Throughout my 18 years, the number of times I have been asked the questions “Do you speak?” and “Why are you so quiet?” is too high to count, and for a while, I’ve never been able to give a solid answer. The truth is, silence is a flickering flame within my soul; it never goes out, and it spreads and shrinks in a gradual cycle, always lingering.
With the people I loved and were closest to, I was a completely different version of myself, one who spoke her mind and laughed until her stomach ached and would stop midwalk to pick a dandelion, cradling it in her hand like her most prized possession.
But to me, at least at the time, both versions, the outgoing and the reserved, were the same. Different people just brought out different aspects of my being, drawing out either words or silence.
Not once did I believe I was different from other kids my age until I began kindergarten, when my silence caused questions to float in midair like bubbles too far out of reach—impossible to pop. My classmates would ask me if I ever spoke and why I never laughed or smiled. I would merely shrug, biting my lower lip, feeling as if I were some zoo animal being studied by onlookers.
The words of my peers flowed in the crevices of my brain in this constant, seething loop, which only grew more rapid as I got older, as I became more aware of my differences. People would talk around me as if I weren’t there, or they’d talk for me, and I, as if my mouth were zipped shut, let it happen and stayed silent.
It wasn’t that I had nothing to say, because I usually did believe it or not, it was like this dust-filled wind forced the words to shrivel up and go back down anytime I tried to speak to my classmates. Some would mistake my silence for rudeness or disregard, which further isolated me from everyone else—like a single dandelion in a field of daffodils and lilies—but no one else could be blamed but myself, and this undeniable force holding me back.
Middle school struck me like lightning in the pouring rain, where the cycle rapidly increased, and I descended deeper into the murky waters, lost and alone. Despite the hardships of elementary school, it was nothing like the wrath of middle school, which held me tight in its sweaty palms, unwilling to let me free. I wasn’t diagnosed at this time, but my social anxiety had begun to reveal itself, as I felt the eyes of others blaze into my skin until it grasped my soul, igniting the smoldering flame to expand until it couldn’t anymore.
But when high school began, I had hit rock bottom. All around me was gloomy and dusky, the water pulled me down so I couldn’t rise back up, no matter how hard I tried. I would spend most of my time in my room, living my life through the internet and social media, void of human contact. I lost most of my friends from distancing myself, and I had no clue why I felt this way or made these choices. My soul, once a colorful, pinkish hue, had turned into the color of ash—gray and dismal in the blink of an eye.
This deep sadness and isolation lasted for about a year, until I specifically recall one night I opened my small window, the chill autumn air whispering against my face as I gazed at the night sky, searching for stars, which were mostly cast out by the street and house lights.
But after many seconds, I saw a cluster of stars through the harsh flare, and I sat there for minutes on end, wishing I were one of those stars, wishing I could be free of myself and the cycle of dark thoughts.
It was some time after that moment that I had a breakthrough, and I slowly began rising, the gray waters gradually turning blue the more I swam up.
Although I haven’t yet reached the surface, I am satisfied with where I am, that I am graduating high school with so many life lessons learned, so many phases that thankfully passed by, so many tears that eventually healed my wounds. I discovered the power of my silence and the power of speaking up. And I am no longer afraid.
In the back of my mind, the question “Do you speak?” still stirs around from time to time, the very question I’ve been asked my entire life, and the truth is, silence is a part of me and always will be.
That flame within will always remain, no matter how many times someone tries to blow it out, expand, or change its course– but yes, I speak, just not as much as most people do. So what? A dandelion can be just as admirable as any other flower if you give it a chance.
This is my first year as a staff reporter on 42Fifty and I am a senior at OHS. I am also involved in NEHS, Best Buddies, and Reading Corner at the school and in my free time I volunteer at the Naperville Area Humane Society. You can contact me by emailing 42Fifty@sd308.org and putting my name in the subject line. We welcome comments on our articles and feedback on our publication!
