What I Didn’t Understand Then

The world outside my home was a place of clear rules and predictable outcomes. But inside, it was a different universe, one governed by chaos and a single, whispered command: “Shh, don’t tell anyone.” That shush was the punctuation mark on every shattered dish and every cutting word, a heavy secret I was made to carry from a young age. It was the sound that followed my parents’ screaming matches, the sound that tried to erase the sight of my dad throwing things, his face a mask of rage, and the sound that sealed my mom’s tears into an unspoken pact between us.

It was in those stolen moments after a storm that my mom talk about our dad in front of us, her voice low and filled with a painful weariness, as if we hadn’t been standing right there, our small bodies frozen in the doorway. She painted a picture of a life she couldn’t stand, a man she couldn’t tolerate, and we would listen, our hearts breaking for her, believing every word.

And then, the phone would ring. At the first sound of his voice, the mom who had just spoken of leaving him, of not wanting to be around him, would transform. The anger present, but with the willingness to ignore it. In that moment, she would go back on everything she had just said. The pain she had we had seen—it all seemed to vanish, leaving us to wonder if it had ever been real at all. This cycle was a brutal lesson in inconsistency. It taught me that words meant nothing, that feelings were fluid, and that the people you were supposed to trust the most could turn their backs on their own truths in an instant.

The instability of it all left a deep mark. I learned to live in a state of constant readiness, always anticipating the next blow-up, always waiting for the inevitable shift back to a false sense of calm. My sense of security was built on a foundation of sand. It was a life of emotional whiplash. That “shh” wasn’t just a command to be quiet; it was a command to suppress my own reality, to deny the chaos I had just witnessed. It taught me to hide my own feelings, to put on a brave face, and to pretend that everything was fine, even when my world was crumbling. The experience left me with a willingness to engage in disagreement and a profound distrust of intimacy. How can you open up to someone when you’ve been conditioned to believe that the truth is too dangerous to share?

The memory of parrntal blow-outs are a constant reminder of a childhood defined by instability. But in recognizing that pain, in finally acknowledging the weight of that ‘noise’, I’ve taken the first step toward healing. The shush no longer holds power over me. I’ve found my own voice, and I’m using it to tell a story that deserves to be told. It’s a testament that even in the most broken homes, the truth, once spoken, can finally set you free.