Weave a story around this mixed proverb: “Silence is a great healer.”
Like slamming repeatedly against a spiked wall covered in salt, there were stings and aches no matter which way she turned.
And locked in whatever prison she’d created out of these circumstances, she was lost and terribly stuck all at once. So how could that be articulated? Without danger of committal, how could she, stretched out on a therapy couch or locked in a confessional booth, explain how she could be resigned to whatever this was?
Forget it. Forget all that, because whatever she is now is broken. And not fractured, not hairline or cracked – this is crushed. Splintered. Irreparable, but not terminal. So living meant living with it. Being herself without failing or changing too much, because to change meant to answer questions, a why and wherefore of the steps leading here.
And that brings things full circle because it’s obvious explaining was out of the question.
So silence became her friend. A healing blanket she could smother in, hide. And while she couldn’t mend, she could try and forget. Or pretend. Silence isn’t a lie, and when the truth is a knife, it’s the best bet.