Imagine growing up and never being allowed to talk to a therapist because, “You’re not crazy, that’s how Satan gets into your head!” my mother would yell while making a left-hand turn at a red light or highlighting every word in her Watchtower. Then, fast forward: one day, you share an office with a clinical psychologist for three years, right before they retire. This means you’re sharing space daily with someone at the height of their cognitive career. You’d think I’d get thousands of dollars’ worth of free therapy.
Have you ever met one? Even when you pay, they hardly say anything.
Ironically, even though she was a woman of few words, she would always say, “Silence is conspiracy.” She’d hang up the phone, whispering, “Silence is conspiracy.” She’d pause mid-story: “Silence is conspiracy.” When the boss asked who charged “dollar 84” on the company credit card at John Wong’s Chinese Restaurant, no one would speak up but her: “Silence is conspiracy.”
I’ll never forget the plastic human brain sitting on her desk.
She wouldn’t hesitate to pull it apart and point to different areas when explaining how abuse impacts the brain of a child, or what parts light up when I drink coffee. One day she explained her three words: that when we know something is wrong and stay silent, we are part of the problem.
“I’m sorry, what?” I paused.
I was that kid on the playground, telling everyone that the world was about to end, that Santa Claus was their father – not real, and that they were going to die in Armageddon because they were mean to me. I called classmates’ mothers snakes and told them stories about a man getting his head chopped off and served on a silver platter while they ate leftover birthday cake – adding that ravens were going to pick apart their flesh, starting with their eyeballs.
“I don’t think silence is conspiracy. I think silence is appropriate when people have no idea what the fuck they are talking about,” I said politely.
“Were you a Jehovah’s Witness?” she asked.
I nodded my head, holding my breath.
She sunk into her chair and looked at her feet. I could tell by her reaction that I wasn’t the first cult survivor she met – but I might be her last. Her silence didn’t break with questions about missed birthdays or Christmas.
We sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, until I echoed her words, “Silence is conspiracy.” She looked up, grabbed the plastic human brain, and cracked it open. “Do you know why I hold this human brain in my hands?” she asked politely.
As someone with a wild imagination, when she asked me this, I pictured her walking into a boardroom full of men. She’s holding a rainbow-colored plastic human brain in one hand and a tattered black leather briefcase with a broken lock because she forgot the code in the other. She’s late. People are waiting. They don’t get out of their seats when she walks in but they glare at her. She sits down at the head of the table and places the brain in front of her. She looks around and no one says anything but her.
“Silence is conspiracy?” I asked.
“No! It’s because the brain can be broken, but it can also be put back together.” She said as if telling me a secret.
To be continued…
