What Silence Does to Relationships

I’m good at games.

As a teenager, when I encountered love, I would play games.

I knew it was a bad thing.

Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen. Hot or cold. To name the typical few in my playbook.

As I entered my twenties, I grew up a little.

I realised how immature it was and set on a path of treating my love interests with respect. I claimed the mantra “I don’t play games.”

But, after my last relationship, I realised these games manifested themselves into a far more insidious, invisible and dangerous game.

The new game occurs when I decide to stop saying difficult or vulnerable thoughts. Instead, I would camouflage an injury and pretend everything is okay. I was playing games when my partner did or said something that wounded me but I chose not to reveal it.

I would stay say silent.

Hiding behind the poker face that I had crafted from my years as a professional poker player. Because taking off my poker face made me feel exposed, desperate and weak in front of someone, who I feared, might not care enough about me to listen.

The game I was playing was to bury all my feelings about any problems. Deliberately doing so badly. In hopes that my partner will in time to realise their offence and apologise, without me being naked about my grievances.

The game sets out to provoke guilt as an alternative to emotional honesty.

Rather than tell my partner, I was upset that she left me to do all the preparation for our dinner party. I played the game of casually not caring about her lack of help. I stayed silent. The next day I would purposely make her lunch and dinner to guilt-trip her into spotting my effort.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, you’ve been doing all this cooking for me!”

I would smile casually and reply “Oh don’t worry, it’s fine, it wasn’t too much effort for me.”

It seems like a small incident but repeated over months and this grows into something far bigger.

The pattern would repeat itself. Not declaring what’s wrong, hoping that my mind would be read, and not daring to speak about what matters.

It led to a grave erosion of trust.

It led to an indirect destructive method of communication that brings anger and resentment in its wake.

But I had deluded myself that I should be interpreted without needing to speak. I believed that someone who truly loved me would guess what I was upset about, without me having to spell out the offence.

I wanted to be understood without words.

I feared abandonment the most because to me, being left behind, meant I wasn’t worth anything.

Anything invoking the feeling of abandonment, I would add a layer of persecution. I would devote time to answering curtly, insisting nothing is wrong whilst putting on a pained and melancholy look.

Why Communication Matters

I’ve always known this was my downfall in relationships.

Each time I entered a new one, I would tell myself this time it will be different. I would delude myself into thinking I’ll be a better communicator.

But as the saying goes:

“ The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” — Someone On The Internet

I knew it had to stop. I went to therapy.

Therapy helped me take the first steps to be more assertive in telling someone they’ve upset me.

I made a commitment to myself to not play games. To make a profound effort in saying everything that has upset me.

I realise communicating hurt is anything but poor behaviour.

Because it is a privilege of love to be able to tell another person what is precisely wrong when a problem occurs.

Because it is a privilege of love to be brave enough to present ourselves as weak so that love can stay strong.

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Previously Published on medium

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