“You lose it if you talk about it.”
– Ernest Hemingway

Sometimes, there’s just nothing to say.

Maybe the words fall on dear ears, or I’ve said it all before and don’t feel like rehashing it. Maybe the thing that means the most in my life, the thing that is almost eating me alive, has been stripped of words.

I know there’s an understanding about the importance of talking it out, telling people. There comes a time, though, when I’m all talked out. The problem is still there, the situation unchanged, the hurt and confusion no less, and I have nothing more to say about it.

I was talking to my friend Naomi a while back, and she made a similar statement.

“Sometimes I just get tired of talking about it,” she said. “Talking doesn’t change anything, and it’s exhausting to keep repeating myself. I’d rather just put it to rest and move on.”

Sometimes I can’t move on; the best I can do is let it scab over so I can rest before trying again to get rid of the infection.

Talking about it is a way of never burying something that is dead. Talking sometimes aids and abets in me not moving on or past or through. Talking forces me to retell the same thing over and over for each new person that cares or, sadly, just wants to know the dirt. Constantly talking about the problems and the past and all the things that are unsettled in me means they stay unsettled, for talking is a way of constantly stirring the water. You have to talk to someone, sometimes, to get things out, but constantly divulging the same things is a way to not get things out but to hold onto.

I don’t feel like talking to anyone anymore.

I don’t feel like hearing how I should be or how things should be or what should be done. I don’t care to hear helpful suggestions or positive affirmation. I don’t care to hear of someone else’s opinion, or have someone throw Bible verses at me. I don’t want to be asked how I’m doing or how things are, because that time has past and if a friend didn’t get that in before now, it’s just too late. I find I’m not returning calls, not responding to emails, and not answering my phone. I have nothing pithy or revealing or succinct to say about life inside; there are no more words that I can string together at this point.

I mainly just want to shift the weight on my back a bit and keep walking down the road silently. It’s no longer time to talk. It’s just time to walk.

I have nothing to say and all the time in the world to say it. Words have a limited shelf life for help in such times as these.