SILENCE WAS EASIER

GrowthAuthenticity

4 Mar

For my eyes only… (or maybe not).

I do not miss a single person who made it difficult for me to be happy.

It has been a long time since I last sat down and allowed my fingers to dance freely across the keyboard. I have had so much to say, so much to share, yet fear kept me from starting again. Somewhere along the way, I inadvertently conditioned myself to associate my writing - my open journals in particular - with pain.

For months now, I have struggled to remain present in the way I once did. Survival mode will do that to you. Just the other night, I revisited my old entries and found myself falling in love with my own words again. I realised that some of my most profound reflections came when I slowed down; when I allowed myself to fully immerse in the moment.

Right now, I am sitting in my mother’s garden, perched on an aged white iron chair adorned with intricate filigree. The paint is chipping away, a quiet testament to the time it has spent braving the elements. It is a romantic little set, one my grandmother brought with her when she moved in. Two tiny lime-green leaves have fallen onto my keyboard, carried by the softest breeze. Birds call to one another in the trees above, and below, tiny ants trace their own intricate paths across the matching table where my laptop rests. A cyclone is due in the coming days, and like the ants, most people are preparing, fortifying their homes against the coming storm. But I refuse to let the weather, or life’s tempests, consume me with fear.

It has been just over a year since I broke free from the psychological chains of a narcissist. Today, I took the time to honour my mental health. Writing, I suppose, has always been my catharsis, yet I am careful not to let my expression become tainted by the shadows of my past.

If there is one lesson my trauma has imparted, it is how to be in a relationship with myself.

When entangled with an abuser, you are conditioned to prioritise them above yourself - above everyone. You are trained to obey, to submit, to never question. You not only forget how to put your needs first, but you lose sight of what those needs even are. And when you finally break free, you find yourself lost, untethered, like a stray soul searching for home within yourself. Even small acts of self-care; lingering an extra ten minutes in the grocery aisle, choosing something just for you, feel like rebellion.

For too long, I carried shame. Shame for being blind to what was so obvious in hindsight. Shame for the fact that he knew what he was doing to me, while I remained unaware. Shame that other women lay beside my partner, then casually liked my ‘happy family’ photos online. Shame that people witnessed him leaving seedy venues with other women while I played the devoted wife at home, oblivious. Shame that his so-called ‘business trips’ were nothing more than weekends in hotel rooms with sex workers, while I spent those same days trying to reach a man who had no intention of answering.

You can imagine the rage. The profound sense of violation.

At first, my freedom manifested as rebellion.

I re-pierced my belly button because he had forced me to remove it; “Only sluts wear those.” I spoke to other men, revelled in my autonomy, even toyed with my own power, seeking to reclaim control over my sexuality in ways that, in retrospect, only reflected my pain. After all, my past intimacy had been conditional. I had been coerced into things I did not want, not because I desired them, but because compliance meant avoiding punishment - punishment that could last for hours, days, even weeks.

Silence had been easier. Because in a world that equates wealth and status with happiness, who would have believed me? How could I make anyone see the reality of my suffering when, on the surface, my life seemed enviable? Where would I even begin? Who could I trust? How do you articulate a living nightmare when you are only just waking up to the truth yourself?

Silence was easy.

What is not easy is courage. Speaking my truth.

What is not easy is retraining my body and mind to recognise that I belong to myself now, that no one else holds dominion over me. What is not easy is seeing my words twisted and weaponised, appearing in legal documents to paint me as the villain; when in reality, I was a good wife. A loyal friend. A devoted partner. A confidant, a maid, a chef, a therapist, a business partner, a mother, a cleaner, a personal assistant, a sex object, a public image manager, a cheerleader, a scapegoat, a punching bag, a peacekeeper, a sponge, a caretaker, a hostage, a mediator, and an eternal student, forever learning how to please an unpleasable man. He stripped me of my autonomy for the majority of my young adulthood.

But the woman I am today still visits the woman I was then. And I forgive her. I hold space for her naivety. I honour her heart; too vast for a man so small. She was young. She did the best she could with what she knew at the time.

I share many aspects of my journey publicly. But know this: the abuse did not end when I walked away. And in the world we live in, there are still truths I cannot yet voice. Oh, how I wish I could.

Authenticity is one of my greatest values. I pride myself on showing up in the world as my true self - not as a masked figure, as abusers so often do. Time is the ultimate revealer. A consistent character cannot be fabricated, and no matter how long it takes, people will eventually see them for what they truly are.

And what they truly are is ugly.

Healing is a process of honouring yourself. As you establish boundaries, the people who do not genuinely care for you will naturally fall away, revealing the depths of the mistreatment you endured.

I have met many safe people; kind souls who treat me with gentleness. And in unlearning mistreatment, I have had to learn how to accept kindness. Sometimes, I cry. The contrast between then and now is stark. A sad realisation: how battered and bruised I had become. How the softness of a safe man now exposes the depths of cruelty I once believed I deserved. A double-edged sword.

I would not appreciate the good so deeply had I not first endured the bad.

As I share more of my truth with those closest to me, as they connect the dots and see the evidence with their own eyes, the shock and horror on their faces is a sobering reminder of the magnitude of what I survived.

I wish I had an easy break, a healthy separation, a cooperative future. But you can never have that with someone who has narcissistic personality disorder. They have never been cooperative. They never will be. So I must continue to be stronger than I have ever been, thinking three hundred steps ahead to ensure I am never again ensnared in his mental gymnastics.

It is exhausting; until I look into the beautiful face of my darling daughter and remember exactly who I am doing this for.

My story is the truth, and that’s all I need on my side.