The Silent Treatment

There was a time in High School were I almost never spoke at home. I’d been planning an act like this for years, desperately seeking a means to torture my mother. During the pre-teen years, in a fit of rage, after being banished to my room, a pen would furiously scribble down ideas for punishment. She wasn’t going to get away with this.1

It had been long ago decided that the worst thing I could do to my mother was not talk to her at all. Luckily for her, I was both a chatterbox and a wimp. Even if I could implement my plan for more than three hours, eventually she would ask me some question. At this point, my mother would realize that I’d been giving her the silent treatment and quickly threaten to slap the answer out of me. Complying with no contest, this only enraged me further. I often imagined her favorite part of parenthood was tyranny. She loved to win. 2

In a way, there was nothing more beloved than embellishing my problems when in the midst of a tantrum. If my walks could talk, they’d say “Shut up, you brat.” Sobbing and screaming I’d rack my brain of every wrong done to me and then configure the psychological damage as well as the possibility of an adulthood filled with wounds from the trauma. Neglect and abuse had made me a tragic little thing and here my own mother had thrown me into her dungeon with all the compassion of an ogre.3

After years of immature rage and failed execution at the hands of a weak and forgetful will, I became at teenager. This is when I stopped talking. To my mother, at least. A big part of me had grown up a little and lost the need to relate every minute thought that came into my head. Another part of me had started to believe that no one really cared what I had to say. The rage faded and turned into something more like despondency.4

So I wrote. I wrote poems and stories and sometimes just paragraphs of thoughts or abstract feelings. Speaking became obsolete, unnecessary. I had my notebooks. My mother was kept at arms length and dealt with only when needed. It was surprisingly easy to write her out of my life. Looking back, I have a very strong feeling that we were both victims of depression, dealing with it from our bedrooms on opposite sides of the house and only crossing paths during midnight trips to the pantry.5

At school, new friends were an impossibility made by my protective bubble and old friends seemed occupied. I spend lunch in various nooks until suspicion forced me to abandon and find new territory. The library was nice because, more than filling up space, my brain was occupied with fiction and it seemed a legitimate place for a student to spend time. Eventually, this required a pass from a teacher and because I could not acquire a pass I relocated to a bathroom that was mostly ignored due to location. Still, the thought of being kicked out of a library appalled me. Sometimes I thought about putting a note in my suicide letters concerning this disturbing issue.6

P.S. Investigate Librarian. 7

At this time, my mother was still working and I had a few precious hours to myself after school when the entire house was my sanctuary. I spent it mostly with my finger inside a chocolate icing can, digging out the creamy comfort with my forefinger. I’d watch trash TV and zone out. Around 5:15 I’d start checking the blinds compulsively. Occasionally the rumble of her truck would rouse me unexpectedly and the TV would be off, edible evidence destroyed and me in my room breathless before the back door opened. In this way, I’d never even have to speak to her. 8

As a kid, I’d pulled this same routine but now it was different because she didn’t knock on my door or inquire over homework. I didn’t hang on her clothes and play with her hair while she paid bills and swatted me away. I was older now. I could take care of myself. 9

Listening to my Jewel CD in my room over and over, I’d stare at the wall for a few hours and imagine detailed conversations with people. Often, scenarios would replay several times with various answers before I settled on the most charming and witty dialogue. My real life seemed to consist only of meek responses and lackluster comebacks. Along with my dreams of glamour and beauty, I longed for sparkle in conversation as well a biting insults that would leave my enemy seething and yet, speechless.10

When it was dark out, the small space at the foot of my bed became my desk. I’d park myself there with a pillow behind my back and my legs stretch out with exactly enough room so that my feet were flat against the wall, writing the night away; Mostly morbid things, sometimes romantic. 11

Later I would discover sleeping pills and buy a generic and weak drug store brand for the distinct purpose of misuse. I asked myself why I would even want to be awake. Because of my religious background, suicide was out of the question (although I still made detailed plans just in case) so even though I knew that I didn’t want to be alive, asleep was really the next best thing. And I started to drug myself into a dreamless and heavy sleep. If I woke up, I’d take more pills. My mother eventually confiscated them after demanding an explanation. I just handed over the pills, completely indifferent to any penalty she might dole out. In my mind, things couldn’t get much worse and there seemed nothing left to take away. Sensing apathy in my drooping eyes, she just sent me back to my cave.12

Months passed and life outside my body babbled around me but I remained unaware, living only in the fantasies inside my mind. One night we were having dinner as we did sometimes. She was upset over something, probably about work or money. But as is typical of most people (or at least me), she seemed determined to grind all her problems into one melting pot and consider herself a victim. Suddenly her voice got very high.13

“Why don’t you ever speak?”14

I sat there staring at her and even though I hadn’t planned it out during a moment of rage, I knew I’d finally gotten to her. I looked down at my carrots and smiled a little for the first time in months because I knew I’d won.15