“You don’t always have to say what’s going on in your head, Sarah.”
That was my mom’s endless refrain throughout most of my childhood, occasionally reappearing in adult life. She was more diplomatic than my sister, who would just yell, “No one cares, Sarah!” I wasn’t easily discouraged. I loved to talk, about anything and everything. Everything was exciting to me, whether it was the best thing in life or the worst thing ever, and I wanted everyone to know about it.
Then I got sick.
Before I was even diagnosed with IBD, I grew quieter. There were times when I would just sit silently, afraid to say anything or even move for fear that I would feel worse. I lost most of my interests and had nothing to talk about. I lost relationships and didn’t have anyone to talk to. I became afraid of everything for the first time in my life.
For the first time in my life, I had nothing to say.
I began to dread conversation. I stopped going out. I avoided the rare phone calls and texts when they did come. What did I have to say? I had nothing to add to a typical conversation. “What do you do?” “I’m sick.” “Are you seeing anyone?” “Not anymore.” “How are you?” “I’m fine.” I always said I was fine, because the alternative was too much to explain.
Even now, after years of being sick and not being quite as sick and being sick again, I am quiet. You’d never know it from my internet presence, but I’m fairly reserved in real life. It’s like living for a hundred years and then getting thrown back into your twenties– how can you explain it to people? How can you pretend to be a typical twenty-something after all that you have seen and experienced?
Every so often, bits and pieces of my old self will burst out. I’ll squeal with excitement over something. I’ll tell a story too good to keep to myself. I think for a few minutes, “This is what I used to be like.” But it doesn’t last. I always fall back into silence. Silence is who I am now.
But I wasn’t always quiet.