My voice.
Surviving constant criticism and bullying, for me, meant learning to control my emotions and reactions.
I decided that I would not let them have the satisfaction of getting the best of me.
I became a master of disguise—minus the cape and utility belt.
The rude comments or name calling may sting and torture me, but I would not allow it to show on my face.
Through the years I would become a master at suppressing and controlling any and all outward reaction to their most unbecoming behaviour.
Surviving my childhood meant that I would put on a happy face even though I was so angry that I wanted to scream and smash things.
A large part of suppressing my anger and other emotions meant that I would also learn to swallow most of what I wanted to say, and this essentially caused me to lose my voice.
And when you bottle it all up, even your sarcasm starts whispering.
Losing my voice and not speaking up caused people to view me as withdrawn and, in some cases, stuck up.
The reality was that I was terrified to speak because I might say the wrong thing and be judged and criticised for it.
Therefore, I spent a lot of time in my own head.
I would ruminate on what I should and should not say.
I would agonize over every little utterance and I eventually just stopped engaging in conversations.
Even at eighteen years of age I could not engage completely in any romantic relationship because I did not know how I should be.
I was not free to be myself because my fear tended to get the best of me.
Love was a battlefield, but I didn’t even know how to aim.
There were very few people that I could be myself with.
Heck, I didn’t even know who I was.
The years of suppressing my innermost feelings, ideas and opinions blocked my potential and made me seem like a simple-minded shallow person
Interestingly enough, nothing could be further from the truth.
I was then and am now one of the most analytical and intense people that I know.
My inner world of observation and contemplation is vast and complex.
Basically, my brain is a full-time philosopher—who never takes lunch breaks.
So much so that the only outlet I had to release the tension was to write.
Writing it all out in a journal alleviated my inner turmoil and allowed me some inner peace.
Throughout my life my way of being in the world has been criticised.
It has often been pointed out to me that I am “too serious” or “too sensitive,” and that I lacked a sense of humour.
I was very serious and quite sensitive and I did not find a lot to laugh about in my young life.
My father’s binge drinking was a huge contributing factor to my over-serious nature.
When he drank the entire household had to be on alert.
Well that is the way it felt for me.
I did everything possible to help create peace in those not-so-peaceful times.
The vibe was less sitcom, more psychological thriller.
I would help my Mother in any way possible.
Do the dishes, take care of my three younger sisters, help make supper…
Keep an eye out for things that might set him off.
When he drank he always threatened to leave…
He would demand that my Mother pack his bags because he was leaving and he wasn’t ever coming back.
I remember thinking to myself…
“Why don’t you pack your own bags, you jerk?”
When I was younger his behaviour would make me and my three little sisters cry.
We would hide ourselves away in the bedroom and cry in secret because crying was not an acceptable behaviour.
Tears were restricted. Like sugar cereal before school.
When I got older I used to pray that he would leave, pray that he would take his angry self down the road and never come back.
I hate that he would turn into an angry man who would take his frustrations out on my Mother.
She always ended up in her bedroom alone… crying.
I hated the way it transformed each of my siblings into fearful and invisible people.
Invisible because there did not seem to be any concern as to how the drinking and fighting made us feel.
I felt I had to protect my younger sisters and I did protect them.
I protected them by always doing my best to keep the house clean.
If cleanliness were currency, I’d have owned the block.
I would shoulder the burden by being the serious responsible older sister who would do everything that Mom needed to have done.
I was the doer of the house.
I got shit done.
Which is my forever burden…
I still get shit done.
~ Tracy L Fillion
The Truth By Tracy 
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