You know that feeling, right? When something hits you wrong, rubs you the wrong way, or just plain boils your blood? For some folks, that's when the words start flying. Arguments erupt, voices get loud, and the air crackles with tension. Me? I tend to go the other way. When I'm truly upset, the world just kind of... quiets down around me. My silence isn't empty; it's actually saying a whole damn lot.
It's not a conscious strategy, not some dramatic performance I put on. It's more like my internal system just hits the mute button. My brain gets so overloaded with whatever's causing the upset that the words just get jammed up somewhere. Trying to force them out feels like trying to squeeze toothpaste back into the tube – messy and ultimately pointless.
And honestly, that silence? It's usually screaming volumes. It's the furrowed brow, the tight set of my jaw, the way my eyes might just glaze over. It's the lack of engagement, the way I might physically distance myself. You can practically see the "DO NOT DISTURB" sign flashing in neon above my head.
Sometimes, it's a way of trying to process things internally without making it a public spectacle. I need that quiet space to sort through the tangled mess of emotions before I can even begin to articulate what's wrong. Throwing words out in the heat of the moment rarely ends well for me. I'm more likely to say something I regret, something that doesn't truly reflect the depth of my feelings.
Other times, that silence is pure frustration. It's the feeling of "what's the point?" when I feel unheard or misunderstood. It's the weight of disappointment that's too heavy to put into words. It's like, if you can't see it in my face, in my complete withdrawal, then maybe words won't make a difference anyway.
Of course, the downside to this whole silent treatment thing is that it can be pretty damn frustrating for the people around me. They might feel shut out, confused, or even like they've done something wrong (even if they haven't). It's not always the most effective way to communicate, and I know I probably need to work on finding a better balance between my internal quiet and expressing myself.
But in that moment, when the upset hits hard, my silence isn't just an absence of noise. It's a loaded pause. It's a signal. It's my way of saying, "Something's really not okay here," even when the words just won't come. It's a language all its own, even if it's one that needs a bit of translation sometimes.
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