The Silent Scream

October 19, 2025

I’ve written quite a bit about how I abandoned myself during my relationship with him.

This piece explores one facet of what that really means—

the way my intuition tried to protect me long before I was ready to listen.

The Silent Scream

My body knew first.

Long before the evidence appeared—

before the calculated cruelty had shape or name—

something inside me screamed, but silently.

It was the kind of scream you feel in the stomach, not the throat.

The kind that twists beneath the ribs

and hums behind the heart—

too ancient to be logical, too wise to be ignored.

Only, I didn’t know its language then.

It began as unease—small, invisible.

A tightening in my chest when his eyes didn’t match his words.

A pulse in my gut when he went quiet after intense connection.

There was a new kind of anxiety in me—

subtle at first, but constant—

like static beneath my skin.

I thought it was me.

Old trauma, old fear, old habits.

Hormones and mental health fluctuations.

I told myself I was healing—

that love just takes patience,

that safety takes time,

that my anxiety was the ghost, not the messenger.

But my body was screaming.

It screamed in obsessive thoughts, in shallow breaths,

in journal entries that turned into lifelines.

It screamed in the way I scanned for tone shifts,

micro-expressions,

changes in rhythm I could never quite predict.

It screamed in the way I tried to relax but couldn’t.

In the way my spirit dimmed her light to fit in.

That’s the thing about trauma—

the body doesn’t wait for proof.

It remembers.

It recognizes energy the mind still wants to romanticize.

He looked safe.

Sounded stable.

Played the part flawlessly—

with a carefully curated playlist that set the stage seamlessly.

But my body flinched every time his energy flickered—

that imperceptible glitch between charm and nervousness,

warmth and withdrawal,

normal behavior and something just slightly… off. I felt his anxiety, especially early on,

too constant, too vigilant,

like someone with a secret too dark to share.

Back then, I didn’t understand that feeling as truth.

I treated it like an inconvenience—

something to heal, manage, talk myself out of.

I whispered, You’re fine. He’s fine.

But my body kept whispering back, No, you’re not.

And that was the scream.

The silent scream of intuition,

of every cell that sensed the threat beneath the performance,

of the sacred animal inside me

who saw the wolf long before the mask slipped.

Now, I listen differently.

I know what the unease in my body means,

what the heaviness in my stomach is trying to say.

I no longer mistranslate protection as paranoia.

The female intuition is a superpower,

Often dismissed and underutilized.

It speaks to the body in sensations, in pulses, in quiet alarms.

And when it screams, even silently—

it’s not madness.

It’s truth.

It’s memory.

It’s the sound of self-preservation,

echoing through every nerve,

pleading to be heard.

The hard part is that sometimes it takes a long time

to learn the language it is speaking.

Now I know,

And the next time,

I will trust the scream.