I am rarely at a loss for words. In fact, I often have so much to say that I have to exercise considerable verbal and written restraint.
It is, however, currently no surprise to me that in times of serious pathogenic and predatory threat to safety and stability — I fall silent and watch.
That is exactly how I coped for 43 years.
I crept quietly onto the social media scene after just barely surviving a #ChurchToo slaughter which in turn caused me to reckon with a lifetime of poly-victimization. Like Dostoevsky, I have not been silent when my heart has spoken. But I have found that with the recent pathogenic pandemic — a slow silence has set in.
Rightly, or wrongly, I rarely rattle on. I speak when not speaking is untenable. I find it equally as difficult to assemble letters into words and craft words into writ when the tundra becomes traumatic.
This is a visceral response. Hunker down — hide until the coast is clear. Don’t speak; don’t breathe; don’t need. Do you know any women and children live their life like this and for whom this sort of mechanism currently prevents or prevented their slaughter?
I sure do.
Holding predators to account remains vital. So is, helping those who have lived a lifetime socially distanced, are unsafe at home, and whose immune system has long been obliterated.
There are those whose infection with the virulent strain of violence has no known inoculation other than empowerment.
This remains the force that brought me here and will keep me here. I, perhaps like you, am a survivor.