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Suffer In Silence: Ramblings of a Broken Man, Putting Himself Back Together

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Hunter Partlow

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“The pain of silence is heavier than the pain of truth. Truth may hurt for a while, but silence hurts every day. It leaves you guessing, overthinking, and carrying questions that never find answers. When someone chooses silence, it creates distance, confusion, and doubt. You start wondering what went wrong, and that ache slowly grows inside you. Honesty may be hard, but it brings clarity. Silence only leaves emptiness. So choose truth, even if it shakes you for a moment, because silence breaks you slowly, without saying a word.”

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“To be queer and Somali and neurodivergent is concentrated alchemy, and yet we constantly raid the cupboards of our souls like we are a people of lack. When you operate from a position of lack, you don’t realise you’re robbing yourself of everything worth preserving, and forgetting to toss away all the empty pursuits that lost their synthetic spell several generations ago. And suddenly, you’re wide awake in a new country, in a new decade, and you’re startled because you can’t remember how you got here or why you’re still feeling hunted by your own reflection. You can’t remember how or when or where or why you misplaced all your breezy dynamism—all that wildness of perception you used to project with such ferocity. Where did it all go? We have conveniently forgotten that we have always been fundamentally idiosyncratic and fantastic and fucking alive. Instead we feed ourselves and our children and our children’s children prosaic fuckery for what? Respectability politics? So that if we twist and try our damnedest to conform to standards that have never been coded into our collective DNA, that we’ll what? Somehow be less strange? Less weird and wonderful? That we’ll transcend the soul-snuffing snare that is the myth of the good immigrant? That if we mute all of our magic—everything that makes us some of the most innately interesting, individualistic and fun, funny beings in this boring, beige-as-fuck world—that we’ll win over whom? Folks who don’t season their food right or whose understanding of freedom is a shitty Friday night sloshfest at a shitty pub playing shitty music, chatting nonsense that no-one with a single iota of sense gives a fuck about? Is that who you are so deeply invested in trying to impress? If so, then go for it, but don’t fool yourself for a fucking second into thinking that trying desperately to shave off your elemental peculiarities through self-diminishment is salvation, because it simply isn’t, honey, and it never will be.”

Self EsteemImmigrationQueerNeurodivergenceSomali WritersQueer AfricanQueer SomaliRespectability PoliticsQueer Africa
Author:Diriye Osman
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