Drowning in Silence

Not in water, not in anything I can see or touch—but in something heavy, something I can’t explain

There’s this nervousness inside me, a restless energy that won’t go away. I don’t even know why. I should feel safe. I have a roof over my head. I have walls around me, a locked door, security outside. No immediate danger. And yet, I don’t feel at peace.

Is it what I’m watching on streaming? Am I feeding my mind too much darkness, letting stories seep into my spirit? Or is it deeper than that—something from my past still gripping me, something I haven’t yet healed from? Or maybe it’s just life itself, the weight of all I’ve been through pressing down at once.

I don’t know. And that scares me. Because if I don’t know what’s wrong, how do I fix it? How do I stop feeling like I’m waiting for something bad to happen, even when there’s no reason to expect it?

I just want to feel safe. Not just physically, but inside. I want to breathe without this tightness in my chest. I want to be okay.

But tonight, I’m not.

I have this opportunity to join small groups at church, and after what I experienced today, they really do seem like a close-knit family. Misti is supposed to call me tomorrow. Part of me is excited about the "what if"—what if this is a place where I belong, where I’m not just another face in the crowd? But then there’s the other part of me—the part that’s been through too much to ignore reality.

I am so tired of being abandoned. I am so tired of being hurt. It feels safer to stay alone, to not get my hopes up, rather than risk the pain of being left behind again. Even my own daughter, the one I carried in my womb, has chosen to shut me out of her life. If my own flesh and blood won’t stay, what makes me think anyone else will?

I want to believe in community, in connection, but I don’t know if I have it in me to take that leap again.