The song, "The Sound of Silence," originally written and performed by Simon & Garfunkel, has resonated through the years and echoes hauntingly in newer versions performed by a wide variety of artists ranging from Celtic all the way to Disturbed's new and, in my opinion, most haunting new version. Aside from the original, which I've always related to, and find myself drawn to when the black whirlpool begins its slow spin once again in my life, Disturbed's version closes in on something different. If you take the time to watch their video (and can get past the double-pierced chin) the video draws a link to Simon & Garfunkel's version, at least, it does for me. Their original song was released around the time of the Vietnam war; I'm sure there are a lot of interpretations out there of Disturbed's incredible, artful video, however for me it recalls to mind images of post-war Europe. I'm sure you've all seen pictures of a broken grand piano in the middle of the street, or of a sole violinist playing amidst the rubble, sitting in a broken chair. In the midst of the rubble of bombings, shelling, gunfights, and death, are reminders of art and beauty tossed aside, and with it, life. The preciousness of life. The reminders of the beauty of humanity's creations. Piano keys, torn apart, unsalvageable, burning away in the rubble of some unknown event. A guitar, buried in dirt, revealed as dirt trembles away from it, over its strings and once-beautiful wooden body, rescued by a passerby. A drum, lodged in an unlikely, fragile tree, salvaged by reaching hands. All amidst the rubble of a silent wasteland barren of all life but those able to bring music back to the world if only they had music to play. To quote the Tragically Hip, you'd "think God's left the museum for good." Imagine the horror of the bombings, the noise and terror, death and destruction that drove people away, and in the midst of all this destruction, human remains: the instruments of music.
My father grew up in WWII Europe, and he never talked about it. But it became a fascination of mine, because his experiences showed in his ways. In how we always grew our own huge garden of vegetables. Canned food. Froze food. Kept a cellar full of apples and potatoes through the winter. Never wasted a single crumb from his plate. He never said a word about it; but I knew. I knew from the few stories my mother whispered behind closed doors; they were short, but they spoke of starvation, of trying to smuggle food from their farm to the people starving in the cities. Of watching the Germans smash his family's preserves that his mother had worked so hard to put up for the upcoming winter, for the sheer sport of it. Just those few, short snippets. But the rest was his to own. They were his memories. His nightmares. His life, and his death. They were the sound of his silence.
My silence is my life. Outside, I am positive, sweet, compassionate, giving, loving, happy. I am a strong, capable woman. I am athletic and I LOVE it. I eat life with a spoon. Inside...inside is another story.
Inside, I am hiding the fact that I can't advocate for myself because I was molested as a child. That my mother used to scream at me, pull my hair, drag me up the stairs by it, hit me, dig her fingernails into my arms, slam me against the wall. Tell me over and over again that I was dramatic, go on and cry, turn on the waterworks. I kept it all inside. Outside, I did my schoolwork, got good marks, had no friends, was bullied at school. Only wanted to fit in.
In Grade 5 I changed schools for the second time. My father had already had cancer when I was in Grade 3, and was in hospital most of Grade 4 and part of 5. It had gone into remission. I had friends now. We were all skinny, but developing. I didn't want to. That began my life-long love-hate relationship with food. I became anorexic. I dated a terribly abusive boy who turned out to be a 23-year-old man, when I was just 14. Home life became impossible in Grade 9 and I was kicked out. Little did my family know it was right after my first serious suicide attempt. Someone must have been looking out for me because I swallowed a LOT of tylenol, and all I remember is being incredibly groggy, crying myself to sleep, and then my mother forcing me to go downstairs to eat dinner. My Grandparents were visiting, and everyone questioned the empty tylenol bottle, but I lied and said I dropped it in the toilet. Ever the optimists, they dropped it. Crying into my food, I eventually ran to the bathroom and spent the night throwing up and the next day wanting to sleep. (there was NO napping in our household so I didn't even have that reprieve). Crappy relationship followed crappy relationship, and I'd love to say I learned, but all I did was get involved with men who were classier with the way they controlled me - I just couldn't see it until it was too late. Then one night, staying overnight at a friend's house after a party, I was raped. Repeatedly. My drink had been spiked, and I was terrified and paralyzed. It destroyed me. It brought back all the bad. The depression. The low self-esteem. Paranoia set in. Panic. Fear of everything. But ohhhh, the depression...that swirling, sucking black water pulled me down again and again until eventually, after my second failed marriage of 16 years, 3 more suicide attempts that should have killed me outright, and nobody ever knew about them, I arrived here.
And my suffering is the sound of silence. I never eat normally unless I'm pretending to be a high-volume athlete, running races and triathlons, dancing ballet, swimming, working out 6 days a week. Posting my race schedule on Facebook, and then posting the smiling pictures of myself with my race 'friends,' all of us draping our arms over each other, wearing our medals, or holding a beer at the bar afterwards, looking like I had the time of my life, with a huge plate of food in front of me. Because then I have to 'fuel' you see. Then it's science. Then it's about training races, and A races, and B races, and C races, short races and long races, Periodization, timing your fuel, making sure your body is well-fed...behind that smile, and those beers, and plates of food? I'm crying inside, hating every training run, wishing to God I could stop, clawing at my own skin from the inside, just wanting my time to myself, but still feel 'good enough!' Still have a reason to justify every bite that I put in my mouth. A reason to justify every moment I'm not working out. To justify every moment I'm not being everything for everyone.
And, with time, and counselling, I've come a long way since I was raped; but I don't know if that raw memory will ever go away. I still have nightmares about it. I don't race under my own name because after the rape, I was stalked. My Facebook page is under a pseudonym and claims I live in another state. I won't train outdoors without friends, so I train mostly in my basement on the dread mill and trainer, and at the pool. I try to pretend how much fun it is...but I HATE it. I miss the wind in my hair. The feel of power going up a hill. The feeling of relief going down. The sun on my face. The cold water of the lake. But, yes. Most of the time, with medication, and counselling, and training, and lots and lots of pretending, I can pretend that I'm fine, and I'm smiling, and I feel happy, and life is good, and my kids think I'm great! While inside, eventually, I know that there is a slow, long scream growing that will never come out...and what it turns into, is that whirlpool, that black, watery whirlpool that starts ever so slowly as that scream builds, and I try to keep smiling and training and dancing my way through it until it's too late and I'm underwater and the suicidal thoughts are right there, but I will NEVER tell anyone...
'cause no one dares...disturb the sound - of silence.
