chicks, pants, showing it all, dancing

shadows_of


See the Shadows of Innocence and Sanity

a shadow of the day


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chicks, pants, showing it all, dancing
shadows_of
From Alex.
Sound:

I almost forgot how quiet a deaf person’s world is. How quiet my world is when my hearing decides it does not want to be around for the day. There is no music. No breathing. No scratch of pen on paper. There are no signs of life when your eyes are closed and you cannot hear a sound.

I had an interpreter for so long, I do not remember not having one. Someone to take my notes for me, to answer for me when I had something to say and the teacher was kind enough to write what they were saying on the board. I needed that for so many years, it is hard now to do anything otherwise. I still have the note takers on call, just in case I need them.

I almost forgot how quiet it is for me to sit in a room without being able to make out what people are saying to me. The common rooms at KSA being a major example of that. I can recall lying on the couch in the room, fast asleep despite the noise. A party had gone on around me once before I realized I had not heard any of it. They did not bother to wake me, figuring I had passed out on the couch and were headed to a similar state themselves.

That is why today does not feel all that odd to me. I realize how often it has happened in the past. The silence and the feeling of isolation. I just slip back into it like I always have. I realize that there are days when I want that. Where I wish no one’s voice would come into my ears. Where I would not be forced to hear the hypocrisy I am forced to live with, personified in my father.

I wonder at that for a moment. Life without the lies and secrets of a family so dysfunctional, we cannot speak without arguing about who is wrong this time. I imagine a life free of harsh criticism from a man who never thinks I am enough. I think I prayed for that once, and that is what created this lost life of partial silences and a lack of voice.

The sound inside of my head is enough, at those times. The sound of my mother’s voice soothing me to sleep, no matter how imagined it is, fills the void. And when I cannot bear to keep quiet any longer, I can hear myself yelling and ranting. I am so locked inside my head, rehashing every grudge, every remembered insult and derogatory remark, I have no need of anyone to speak to. It reverberates and expands, growing and growing until it cannot be held in anymore.

It builds along nerve pathways and muscles, tightening everything until I am coiled as tight as a spring, ready to explode forth. It spreads down my neck to my hands, tightening like a constrictor until every movement is jerky and barely controlled, stiff with some feeling I cannot name. I can feel it growing and growing until the sound has to be released somehow.

The sound grows and grows until it cannot be held in anymore and forces itself out in inarticulate phrases, motions and liquid expressions, bright red and viscous on my skin.

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