
Beautiful! Thank you.
It was a one night stand. My husband was in San Francisco supposedly
starting a new job, while I was living with my parents in New Jersey with my two year old son waiting for him to send for us.
As time dragged on and his letters and phone calls arrived from Los
Angeles, Minneapolis and other points around the country, I knew I had
a big problem. My husband had a woman in every city. Through our
five years of marriage, he never strayed when we were together. But the
minute we were separated, and this happened fairly often – a back and
forth marriage, he found another woman. However, if he called me
and I wasn’t home – I once got a part in community theatre show and
went out for coffee with a couple of guys in the group. We were the only
ones who had professional backgrounds and had attended the same
acting school. We had a lot to talk about. – My mother though it was
terrible that I, a married woman, went for coffee with other men.
When my husband called, she told him. He complained, and I know he
would call again the next week, when I had my next rehearsal. I
gave up the part and stayed home, and, as I suspected, he called. But
I was living an empty life, while he was running around. Therefore, when
I was invited to a New Years eve party in New York by an old roommate,
I accepted.
Immersed in my frustration, I spent most of the evening with an actor I
met at the party and then went home with him. I spent the night, never
saw him again, but a few months later discovered I was pregnant. I
couldn’t tell my parents. So with the help of my sister and the family
doctor I found an abortionist, never telling anyone else my secret.
When, my husband finally sent for me, my son and I went to Los Angeles,
and picked up where we left off. I discovered a letter he actually left for
me to find, about a women who had his child in San Francisco. I was
furious, but also felt guilty about my one night stand. I kept silent about
that.
A few years later, when my husband had another relationship I divorced
him, and built a new l life.
thank God for new beginnings.
I seem to be growing a little hummingbird in me. It is small and quite, but fast and nimble and clever. I know because it is tickling me right now.
My mother’s love is a hot frigid love. The lie of love. The glare of ice affection, all judgement as she presents me with another check that cuts my fingers.
I take this love – the only true expression of tenderness I have ever received from her. I take it in abject humility and appreciation, but not before I steal a quick glance at her familiar signature. The strokes, the dips, the intimate curves and pressure points.
My fingers twitch.
I take the gives – or at least the parts. These are the things meant to demonstrate her sacrifice for my well being.
I am not deceived. I can feel her silent hiss. It is saying: “Here is another death for you to keep in your mouth.”
I brace myself.
With ear piercing venom she explodes into her diatribe: “You god-dam well better appreciate this. I do everything for you! What would you do if I wasn’t here to take care of you! You would be nowhere if not for me. I demand your silence! My past is nobody’s business! Don’t you dare say anything inappropriate tonight – No more!”
I say “thank you”.
But I feel nowhere, and I am nobody, and that makes it very much
my business!
Yes mother, I will keep your clever little lies while my soul screams in silence. Im not so sure about that little hummingbird though…
Keep remembering that hummingbird!
THE DYKE OF A LIE
Hans Brinker walked home one early evening…
He walked along the dyke
…the dyke that holds back the waters
…the waters that could rise from storms
…mighty storms created from nature’s fury…
The dyke protects low-lying lands,
beloved homes
and surrounding fields….
fertile and luscious..
Lo…..a drip….
Hans knows…
An alarm sounds deeply and wholly within…
Bravely,
the whole dark and demon-ridden nightmare
captured inside the unslept evening ‘til early morning’s first light…
with the plumpness of a child’s thumb
and ancestral imprints,
the flooding waters
held their stay
and
the town’s elders repaired the hole
that otherwise
would have let slip
the lie of security
…the false security of a mask
…..a mask shading a reality
….the shadowy reality that waters exist
that can lie calm with peace
held in the long-ness of time…
but as well
become turbulent with monsoonal wrath…
In Peripeteia’s realm…
at nature’s beckoning ferocity,
angry waters,
held in check
are there….
hovering to unfurl humankind’s artifice.
Paula, nice to hear from you here! Greeting from Uzes in the South of France!
The lie was a cancer that ate away at my soul until nothing was left but a barren shell, ripe for the taking. The lie grew in silence, threatening to explode at any time.
You are not wanted. You were a mistake.
The lie dug into my soul with barbed hooks and refused to let go. It began to multiply as my own thinking betrayed me, and the lie started to look like the truth. It overcame every aspect of my being until the truth was no longer visible, the lie layered itself in thick heaping black gobs.
You are worthless. No matter what you do, you will never be worthy of love.
The lie propagated in my own actions. It needed to prove its truth through self-destruction; relationships doomed to failure, men that confirmed the lie, jobs that were unhealthy, behavior that was out of control. It wormed its way in through rape and more abuse. The lie eased its way in through depression and anxiety and shrouded my soul in fear.
You need to end this.
This was where the lie reached its pinnacle. There was nothing left to me but a barren shell filled to the brim with lies upon lies of worthlessness and self-loathing. Balancing on the razor’s edge, I listened hopefully.
Somewhere beneath all of those layers of hate and fear, a tiny whisper of a voice inside spoke divinely,
“No matter what, I will always love you.”
Thank God for that tiny little voice, and the fact that you listened to it.
A form letter consists of words but lacks any voice. It is, in essence, silence. Fifteen years ago, as I received one, two, twenty-two, eighty-seven, and more such form letters, I accepted the lie that my voice was not suited for publication. Frustrated, I stalled mid-way through writing my third mystery novel and let it sit, unfinished, for a decade. Oddly, my voice seemed to be pitch-perfect for non-fiction since I published in print and via numerous websites throughout that time period. Three and a half years ago, figuring I had nothing to lose and camaraderie to gain, I participated in the lunacy of National Novel Writing Month. Still skittish about fiction, I wrote a memoir of my life in Texas in the early 1960s, but with a few names changed. Nanowrimo’s reward for cranking out 80K words in a month was a free proof copy. When I held the story in my hands, between a cover I’d designed featuring a photograph I’d taken, it was a “Hell, yeah!” moment. I resumed writing the third mystery and completed it. Completely ignoring the conventional route, I self-published it and its two predecessors, mastering copyrighting and e-text conversion along the way, and then marketed directly to my audience. While I’m not quitting the day job any time soon, it gives me enormous satisfaction to know that people are now reading my words.
Love your story, Jean! I hope it inspires lots of other writers!
So many
So many lies
So many
So many years
Lies of omission
Chip away
Chip away with tears
So many
So many lies
So many
So many tears
Lies of commission
Chip away
Chip away with fears
So many
So many lies
So many
So many fears
Lies of submission
Chip away
Chip away the years
Lies told in silence…? I hid behind lies for most of my youth. Lies I was told to tell; lies I learned to tell; lies I told to protect myself. Here is a blog I recently posted that reveals the damage of these lies. I was in a dark place when it was written. I have since emerged (again) and feel ready to face the next leg of this ever-evolving trek.
The Truth Behind the Sadness
The truth is I hurt. Never, ever in my life have I ever hurt so much. The pain and sadness run so deep that I can feel it in the nucleus of every cell in my body. I never knew a person could harbor so much deep sadness. My gut is wrenched so tightly that I can hardly breathe life into my lungs.So many levels … there are so many levels of my pain. Tim and I have talked about the deep sadness within me – he saw it, I thought I had already addressed it. Now, the final heartbreak from my lover has opened up the dam. Now I know that I was nowhere near even skimming the surface. The sadness was not because my husband died, not because both of my parents had died, not because I lost my house, or any other recent loss. No, the sadness is much deeper. A large part of it is due to being abandoned by my father after my eldest brother died. I was three. That is when I got my first taste of abandonment. And what happened later in my life is what manifested as a result of my parents checking out after my brother’s death. The sadness comes from never knowing a healthy love.
I was 12? 13? The first entry, September 6 reads:
“Boy, have I gotten myself into trouble! I put the impression on Coach B, a 26-year-old married man, that I was gonna do it with him. Now whenever I see him at school he says, “Hi Sweety, you look super!” or something like that, which ain’t bad, but he’s 26, married and has a kid!! I wouldn’t do that anyway!! Oh well, today I got a pair of Dittos. I love them! I also watched the Jerry Lewis Telethon for M.D. I always cry when I watch that. I think I love Coach!!!”
That was the beginning of the nightmare that I am just now waking up from. The nightmare lasted until I was 18 and attending Arapahoe Community College. I never “didn’t” remember that I was molested. I didn’t “delete” the memories from my mind. No.
What I did, in order to protect myself, was file them away. They have been buried in the corner of the basement of my soul, in the bottom drawer of a dark, musty file cabinet for 37 years. For so long I talked about what happened as if I were talking about someone else. It was easy. It was not me.
“Yes, I was molested by a school teacher for 6 years. He tried to prostitute me. One night he drove me to a 7-Eleven on East Colfax. He went into the store and left me in the truck alone. A black man by the name of ‘MJ’ got in the passenger side of the truck and put his arm around me and said, ‘So, Coach B. tells me you might want to go to work for me.’ I was so naive that I said, ‘Oh, I don’t need a job’.
When Coach returned, he drove me to a motel where the black man ‘tried me out’ while Coach watched. I must have passed the test. He told me I could make $100/hour. Something in my soul told me no.”
I thank my blessings every single day for that voice. I told my molester no. Thank God he accepted my answer.
Coach B. was 20 years older than me (he lied and told me he was “only” 26). He made me sleep with other men. He watched while these other men raped me. One was another teacher; one was a hunting guide from Steamboat; another was a very wealthy man at least 20 years older than me, who actually came to my parent’s house and picked me up in a Mercedes. He met my parents…they let him take their teenage daughter out on a ‘date’!
There are so many many layers. Anger, shame, sadness, sorrow, shock, disbelief… shame… horror, innocence, compassion… shame… vulnerability, fear, distrust, hatred, disgust… anger at the molester, the school, the system, my parents, the Statute of Limitations, the other men…
Anger at the lies- the lies I was forced to tell to my parents, to myself, to my friends…the lies of other men – my father, my brothers, my lovers. Where is the truth? WHAT is the truth? WHO tells the truth? Who do they think they are lying to? Me??? No…I’m onto them…I know every lie in the book. EVERY lie…and now that I know the truth, I wonder if I will ever believe anyone again. Even now, as a 49-year-old widowed mother of two, I do not trust. I have been told so many lies that I cannot believe in myself, let alone a man.
And the worst lie? The one that does the most damage? “I love you.” The truth is, “I love you because I want to fuck you. When I am done, you won’t exist. I will find a woman who is so much more than you, and right now, I just need your crazy sex. I don’t want to take time to get to know you on a deeper level. I just want to fuck you.” And “fuck you” they do. They fuck your mind, your heart and your faith. They make you wrong for loving them. They tell you that you are crazy. They make you wrong for wanting to know. They make you wrong for caring. They do a total mind fuck…and they move on to the next woman. You hope that she is smarter and won’t fall for his shit. You hope she is stronger than you were and that she will stick up for herself. You hope she doesn’t get hurt by him…it hurts so very much.
I want to heal from all of this. I want to heal before it destroys me. I want to learn to trust. I want to be loved for all of me. I want to know what that is like.