The Silence Between Each Heartbeat

By Layla Ramsay

What does it mean to be heard?

Is it all audible? 

In my experience, no.

Have you ever just grown up with slivering suspicions about someone? Not just for the sake of it, but because of micro incidents that just gradually build up over time. Like that time when they called you a harsh name that you’d never heard them use before. Or that time when you were certain they were about to raise their hand at you? Or even those many times when they’d silence you because ‘who could ever believe you?’ Or those many times when you’d be singled out as the bad guy? As the one in the wrong. As the failure. As the one who needed to apologise for something that they would never apologise to you about. 

Do you ever just feel unheard, or unseen?

Maybe you do.

I know I did, because I believed him when he said those horrible things to me. How he would say I have no proof, and how I’m just a kid, no one is going to believe me, and even if I did try to defend myself, he’d just tell me to shut up because it’s rude to talk back. 

I remember the day that I felt like I wasn’t doing it alone anymore, and even though I felt so many other things that day, I never really got to appreciate that small feeling of freedom, that someone had seen me, had heard me, until now. 

The first time, the drive over there was agonising. My hands were clammy, and despite me dragging my palms along my pants every thirty seconds, I couldn’t seem to control it. I was in the front passenger seat, my mother driving, and behind us, we lugged the weight of our reality. A great big empty trailer, hungry and tired. 

This was our first trip of the day, and despite me telling my mother the events of the night before, I wasn’t given a choice but to go back anyway. My mother wasn’t punishing me but simply trying to teach me how to confront my fears and stand up for my own rights. 

Well, I’ll tell you now, none of that went as planned. 

We pulled up out the front of the house, me sinking into my chair allowing my mother as much visibility as possible as she reversed the trailer up into the driveway. My brother was already there with his car and trailer, loading and organising by his own will. 

A will I never thought I’d be denied with such duress. 

For the first ten minutes or so, I lingered in the garage, picking things up, putting them down somewhere else, pacing, wiping my hands, repeat. 

I was aware of his presence inside the house, his scrappy old car parked on the front lawn. Sometimes when I glanced over to the door, I would see his great big figure move swiftly past. 

The silence between each of my heartbeats, barely even noticeable. 

My mother had returned to the garage where I was, and she could see the avoidance in my eyes. She began filling up a bag with frozen meals from the deep freezer I was standing next to, then proceeded to give me an empty bag and told me to bring the rest inside so we could fill up the other one. We didn’t want to be lifting a freezer full of stuff, so relocation seemed reasonable enough at the time. 

She had already gone inside to start unloading, but once my bag was full, I stopped at the doorway, dreading taking that step. As I finally kicked up the courage and stepped inside, he appeared in front of me. 

All of a sudden, I had shrunk a foot or two. His hands empty, but his eyes were flooding with anger and exasperation. Then he moved towards me, and I think he started yelling at me. I didn’t understand what it was he was saying, it was more of a deep, echoing grumble, inaudible, but there. 

I looked around for my escape. I thought, if I went back into the garage, my mother wouldn’t be there to help me, and I’d probably get locked out or something. Luckily for me though, there were two different ways you could go from the garage door into the house, and he was only blocking off the entry to the lounge room. I made the decision to speed walk my way past him and through the walk-in pantry which led into the kitchen where I hoped my mother would be as promised. I could hear him moving about the house behind me, yelling at me to get out, I had no idea whether he was following me or not, but I didn’t stop until I made it safely at my mother’s side where she was knelt on the kitchen floor over the freezer drawer. 

From where she was situated, there was direct view to the garage door, so she undoubtedly saw him when he was standing there in front of me, because by the time I had appeared at her side, she seemed surprised. She must have assumed I backed out and submitted to the reality of the lonely garage. But no, I stood by her side, head held as high as I could, proving that I had power in this house too. 

He had made his way to stand across from me, my mother being like the religion between two wars. I dissociated whilst he spat and curdled curses at me. I started unloading my bag and passing my mother the frozen meals, one by one, and taking whatever she handed to me and sat it aside. I think it was when I handed her the first one with shaking hands, my mother realised just what it was he was saying to me. How he was throwing insults, screaming, and waving his hands around in the air. 

Then finally, I felt the air sink in my lungs, the blood rush to my face, painting shock by means of blushing subtitles.

It was mother’s turn to speak.

She knew better than to rise to her feet and try to assert dominance that way, I mean he was over six foot for fuck sake. So, she dug her heels into the dirt and remained kneeling on the floor, sorting and organising the frozen goods, whilst her attitude had other plans brewing behind her teeth.

Do I remember what he said to me? 

No. 

Trauma-induced memories are automatically supressed for one reason. 

Personal safety.

I do however remember how my mother defended me, how she stood her ground and took some serious risks but exposed them with confidence. I remember how I immediately felt seen, felt heard by her. I didn’t feel alone anymore. I mean, after all, they were together for twelve years, how could a clueless little kid like me ever convince anyone else of the suspicions I had about him. How could I prove my side of the story when he was the one to tell me to hold my tongue. He taught me that speaking up was talking back. I had no voice when it came to him. But now, I felt immense relief. My mother had heard. Whether she had heard me or heard enough, we’ll never truly know.

But has the incident changed me? 

Yes. 

However, not how I thought it might. If this had happened to me five or so years ago, then I’m almost certain things would be different. 

I wouldn’t be okay. 

This okay.

I always aspired to have my mother’s strength, but when I saw how much this situation had destroyed her, whether she wanted it to be noticeable or not, I couldn’t help but feel relieved that the separation was as pugnacious as it had become. 

Is that selfish?

I do not wish this upon anyone, but isn’t this how we learn?

My mother had always been so head-strong, honestly, it’s one of the things that scared me the most about her. She had been through so much, some of which I could only imagine what it must have been like.

To be heard is to be seen, to be recognised. It’s for someone to finally understand that you are who you are because of something they’ve recently come to realise. 

To be heard is to be almost forgiven by eyes but never forgotten by heart.

Someone can see what you’ve gone through, and understand your actions, but that doesn’t always mean they’ll excuse your wrong doings, at least not straight away. 

Being heard is just the first step of remission in a relationship. Whether it be with your mother, or your spouse, or even just a friend. 

Consistency is the next step. 

Hold out. 

You’ll learn the next on your own, everyone’s journey is bound to differ, I just pray for one thing on your behalf. That one day, just one day.

You’ll be heard too.

By Layla Ramsay