A trained person could speak.

I don't really know how to explain it, but the best metaphor I can think of is this:

The threads that tie me together are woven very loosely. So, when I'm pulled in different directions (And oh, I am pulled), it tears at me. It tears me into pieces.

I feel torn.

I'm grieving. I know this feeling. Tides out, sadness. Tides in, despair. I need to make room for these feelings that are oh-so-present, because they are not always oh-so-present. This is painful. This is opportunity.

I didn't go to class. I dug into the corner of my couch, avoiding the other me that showered, dressed in trendy new clothes, and styled her hair in vintage curls.

Torn.

And I don't speak. I don't complain until it's all so overwhelming that I overwhelm you. Except I know it will overwhelm you, so I don't complain. I use words that are easier to say. Words that are easier to hear. You are relieved. We sit calmly. I am unseen. Safe, unseen.

A trained eye could spot it. A trained ear could hear what wasn't said. A trained mouth would ask. A trained person could speak.

But I have been trained in silence.