They were the parents. They were the adults. In theory, at least.

They could not say it. Not to each other, and not to us children.

Those three words, special words, were never uttered, that I can remember. It was not done, certainly not in our home.

The words which speak of love. Three words necessary for healthy living. Never spoken.

The silence was loud, and deafened me. It hammered and damaged my eardrums, roared into my mind, and almost destroyed me. The silence came close to breaking me altogether.

Not that our home was always silent, with six children. But it almost was. Six children, who should have been products of those three words. At least three of us were not. I always wondered if I was, just maybe, a child conceived in a moment of love. I doubted it.

The measure of success in those days was a clean and tidy home, and submissive polite children. After school, the routine was constant. Go outside and play. The floors have just been washed. Why would anyone wash the floors just when the children would imminently return from school, and maybe want to share their day? Not interested.

Then it was time for homework, baths, dinner, and bed. Always keep out of the way. Don't talk at the meal table. Wait until you are spoken to. Yes, you might be waiting a long time. Don't talk while the news is on. Don't have an opinion on anything. Or if you do, don't voice it aloud. Discussion? Ridiculous idea. Just trying to be smart. Just think your own thoughts. This was life in many homes for that generation.

 I do remember sometimes asking, or was I begging?  "Do you love me?"

The answer came, always the same: "I love you when you're good!"

How hard I tried to be "good". Conditional love. Unachievable goal. Devastating, cruel answer.

Our home seethed with other underlying currents. I always sensed the electricity in the air when a storm was brewing. The thunder of the "adults" arguing, the jagged lightning of hurtful words, the torrents of emotional abuse, the outpouring of anger, of bitterness, hopelessness. Every few weeks. I knew when the next season of storms would come, and could predict the moment each storm would break. I was almost glad when it happened, the tension relieved. A professional forecaster of the weather of emotions at eight years old.

During the arguments and shouting, I would gather the little ones in my room and would cover their ears with pillows. I would comfort them; help them to stop crying in fear and distress.

I never cried. I had to be the brave one. I would calm them and put them to bed. My role was to support them, be their surrogate mother.
A ten-year-old substitute mother.

But then the silence shouted again. Silence between the adults. Hammering, deafening me. I was the chosen intermediary, the "responsible" one, the one who diluted their rage against each other, softened the words, tried to appease. "Tell your father …" and the embittered response "Tell your mother .…"

I became a child diplomat, a people-pleaser, a door-mat. I should have refused. I did not dare. I was trying to negotiate peace, an impossible truce, a better outcome, none of which ever came. I failed at my peace-keeping and at my peace-making goals.
I was a mediator at eleven years old.

The silences usually lasted longer than the fights. Frosty silence between parents is emotionally devastating for children. Towards children, it is a weapon, a form of punishment, but the children do not know what sins they have committed. Perhaps the sin of their very existence. I call it emotional abuse.

Perhaps I should never have worried, as it wasn't physical abuse with us children. But it crushed me as a person. Who was I? Who should I have been? What was my real personality? Did I even have a personality?

The longest silence between them lasted for ten months. Backwards and forwards I went, bowed with their emotional burdens as well as with my own, knowing far more than a child ever should.

Once the silences eased, the tension would build up again ready for the next onslaught. The rhythm of life.

Shortly after my twelfth birthday, my mother wept on my shoulder. She was pregnant again. Another unwanted one. She was still only thirty-three, and in despair. She was dependant on my father, and how could she leave with six children? Her depression was tangible. I did all I could to help her emotionally. I mothered my mother as well as my siblings.
A twelve year-old counsellor.

How often did I go to school with her threats of self-harm ringing in my ears? Never knowing if she would be there when I returned … never knowing if she would be alive.
An emergency and crisis counsellor at fourteen.

Friends? I dared not invite friends home. One never knew what the atmosphere would be like, who might explode. And anyway, we were told that we had plenty of siblings for company and they as parents were not going to be used to look after other people's children. Let their parents look after their own kids! Mine had enough to do!  

Surely there was laughter at times? I cannot remember any laughter. I cannot remember any happy times not marred by tension or fighting. No happy parties or celebrations. Is my memory that bad?

We relocated frequently, usually every two or three years. They needed a new beginning. New home, new school, new embarrassment at a dysfunctional family. More shame, and hiding of feelings.

My social skills did not develop well. I was too shy and nervous to speak, to join in a conversation, to offer an idea, to show initiative. I was always on the outer, admiring those children from happy homes, who were spontaneous in their exuberance and love for life. I was struggling to survive emotionally.

I was ashamed of my family situation, had no-one to confide in. I was totally on my own, but was needed for all the wrong reasons. I had to continue to be "strong" for everyone else in my family. But I knew I was not strong. I was weakened and fragile.

I found refuge in my studies, ruled my life rigidly, worked hard to the point of exhaustion.
At sixteen I was an outstanding student – but a social misfit. A loner.

I grew up, left home as soon as possible, and made plenty of mistakes because of my insecurities, and my inability to stand up for myself.

The legacy of my childhood remains. Being a peace negotiator has never worked, and still doesn't. I still avoid confrontation at any cost; I still try to please everyone. I have never been "good enough" at whatever I set my heart to do to achieve my own goals – my standards are always beyond my reach. The same as I was never good enough to earn my parents' love.

The tyranny of silence regarding those three words has been broken in this next generation. I married a good man, a fine man. I never felt worthy of his love. God has helped us, and helped me to heal.

My children grew up hearing those special words, those previously unspoken words: "I love you". They have been raised with my motto that people matter more than things, with my priority that a happy home is more important than a tidy one. No clamouring, cutting silences which slash away all self-esteem and self-confidence.

My children are all articulate adults, strong and determined, and responsible. They know their own minds and will speak what they think. At times this has caused clashes between themselves which have made me almost physically ill, a legacy from my past.

However, as they have matured and learned the power of forgiveness, they are growing closer all the time. I am choosing to not be a soother of ruffled feathers, refusing to be a negotiator, or a peace-maker. They can sort themselves out.

I am becoming more able to relax, and stop hovering.  I am trying to no longer be a diplomat. I am no longer willing to be bound by the tyranny of silence or love withheld.

I still tend to avoid confrontation, and hesitate to freely speak my mind. But is this silence wise, or right?

I won't allow myself to be intimidated any more. I don't allow others to tell me what to do or think, or not do or think.

I aim to speak the truth, in love.

At last. It's taken a life-time.