If I Knew What To Say I’d Say That
Let It Out
A friend suggested, “Maybe it’s not about knowing what to say but a question of just saying it.” I nodded sagely at these well-meant words even as I wondered why I had expected more from someone who might one day campaign for the voting rights of badgers.
If only speaking up was so simple. Just say the thing and everything falls into place.
But like the stuck lid on a marmalade jar, some situations stubbornly resist resolution. They seal up tight, leaving no way in. No opening for all the things you should have said, the things you almost said, or the things you swallowed whole because, Goldilocks-like, the moment was never “just right.”
It’s an agonising limbo between saying nothing and saying too much—way too much. Two roads that can, ironically, lead to the same place: a bigger mess, with your toast on the kitchen floor jam side down.
Admittedly, there were some late-night flirtations with the sticky issue at hand. But attempts to unseal the unsaid typically ended in a line or two making their way into an ill-advised text or email that was never sent. Promising dates that resulted in a coy retreat—all half smiles, with a whisper-thin promise of “next time.” Like leaning in for an open-mouthed kiss that fizzles to a dry peck on the cheek and a lone cab ride home.
Still, the promise of clearing the air keeps me scratching the itch, anxious for another chance. But another chance at what? Closure? Redemption? Solace?
And what if my silence had already said too much?
Spit It Out
Then again, the ‘Just Say It Club’ hasn’t always served me well.
There were the early educators who sent me to the head teacher’s office for the words, “No child your age should know.” And the performance reviews with bosses who quickly regretted offering a platform for “frank and open discussion.” And the brutal, battleground years of raising teenagers.
“What’s wrong with my skirt?”
“Nothing, if that’s the impression you want to give.”
“What impression?”
“You know perfectly well.”
“Ah, so you’re saying your daughter looks like a...”
“I’m not saying that. I’m saying our clothes communicate something about us before we’ve even opened our mouths.”
“And what unsavoury things are my clothes saying about me, Mum?”
And we were off.
These were days of tears and recriminations—mostly my tears and their recriminations. A time when any discussion could combust into an explosive argument when words flew too fast, too carelessly. Words weaponised with little regard for their meaning as much as their ability to wound in the moment.
Later, regret mopped up the bloody word bath, uncertain how to find a way back to love. A door slammed shut in the face of productive communication once again became an open invitation for another ’hot topic’ to stride into our home.
Hot topics were a no-go zone, and permitted no approach in—not from any angle, by anyone, at any time.
Eventually, an unspoken vote for silence was taken—a silence thick enough to smother any spark that might reignite the flames of fury and frustration. A silence that eventually ebbed into the ashes of the forgotten—if not quite forgiven.
Because no matter how well scrubbed, weaponized words always leave a faint stain on the floor of any relationship.
The Sound of Silence
In my own teen years, loud confrontation was no stranger in my West Indian community.
A naughty child in the pre-political-correctness era, I was on intimate terms with what adults cheerfully called “a good thrashing.” What was so good about it eluded my understanding then, but my father’s laying on of hands always felt better than my mother’s calm and quiet reasoning. To my juvenile brain, a thrashing balanced out the books. I had done this, so my father did that, ergo we were even. This suspect logic then left me free to go find some fresh hell to dive into.
But not with mum. Mum would sit me down for “a talking to” that left me riddled with guilt for what I had done. And the shame of it always took longer to heal than any physical bruises.
But it was my mother’s silence, not her words, that always felt the more confronting.
I knew I’d been caught in an indiscretion the moment I walked in the door if my mother was singing hymns. Coming home to the loud refrain of ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’ was the warm-up act to an effed-up evening.
“Hi, Mum.”
“Hmm.”
“Can I help with anything?”
“No.”
“Okay. Should I…?”
“Do what you want.”
This stripped all the quid pro quo out of messing up. Being given permission to do what I wanted was not how it was supposed to work, even if it was code for “Do what you want at your further peril.”
“Mum, I didn’t mean to... you know. I’m sorry.”
A second verse of ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’ would soar through the air, drowning out my peace offering. The choral performance often concluded with Rock of Ages or The Old Rugged Cross. A set of three hymns with no intermission meant The Shit Show of Silence was destined to continue through dinner as we broke bread in Coventry.
Eventually, the thaw of forgiveness would come, but anointment was slow, dripping through long, penitent days.
As my children grew older and wiser, they insisted on open communication and didn’t wear the silent treatment for long.
“Don’t do that, Mum. It’s really hurtful when you do that.”
They were right. Whilst I didn’t sing hymns, I treated them with a polite, perfunctory deference. The way one treats a stranger who kindly opens a supermarket door for us to pass.
They weren’t to know my frosty demeanour concealed a deep fear of exposing just how broken down my heart felt. No doubt, the kind of hurt my mother bandaged with religious song.
Wielding the same silent sword, I came to understand those hymns were less about punishment than a means of containment. A ritual designed to hold back a Red Sea of words that might one day wash us both away.
Reading Between the Lines
I now wonder if the space between the said and unsaid is what houses what we actually mean—or meant to say. Not the version polished smooth with rehearsal but the real, the messy, unfinished, closer-to-the-truth chaos of what we are feeling.
“I am less worried about your skirt than the predators with no impulse control in the face of vulnerable youth. Please keep your wits about you, don’t leave your drink unattended, and be home by midnight.”
A censure about a short skirt might still erupt into heated debate about societal personal responsibility but, hopefully, my daughter would see I was on her side. That, no matter how grown she is, my fierce words or silent paralysis mask a primal need to protect her, however flawed the delivery.
Well All Said and Done
Maybe my badger-rights friend was on to something after all. Not ‘just say it’ as some bumper-sticker cliché, but that we start from a place where truth and vulnerability reside.
And while the moment may never be just right, perhaps the imperfect expression of an honest feeling leaves fewer stains than saying too much, saying too little, or saying nothing at all.
