Shutting my Mouth

Once upon a time I wrote about my life on a blog. Or in snippets here there and everywhere scattered across social media land. I wrote about my happenings, my wonderings, my thoughts and feeling and opinions. I wrote about my fears and my failures and my faux pas. I wrote about my secrets and my sorrows and my success. I flung my stories far and wide.

And then shit the fan in so many ways. In America. In the Carroll household. I got quiet. No, I shut up. I shut up about my hopes. I shut up about my dreams and desires. I shut up about how things were effecting me or what I thought about what I knew about how they were effecting other people. I shut up about my family. I shut up about my place in the world. I shut up and I begin to lose things.

I lost an outlet. I lost a coping mechanism.

I lost my voice and the tolerance I’d built for being seen. I lost my platform.

I lost the power of speaking out. I lost the privilege of feeling understood.

I lost the inkling of having maybe made a difference.

I lost the belief that I had the power to effect change.

I lost hope. And connection.

I shut my mouth. At home. At work. Online. IRL.

About me. About mine. About ours. About it all.

About politics. About the wretched state of things.

I got quiet to protect myself. I got quiet to protect some semblance of serenity. I got quiet to protect my loved ones. I got quiet to protect the people I disagree with. I got quiet to protect status quo and white supremacy and my own white fragility.

I got quiet because I heard myself told to shut up. With all my privilege, what story could I possibly tell? No one wants to hear from a middle class white woman right now.

I shut up.

No one wants to hear about yet another relapse or finding yourself stuck in a cycle you know so much better than. No one wants to hear the stretched-out monotony of putting a marriage back together. There’s nothing to post about staying in and saving money.

I don’t have a nice bow to wrap this thought up in. I can’t commit to saying more. I can only acknowledge how silent I’ve become. And parts of why.

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