I had a moment of feeling brave with someone I trusted so deeply and the implications of allowing myself to be vulnerable with her were devastating and potentially fatal. She wounded me on a spiritual level and I accepted that it was my fault. That I was unworthy of love. Trust. Friendship. Kindness. Or respect. She asked me if I was gay. A secret I pledged, before this very second, to take to my grave. I looked at my best friend, and admitted for the first time to anyone besides myself, that I was infinitely attracted to women. Immediately following this, she outed me to my entire team. She told my coach. I accepted this as proof of all of my worst fears. That I was nothing. To anyone. Or myself. And I shrank into the emptiness of depression and suicidal thoughts and behaviours. I guess in my heart I’ve always known that she messed up. Some part of me knew that it was her mistake and not my own. It just never made it less painful. I lost a friend and I lost the part of myself that still believed there was hope for me. It took a long time to heal. And I still don’t know if I have.

Silence itself has never been quiet or still, but rather piercing. Deafening. And always in motion. The sound of your heart beating like drums in your ears and waves of blood rushing to your face, now a canvas of visible emotion. The complete chaos of unspoken words fired off like gunshots making their way from brain to mouth, where the bitter flavor brushes your tongue before you swallow them down. And it’s then that you realize the magnitude of these vibrations. The weight of carrying the noise proves to be a familiar burden, and anyone who says they can’t hear, just hasn’t been paying enough attention.

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