Silence speaks. So be sure it's saying what you want it to. The problem with withholding your words, just like withholding affection, is that it only controls the life of the person who has given up his voice. Because, well, no one else knows what he's saying but him. That makes being effective rather challenging.

Silence is used as a weapon, as a place to hide, as an excuse for cowardice...but it never conveys what the person wielding it intends. What silence ultimately communicates is tremendous insecurity. You lack the ability to articulate with eloquence, so fear no one will listen. Or, care.

It's true, too. One must use their words wisely. But you don't have to be Hemingway to get your point across. Just keep it simple. But silence is simple, you say??? Why yes, dear, it is. So simple, only you know what it means.

People tend to fill in the blanks. When you maintain long-term silence, all you're doing is isolating yourself further. Those who care about you will only attempt to draw you out for so long. After a while, your silence becomes as meaningless as you. You literally silence yourself into obscurity. An obscurity you secretly wish to be saved from. As if your silence is a social test of some kind. And the person who remains undaunted will be your savior. Good luck there. If that happens, you've got yourself a big ol' piece of codependent pie. Enjoy choking on that one....

Silence is rooted in shame. And the guilty are the worst offenders. In every sense. They often feel entitled or "owed" because of social hardships that inhibit socio-economic growth. An immature attitude, allowing the offender to remain a victim and therefore sympathetic, perpetuates the apparent arrested development, making these people expert saboteurs. Every action and interaction is a trap. Why? Don't take it personally. It's about them, not you. They're into emotional BDSM. Self-punishment. If you prefer whips and chains to emotional pain, run, don't walk, in the opposite direction.

How do you best deal with these silent sad sacks??? Leave them to their own devices. Let them drown in their silence. They will tire of it. And when they decide to lift their self-imposed exile, you may also decide that there is nothing worth listening to.

Silence is a facade. A bad one. Socially, it's like committing suicide. In a romantic relationship, giving a partner the silent treatment is a transparent method of control. Disappearing on a loved one and ignoring communication is psychotic. Literally. It's a pattern of behavior associated with Psychology's "Dark Triad": Narcissism, Machiavellianism and Psychopathy.

A person who cares for you will not disappear, will not cut off communication, because they value you. They realize you are worth their time, their words, and they want yours, too. Being cut off only communicates fear and self-loathing by the person who's gone dark. It's creating drama where it isn't needed because there is simply nothing of substance behind their action. Yes, silence is an action. An act of hostility.

Drama queens are extremists, a trait also associated with narcissism. While technology has helped create a narcissistic society, there is a difference between real life and say, a video game. You can do all kinds of bad things in video games. You can even die. You can walk away. Forget all about it. And return weeks, months or years later as if nothing has changed. You'll be whole again. Alive. People in the game will not remember the evils you committed. You can pick up right where you left off. But in real life, when you commit unthinkable acts against living, breathing people, there are consequences that your virtual reality experiences have not prepared you for.

If you're the person staying silent, you can redeem yourself by coming clean. Making yourself vulnerable. Saying how your shame, your guilt, your insecurity, and of course, your uncontrolled fear, is living your life for you. Try telling the person you care about that you actually care for them. What do you have to lose??? Pride? Ego? That's no big deal to someone like you. You don't feel much self-worth anyway. But it does make you even more scared of rejection.

Well, if you've been a silent git, it's likely you'll get at least a verbal kick in the pants. You deserve it. But if your WORDS are genuine, and you back them up with authentic ACTIONS, people will generally listen.

On the other hand, if you are the victim of silence, though difficult to accept what often feels like rejection, you can take comfort in the fact that such an insecure, fearful, and damaged individual is out of your life. People like that can't be saved; they are emotional vampires. Unless there is a(n unlikely) sudden spiritual awakening, and complete shift in self-awareness, said individuals will only feed on your every resource until there's nothing left. Not even you.

The thought of a silencer's return can cause anxiety then, because, of course, they always come back. Like a bad burrito. But fear not. Even if they're too cowardly to do more than cyber stalk you like you're their new religion, it's really a no-brainer. Because the moment they went silent, the proverbial ball went careening into your court. Should they suddenly decide to talk to you, you can return the silent favor. Or, you can listen. The beautiful part of being a receiver of silence is that YOU, not the offending silencer, have UNLIMITED options.

People who attempt to hold you emotional hostage on any level are bound by their own fear. You do not have to take on their problems. You will grieve for their loss, for their pain, for the limits they put on themselves, but you are not responsible for the decision of another independent adult. They may want you to feel that way. But manipulation will only get them so far.

Funny how silence is sometimes seen as clever. Do you want to know what clever truly is? Using your words to better yourself and others. That's something. Silence is nothing. And nothing comes from nothing.

But words? Whole countries exist as a result. That's TRUE power.

I can't seem to move. Let alone, write. But if I don't move, or write, I might as well be dead. And I'm not quite ready to put a period at the end of my proverbial sentence. Not yet anyway. That said, it doesn't make moving, or writing, any easier.

But I will try. Not for me. Or, you. For her.

My next door neighbors, a lovely couple in their mid-30's, had a little girl this summer. She was born on the Fourth of July. But I haven't been able to go visit. Or even think about it. Nor have I been able to welcome the new life into the world properly. But tonight I bravely walked into a children's clothier and, amongst the living babies and mothers, picked out a gift for the new soul, as well as her older sister. Matching dresses with matching cardigans and  a number of accessories dressed in matching gift boxes with navy blue ribbon. I spent far too much money, but I was compensating for my own loss: #Emma 

That was nine months ago. Much has happened in that time. And yet, nothing has happened at all.

The front bedroom in my house in Atlanta, the one with the cathedral window and the tree outside of it, was going to be Emma's room. She could see the stars at night, the blue skies during the day. I had looked at baby furniture a month or so before I lost her. Wandering through the outrageously beautiful textiles, sophisticated patterns, painted finishes, and hand-carved furnishings made me feel total awe. And, total excitement. I didn't yet know for sure I was pregnant. But I had hope. And more importantly, I had faith.

Perhaps one other person on the planet knows that my faith was so great in this effort, that months before I could even begin to try, I went to the store, and bought a dress. Not for me. For Emma. It was a symbol. Of faith. I hung it in my closet. I'd look at it every day. Like a prayer, I'd visualize my little girl wearing that dress. Hear her sounds. See her movements. Smell her baby smell. And I felt the most incredible joy. I had denied myself that wish my entire adult life. But now, I was going to live. As bravely as my friend Jim had died. Jim inspired Emma in the first place. So it seemed apropos.

Jim passed suddenly, tragically, in 2013. When he did, I realized it was my responsibility to live my life as fully as possible. Not for Jim. For me. As a self-aware, educated individual living in America, I was actually obligated to do so. Funny how people judge you when you act with courage; I believe that judgment is derived out of  jealousy. No one walks in your shoes. No one will die with you either. But everyone wishes to dictate not only the limits of your life, but how you behave within those socially-imposed limits. These people are usually healthy and young. Or, unhealthy and old. Either way, their misery loves company. Fools all. Because the closer one gets to acute mortality, the more compassion one has for others. Judgment of another person is a waste of precious time when you have your own life to live. And, live well.

Two nights ago, I watched a beautiful film called Mr. Holmes. Part of the plot involved a case with a woman who lost two babies while pregnant. One at three months. The other at four. She had head stones made with the names of her two lost children. Along with a third. For her. In the end, unable to share her pain with her husband, she stepped in front of a moving train.

A month after I lost my daughter, I bought a plot in a cemetery near Atlanta. I put down money on a double plaque. One side had my name; the other read "Emma Lily Rose." There was no body. But there had been. She was a fully-formed human when she died. Completely complete. I was very sick before she died. And, after. I hoped I'd join her. Sooner rather than later.

I felt so alone. Still do. The physically empty feeling has gone away, though it took months to not feel her phantom heart beating,  or the "popping" of her movements. Had she survived, she would have surely been an early walker like my son. Like me. Sometimes I'd wake up with my hand on my stomach looking for her, tears down my cheeks, though I wasn't aware I could cry in my sleep.

No one acknowledged Emma. Or, me. I ended up not going forward with the plaque. Mainly because I had to give up my job and leave my home. You see, I was stalked for nearly eight months thereafter; it only stopped because I moved. According to Department of Justice statistics, stalking ends one of two ways--either the victim leaves her life behind and starts fresh somewhere far away, or, she is killed. More than 80% are. And the activity was escalating; I had to make what was an incredibly difficult decision. Not only had I lost my daughter, but I was now losing my independence. Something I worked my whole life to achieve. None of it was easy. None of it was my choice either. However, there was something that mattered even more than my ego or pride.

You see, I believe survival is more important than anything else. It's what Emma would have wanted. And although she is not physically here with me, I am still her mother. I still hold myself to that standard in my behavior. And nothing less. What would I wish her to do if she were in my position, as many women are? In fact, three out of every four women will have a stalker in their lifetime.

Would I tell my daughter she deserved it? To be stalked? Brought it on herself??? Or would I help her understand that one cannot be an extraordinary person and expect to live an ordinary life. That, her survival was of the utmost importance. Because she would make the world better. And, as any good parent understands, you cannot expect more from your child than you do from yourself.

Emma was destined to be healer. Maybe her short life had the power to do just that. Only time will tell....

I'll still cry about her loss. Grief is an individual process. There is no deadline. It's the same for love. You will always feel it; it just gets easier to live with the pain. The difference is that losing my daughter is permanent; I cannot change it. The loss of love is often a choice. And with each new day, a new choice can be made.

#Heal