Say No More

To the girl at the table who didn’t say much,

“You were so quiet during lunch.” You told him that you were just lost in thought, cautious with your words to avoid conflict. But then your brother confirmed how quiet you were, and suddenly that comment, once neutral, became cause for concern.

That day, you remember picking up a piece of cucumber that spent the morning soaking in black vinegar, swirling the remaining bits of mushroom on your blue ceramic plate. As they talked about the mania, the suicide, the hospitalizations, you looked down and away. You felt your mind doing what it’s gotten so used to doing—escaping from the noise. You didn’t detach but you didn’t engage. You chose not to say anything, neither conceding nor refuting, perhaps hoping to deceive the world and yourself into thinking that your silence meant that you were okay.

That night, you pinched the sides of your head and went to bed early. You pulled the blanket to your chin and sought the comfort of sleep, but as you lay your head to rest, all you could hear was their voices accompanied by a familiar refrain of yours: “Your mind caused the mania.” “Your body caused the suicide.” “Your genes gave you bipolar.” “You are the one at fault.”

This year, you tried to rewrite your narrative. To give yourself a voice. To absolve yourself of blame. To say something about that part of your life where the only identity you had was that of a victim. But you’ve come to realize that no matter how much time you spend writing and rewriting, there are parts of your life that you’ll never be able to edit. There are parts of your life that you’ll never be able to touch. These are the parts of your life where you can only watch others say what they have to say and surrender to their telling of your reality.

Sincerely, Esther