IT'S MY TURN TO BE QUIET NOW!

Silently Drifting...

Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

I used to count shadows on the ceiling to fall asleep.
One, two, three…
The corner near the window always had more, clustering like silent witnesses to my restless nights. I told myself it was just the way the light bent and folded in the dark.
My mother, with a far heavier heart, said it was grief taking form—an invisible weight pressing down, settling into corners we didn’t know were empty. She said the dead never really leave us. They hover, linger, stretch themselves into spaces we thought we had claimed. Maybe that’s what those shadows were, grief folding itself into shapes I didn’t have the words for yet.

I was six the first time I heard the whispers. They didn’t say much then, just my name, Over and over. Soft, like breath.

I thought it was God. But now I know better! God doesn’t whisper like that.
God doesn’t sound like sighs curling around my earlobes at 3am, or like familiar voices echoing from inside closed drawers.

They say depression doesn’t always come screaming. Sometimes, it slips in through the back door, takes off its shoes, and settles quietly in the corners of your mind. It learns your name, it memorizes the sound of your footsteps, It asks about your day, It becomes a roommate, not a thief. It didn’t happen all at once, no dramatic breakdowns, no psychiatric wards, no screaming into the wind, Just little things. Things you could blink past if you weren’t paying attention.

I forgot where I placed things—Keys, mugs, even whole hours slipped through my fingers like sand. I’d catch myself zoning out, drifting away mid-conversation, only to snap back moments later, unsure of how much time had passed. Sometimes I’d cry in the middle of joy, as though my body knew something I didn’t.

The shadows in my room had names— not scary ones, friendly ones. Names like “Mama’s Voice” and “To-do List.” They came at night when the world was quiet and my chest got loud. They’d hum lullabies or humiliate me with reminders of everything I’d failed to do.

Then came the mirror.

The betrayal was subtle. One morning, my reflection smiled before I did. Her lips curled up slowly, like she knew a secret I wasn’t privy to. I blinked hard, looked again, the smile stayed. She looked like me, but freer. Like she didn’t owe the world an explanation. Like she had plans—dangerous ones, quiet ones. The kind you make when you’ve decided that nobody else gets to decide your worth again.

Her eyes held mischief—not playful, but defiant. She wasn’t waiting for anyone’s permission to exist. She had already written her own script, and in it, she didn’t cry over friends who never saw her. Didn’t flinch at the sound of criticism, didn’t shrink just to be loved.

There was something terrifying about her strength, because it didn’t look like healing. It looked like surrender, not the peaceful kind—the cold, calculated kind. The kind you arrive at after being told too many times that your best wasn’t enough.

I should have worried but I didn’t.

She winked once! Another day, she mouthed “run!” I wanted to ask where. But questions require energy, sanity I wasn’t sure how much of either I had left.

I started avoiding people; they were too loud. Their voices clashed with the ones in my head. And the ones in my head weren’t mean, just opinionated. They gave suggestions; Sometimes they argued but they meant well, or so I thought.

“Wear the black one. The brown one makes you look like you're trying too hard.”
“Don’t pick up that call. You know they’ll only remind you of who you’re not.”
“Stay in today! You don’t want to regret going out! You don’t belong in their world anyway.”

The voices didn’t shout. They whispered, convincingly, like a protective friend. They knew all my insecurities and wore them like armor. They echoed doubts I thought I had silenced.

They knew about the night I cried after being told I wasn’t leadership material. They repeated his words like scripture. "Some people are just not built for more."

They remembered the sting of rejection when love didn’t look back. "He said he loved your mind, but not your heart. That should tell you something."

So I obeyed. I let the voices wrap around me, not like chains, but like a blanket. False safety, artificial warmth and every time I chose them over the world, they clapped for me. Soft, but certain! Like, "Good girl. You’re learning."

And most times, they were right. Too right.

The day I ignored them, I spilled hot water on myself.
The day I confessed my feelings to someone I had loved for years… years! he looked at me with soft eyes and said, “You’re one of my best friends. But I’ve never seen you that way, I hope you understand.”

I smiled. Said, “Of course, I do.”
I didn’t. My heart cracked open silently like glass under pressure.

Then my boss told me I wasn’t good enough; said I lacked initiative. That I couldn’t seem to rise above average. “Some people are just… not built for leadership,” he said casually, like he was describing the weather. I nodded and thanked him for the feedback. I died a little on the inside.

So I listened harder. Tuned into the voices like they were gospel, I let them guide me because everything else—everyone else had failed me.

I wore only black, it helped me fade properly…become shadow, not in a fashionable, gothic kind of way, but in the way dust gathers in corners—unnoticed until someone bothers to clean. I wanted to disappear without anyone realizing I was gone.

I stopped taking pictures. My face no longer belonged to me; it was an echo of who I used to be. Updating my WhatsApp felt fake, Like what was I supposed to write? "Feeling blessed"? When every morning, waking up felt like punishment?

Answering calls became unbearable. The phone would ring and my chest would tighten. It wasn’t the sound, it was the expectation. The proof that the world still remembered I existed and wanted something from me. A reply, a favor, a smile, a version of myself I could no longer perform.

So I turned everything off! I stopped attending events. Started saying “I’m tired” a lot… honestly I was. But not the kind sleep could fix.

I was tired of being second place, tired of being the loyal friend, tired of trying so hard and still being told I’m not enough, tired of smiling through disappointment, tired of clinging to hope like it owed me something.

I saw someone from the old world a few weeks ago. They said I looked thinner, like I’d been shedding parts of myself to keep moving. I hugged them tightly and said, “If I ever stop talking, just know it wasn’t sudden. I’ve been quieting down for a while.”

They smiled awkwardly! Told me I was deep, like that was supposed to be a compliment. Like depth was something you could swim in and not sink. I wanted to tell them I was drowning—not the kind you see in movies, all splashing and noise but the quiet kind. The kind where you’re smiling with your lips and screaming with your eyes. Where you walk around looking functional, but inside, it feels like you're breathing through soaked cotton. I wanted to tell them that every 'I'm fine' was a carefully constructed lie, that I hadn’t felt light in Months, and that silence had started sounding safer than their version of care.

Today, I left a note. No subject, no greeting.

Just one line:

“The voices finally agreed… it’s my turn to be quiet now.”