The Voice Behind The Wall - The Truth

I have stories I want to tell.

But this is the story that needs to be told.

I would say that I feel so incredibly empty and numb, but I couldn’t, because I don’t feel empty. I feel completely full of this incredibly deep sadness.

I feel so empty, that I am full. And it doesn’t make sense, but it’s real.

I feel sick inside. I cough when I cry, until I gag. And I don’t want to move. I can’t. I’m too tired. I need to stay here on this floor, or under these sheets, and I don’t want to get up. I can’t. What motivation do I have? More pain? Who wants that?

The first thing I feel when I wake up is an overwhelming fear and disappointment— not of anyone or from anyone. Just myself. My body. The unconscious half of my brain that has taken control and is out of my reach. She’s built a wall around herself that emits great pain when threatened. The problem is, I’m always at the base of that wall. The wall is within me. And so the wall sees me as a threat. One that never leaves, because the wall is me and I am the wall.

Welcome to the inside.

It’s cold.

But I don’t feel it. The air is so still and the only sound that exists here is the sound of my breathing.

There is no sense of direction. The wall in front of me is taller than the eye can see and it’s as long as the east to west. Behind me is pure shadow. And the floor beneath me looks like glass, but with nothing but darkness below.

I don’t have to move, but if I did, the only path there is to take is through the wall before me. The massive, beautiful blue wall, breathing purple fog into the air and around my feet. I’m drawn to the wall, but I don’t feel welcomed. I feel alarmed like the wall is speaking to me “stay back.” But it isn’t angry.

I take a step forward, closer to the wall. And then again, until I’m close enough to reach out my hand and touch it. But the moment my fingers made contact with its surface made of fog, the wall lit into the flames and the fog wasn’t purple anymore. It was red and orange like fire.

Even now, the wall doesn’t seem angry to me. It seems afraid. The fire is it’s defense— it’s protection for when its voice isn’t enough to keep out intruders.

But I’m still drawn to the wall. Or maybe rather, the voice behind the wall.

“Trust me,” I say to her. But how can she trust me if I can’t even trust myself?

I’ve spent eighteen years without my voice. You buried her under the floorboards and covered her up with paint, like a house growing mold across the walls and the ceiling. Eventually, it will all bleed through. You can cover it up as many times and with as many layers of paint as you wish, but it will always bleed through. Open your eyes. Look up.

I promise you. The truth is bleeding through.

Over the last few years, I tried many things to get around the wall. I tried to speak to it, I tried to walk around it, and I tried to climb over it— when all along, the wall was open— split through the center like the red sea. Four years, and I couldn’t walk through it. Maybe because I was so divided, I couldn’t bring myself to enter. Much like the wall, I too was split in half. One side on the left, and one one on the right. I must be centered to enter.

And the opening in this wall was deep and unknown and full of darkness. How could I enter with opened eyes if I wasn’t whole?

I step back, and the wall returns to it’s original form. I have no power over it. I stand at its base, surrounded by thick fogs of purples and blues. All I can do is stand there and scream at the infinite wall before me, begging for it’s trust. Wasting tears trying to prove that I am no threat. I am, myself, the voice behind that wall. But the voice has separated from my lungs and I cannot get it back without the wall’s permission.

I’ve stood at the base of this wall for far too long. I am tired. Tired is an understatement. I am stuck here, lying on this floor. I have no energy to stand. No motivation, if the wall will not move. I pray and I pray, but the wall still stands. I scream and I cry and I sing to the wall. I beg the wall. I comfort the wall. I scold the wall. I do harm to the wall. But the wall stares straight past me like I don’t even exist. Or rather, it knows I exist, but who am I for this great wall to acknowledge me? I am nothing to it. I am nothing.

And there is nothing left for me to do, but lay here on this cold glass floor, filling my voiceless lungs with fog. Underneath me, is a void. And I am only a few tears away from shattering the glass that is holding me up. How much does a single tear weigh? Nothing. But an ocean of tears would send me down an endless drop into darkness.

Therefore, it is a good thing this pain has brought me to exhaustion. Because of this, I am too tired to shed another tear. So I close my eyes with my ear up against the glass floor. I can hear the echos of my past attempts to open the wall. The echos never end. Infinite loops of wailing and weeping and the sound of daggers and hammers clashing against the wall’s surface. Reminders of my failure. My stupidity. My impact, that of which is nothing in this place. I am nothing in this place.

But that isn’t my voice. That isn’t God’s voice. Nor is it the Voice behind the wall. The voice dragging me down…is yours.

As a small child, I thought I was able to hold every part of myself together.

I felt as though I were carrying each and every shard of what used to be a beautiful stained glass window. The glass pane was every part of me as one beautiful whole, shattered one dark and forgotten day. I hoped that if I could hold it all together like the image in my mind, then I could get through the darkest of nights without losing myself. But there were some days, when it became heavy enough to detach from the world, I would leave a shard or two behind, and I feared they would never be found again. Because even if I wanted to search for all those missing pieces, I’d have to go back to those dark nights— but how could I if I was never there, but rather, hovering above the air? It was both my curse and my power.

The power of dissociation.

Splitting in half- detaching from your body so that you are no longer one in the same with the body and mind enduring it. Instead, you become one with the ceiling, or the sky, or the clouds floating above. Maybe the floor, or the walls, or the lamp beside your bed. It could be anything— and then it’s yourself.

"I am one with the sky- the rain is the tears from my eyes. I watch as the body below is eaten alive.”

Let me tell you a story.

It was an average day in Marsing— a little city in Idaho, that I think is too small to be called a city. I’d call it a town. It’s a town where you run into the same people daily, most of which are local farmers, and there is only one place to buy groceries, (unless you want to count the dollar store as well). The ground is dry here and the wind is quite wild all year long. In the summer, we manage to get both sand storms and hail within five minutes on the same day. Weather can be unpredictable here. Just like life— because I had so many plans, and none of them included the things that were happening now.

It was an average day in Marsing, which consisted of many agricultural type things and weird weather, but in my home, an average day included my constant panic attacks and uncontrollable screaming rages.

I was fifteen at this point, and I had been battling a neurological disorder and a pain disorder. The not-average thing about this is that both of these conditions have only been recently discovered and researched; very few doctors in the entire word have even heard of them. I’d say I’m sure you can Imagine how stressful it’s been, but I’ve only shared a fraction of what’s coming next. I’d tell you the name of these disorders and then you can close out of this post and look them up on your phone, but I don’t want you to do that. I don’t want to just tell you. I want to show you what it’s like. So here we go again. A little hail, a little wind, and a whole lot of screaming. This was an average day in Marsing.

I’m waking up.

My ears are the first thing to work. I hear the air and the brown noise slowly enter my mind. I feel the pillow underneath my head and the mattress underneath my body. I feel every crease and fold in the blankets. It’s warm under them, but I can feel the cold air around me.

The sunlight from my windows is now piercing through my eyelids. I keep them closed and cover my face with the sheets.

Then—

I feel vibrations from the other side of my bedroom door, across my floor, and into my bed and my bones. My body tenses up in an attempt to protect it. Maybe if my body stiffens enough— like stone— it won’t be able to feel the vibrations.

Then there’s the noise. Just one sound. A dish hitting another as it’s being placed into the kitchen cabinet on the other side of the house. The sound travels underneath my door and through my headphones, directly into my ear.

The tension pulses. My body aches. It begins to heat up. It’s getting too hot now. There are crawling sensations in and behind my ears. They hurt. I’m panicking. I feel as though I am about to be attacked. I feel as though I am being attacked.

Then there is another noise— a laugh from one of my little brothers.

My ears crawl, as well as the top part of my left wrist and my left arm. My foot burns with uncomfortable sensations. My body is even more tense. My insides are anxious. The middle of my spine pulses. My right knee is crawling now too.

The panic is building as I hear another laugh. I’m breathing loud to drown out the sound— but it doesn’t work.

I kick the bed. It isn’t working. I throw myself across the bed. No, I’m panicking even more. I can’t keep it in anymore. My body is rising— like a scale that doesn’t decrease.

It’s getting higher. It’s reached the top.

Yells and growls come from my throat. My body— my mind cries from inside, please hear me. Please hear me and stop.

No one understands.

I begin to scream. Pain and uncomfortable sensations are pulsing in my lower private areas. It’s burning. Discharge is ruining yet another pair of underwear.

I scream some more.

No one will. No one will. No one will.

Now it’s at full attack.

I’m screaming, I’m yelling, I’m crying, I’m kicking, I’m rolling, I’m throwing, I’m crying, I’m punching, I’m biting, I’m screaming, I’m crying.

The panic is too much. The sensations are too much. The fact that no one will ever be able to fully understand is too much.

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

I can’t function. I can’t think anymore.

I have lost myself.

But I am there.

I’m still there.

I am trapped in my own body. Caged in my own head— just watching, listening, and feeling the misophode. Feeling the PGAD. Hiding from the return of memories. But I can’t do anything about it.

I want to die.

The truth is, I really don’t want to die. Honestly, I don’t think anyone truly does. I think that when someone gets to this point of feeling these thoughts, it’s because they simply don’t want to live the way they are living anymore. And that’s where I was at on August fourth of 2020. Imagine a fifteen year old girl with long, brown hair and brown eyes, bawling on the floor of her room. You see her? That’s me. That terribly vivid description from earlier? That was also me. And inside, there’s this terrified little girl, screaming to get out in all ways possibly, praying someone listens. Praying that her own self would listen.

The floor was cold and hard and lonely.

The only light in the room came from the afternoon sun through her bedroom windows. She could’ve been lying on her bed, but she was down on the hardwood floor, curled up in a ball. She hugged her knees to her chest and cried. The world couldn’t hear her. She almost felt that no one did. But even here, the Lord heard her. He heard her cry and He heard her scream His name, “God! Why is this happening?” He heard her yell, “I want do die.”

But the truth is, she didn’t want to die. She just didn’t want to live like this anymore.

Her mother told her that not everyone’s faith is tested as much as hers at this age. She was fifteen years old now, and she had already been through so many valleys and so many mountains. But she had no idea the size of the mountains she had yet to climb.

That was me. Sienna Skye.

But this is also me. A six year old little girl with the heart and soul of an adventurer, and an absolute daydreamer. She is the definition of “one who chases butterflies.” Both metaphorically and literally.

It was during a family camping trip when she locked eyes on a tigerlily swallowtail. They are beautiful yellow butterflies with black outlines on the wings and hints of blue. It was frolicking right through their camp. She had to have it. Of course however, with her rather quick and impatient moments, the butterfly flew away like butterflies do, and she was completely distraught over it. She almost allowed the unfortunate event to ruin her evening, and that’s when her loving stepfather stepped in. He sat with her and spoke to her a lesson that stayed with her for the rest of her life. He said, sometimes God wants you to let go of what you love. Someday, He might bring it back to you, or He’ll bring you something better. So then she wiped her tears and she went on with the rest of her day.

And then that evening, when she unzipped the door to her tent, flying around inside was the tigerlily swallowtail butterfly.

So now you know fifteen year old me, and you think you know six year old me.

But this was written to you by the Voice outside the Wall.

Truly, you don’t know anything. Almost no one does.

On the outside, that six year old little girl could smile like she was living the best life. But no one saw the other half— Anyone reading this has seen the side that the light shines on. But the dark side was so hidden, even I couldn’t find her anymore. She lived deep within the walls, covered in layers of self doubt or “fog.”

“Trust me,” I say to her. But how can she trust me if I can’t even trust myself?

I’ve spent eighteen years without my voice. You buried her under the floorboards and you covered her up with paint, like a house growing mold across the walls and the ceiling. Eventually, the walls and the floors and the ceilings will crack. Eventually, it will all bleed through. You can cover it up as many times and with as many layers of paint as you wish, but it will always bleed through. Open your eyes. Look up.

I promise you. The truth is bleeding through.

A tiny little girl with a fragile heart and mind should not have to grow up feeling obligated to be her father’s wife.

I would go home and tell my mother, “I’m worried about my dad being all alone. He needs me.” That is NOT an “oh how sweet” thing. That is a clear sign that something is WRONG. A child should not put their own life on pause because their parent needs them. As demented as it is, yes. I felt more obligated to be his wife than his daughter.

That little girl shouldn’t have had to feel bad for not being at her daddy’s house everyday.

She shouldn’t have had to cry at night because her “daddy is lonely.”

She shouldn’t have had to take his feelings upon herself.

But how could she not?— When her father would sit her down and look deep into her eyes and cry and tell her how much he was gonna miss her. Each time left a deeper trench within her. A canyon— a bottomless pit— a void. She felt so sick inside. So used.

She felt like all she was made to be was an object of comfort and pleasure for this one man in front of her. How was she supposed to be okay when she was being abused in so many ways?

That tiny little girl shouldn’t have had to be ripping out her hair and punching herself in the head when her father called her several times a day to tell her he missed her and needed her by his side.

She shouldn’t have had to carry that burden.

She shouldn’t have had to fill a role not meant for her little brain and her tiny body and her fragile soul.

She shouldn’t have had to be afraid to speak up to her dad because she knew that anything she said that he didn’t agree with would result in massive manipulation, squashing her deeper into the ground— A talk about “reality,” causing her to lose her voice and her own mind. “This is reality. This isn’t. That is unrealistic. This is what you should believe. This is what you shouldn’t.”

She shouldn’t have had to grow unable to think for herself. “Wear this. Sleep in this. I’ll take your clothes into the bathroom when you're done showering. Don’t put that on. Just leave the door open.”

She shouldn’t have had to carry her daddy’s emotional baggage. “I miss you babygirl. I wish you were here with me.” It should have NEVER been put upon her tiny body!

She shouldn’t have had to deal with panic attacks at midnight all alone in her fathers house, laying on the hallway floor, shaking.

She shouldn’t have had to dissociate just to feel safe from him screaming at those who dare disagree with him.

She felt even more unsafe and uncomfortable just by the way he looked at her alone.

She shouldn’t have had to LIE to EVERYONE about wanting to see her dad because she was scared of what would happen if she told the truth and said that she was afraid and that she wanted to stay far away from him.

I can’t even hear your voice anymore. I shut down the way I was programmed to each and every time I spoke up.

“Dad, I don’t like when you do this, it makes me anxious”

- “this is why I DON'T make you anxious.”

“Dad, guess what?? I did this at mom’s today!”

- “You did what? Why? Well we can do this better thing here…”

“Dad, please don’t do that..”

- “That didn’t happen.”

“And if it did, it wasn’t that bad.

And if it was, it’s not a big deal.

And if it is, it’s not my fault.

And if it was I didn’t mean it.

And if I did, you made me do it.”

That little girl should never have had to be put through any of that.

But she did. And it happened for years. And guess what?? She didn’t tell anyone! Not her friends, not her siblings, not her mother. She told no one! She dealt with this ON HER OWN. And she couldn’t take it anymore. So finally, she mustered up enough courage to use the little bit of voice she had left, and you took it, and you squashed it. And you continue to squash it. But GOD has kept that voice in me alive and strong!!

And so HERE I AM, fighting to heal. No longer blind to your games. I’m awake! No longer pounded beneath the floorboards by your words! I won’t let that little girl within me be touched or abused any longer! I won’t endure this any longer! I am done. You had so many chances. So, so many. And you REFUSE TO SEE THAT YOU'VE DONE ME ANY HARM.

I am sick and tired of being sick and tired! You took my childhood! And I’m fighting back for it. I’m fighting back for that little girl.

You care so much more about your image, you’d rather jeopardize your daughter’s chance of healing just to maintain a reputation of something that isn’t even real. It’s all fake. False image over real healing.

You don’t want anyone to hear the way you talk to your mother, but you have no problem doing it in private.

You complain about not having enough time with me when I visit, but then you spend hours arguing with the post office over the phone when you could’ve been hanging out with me instead.

You think everything everyone does is against you, but the truth is, you are the one launching attacks.

And this isn’t even the biggest problem. The saddest part of all is that I couldn’t even talk to you about what’s really going on if I wanted to, because I can’t trust you. You will lie and twist my words and twist my memories and you will do everything you can to make me feel small and helpless and crazy, even if that isn’t your intention. You do it automatically out of panic. You have so much fear. And I’m saying this out of love because I don’t want to see this fear destroy you anymore. I want you to heal, but you can’t heal if you don’t accept that you have a problem.

No one is attacking you. Each and every time I have opened up to you throughout my entire life, I did it because I love you, and I want to see change. Real change. Not some false image that lasts a week. I don’t want to see you revert to your ways just because things aren’t working out fast enough for you. It’s possible that things between us would have made good progress by now if you had just opened up your heart and your mind and uncovered your ears to what I have tried to convey over the last twelve or thirteen years.

It’s heartbreaking.

This family— your family, gathers around a thanksgiving dinner table or a Christmas tree or a summer tradition, just for a picture so everyone can see us all together, when the reality behind it is that once that camera is gone, everyone is screaming at one another. Then the holidays are over, and everyone hardly talks to one another. And if they do, it’s just a jumble of arguing and toxicity.

You know what else is sad? When I finally gained the courage to speak the truth, it seemed like it was too late. You have corrupted the minds of nearly everyone around me. You have filled their heads with lies and convinced them that the words coming out of my mouth are nonsense.

I’ll admit, you are good at your game. But guess what? I am no longer your pawn and I’ve decided I don’t want to play. I’m taking my voice back.

The truth is bleeding through.

And though I’ve said a lot, I still haven’t said enough.

I didn’t need to walk through the wall to wake up to your mental and emotional abuse. I simply had to step back to clearly see it all, and I am safe away from you now. My eyes are open and I am awake.

But what lays behind the wall, or rather within it, is something that was pounded so deep, the only way it could be heard was through the connection of the brain and the body. Isn’t God’s creation so amazing?

The voice of that little girl was forced to be swallowed. Only God knows what would happen if she had spoken up back then. So it was buried, and it remained buried for thirteen years.

But a body can’t hold back that much pain forever. So first, it whispered little words to the girl I am now. But it wasn’t enough. So it manifested into emotional pain— anxiety, panic attacks, depression. Even then, it wasn’t enough. So finally, the Voice behind the wall took charge and she screamed and she cried, manifesting into unexplainable physical pains all throughout my body. Misophonia. PGAD.

For three years, I thought it was physical. We all did. But no doctor or exam or MRI could give us an answer or a reason. Because it wasn’t just the body. It was the voice buried within.

So now you’re probably wondering what I’m getting at. What was so terrible to cause that little girl to split in half and hide herself away so far and deep into darkness? What was so horrific that a wall needed to be created to protect herself from ever remembering or reconnecting with the woman I am now?

What causes me to feel instant physical pain as a result of physical contact? What causes me to scream every time I hear a simple noise or feel the vibrations underneath my feet? What caused my fear of eye contact? My incapability to trust the people I love? What was it that turned me into a slave to my own body?

If you’re still here, then you must want to know as badly as I did.

So here it is.

I was hurt by a man who was supposed to protect me. I was destroyed by a man who was supposed to guard me. I was buried by a man who was supposed to teach me. I was raped by a man who was supposed to love me.

Listen. No one thinks that the little girl who smiled all her life would’ve gone through something so horrific. And they would never guess that it happened right in front of them. And they would certainly never accept that it was someone so close— someone so trusted. But the truth is, it’s far more common to happen by a trusted family member rather than a stranger.

It wasn’t just the voice of my father that kept me silenced and buried me inside that wall. It was my aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents and friends and teachers— That six year old was buried so she’d never have to face the look of shame or rejection. So she’d never have to hear the words “That never happened!” from anyone else… but the man who committed the crime.

I was a CHILD. How was I supposed to carry that? How was I supposed to even process that? The fact is, I didn’t. I couldn’t. So it stored away in my body until it couldn’t anymore. And now here I am. Misophonia, PGAD, and so much more…

When I finally gained the courage to speak the truth, it seemed like it was too late. But now I know that it wasn’t and it isn’t too late. It will never be too late. Because no matter who believes me and who doesn’t, I know the truth. And that’s all I need to heal and to rest.

I had a story to tell and now it’s been told.

I am safe now. I am loved and protected by the best support system I could pray for.

~Sienna Skye