My mother locked me in a soundproof closet and poisoned me into silence, then blamed what she did on mental health. I exposed her, got her convicted, and moved on. She just reached out after 5 years.
Growing up, my mom claimed she had misophonia. For those who don’t know, it’s when certain sounds can feel unbearable—like they don’t just annoy you, they flip a switch in your body. In my mom’s case, she said loud sounds made her so furious she couldn’t think straight.
My first real memory is from when I was six. I fell, nothing serious, but I cried like six-year-olds do—loud, messy, desperate. My mom stuffed a dirty dish towel in my mouth and held my jaw shut, because she said she couldn’t take the noise. If I ever snored too loudly, she’d blast a horn in my room until I jolted awake. She called it negative reinforcement. She said she was training me to be better, and someday I’d thank her. I learned early that “better” meant quieter. “Better” meant smaller. “Better” meant not existing in any way she could hear.
On my ninth birthday, she gave me a gift. Not a toy, not a cake. She handed me a homemade report card with rows that were completely empty. She called it the Quiet Points System. And suddenly everything clicked, because for the weeks leading up to my birthday, she had labeled every food item in the kitchen with a sticky note that had a number on it. Bread was two points. Meat was ten points or higher. Fruit was somewhere in the middle. My favorite ice cream cost more than I could afford.
You earned points through being quiet, and the moments that were hardest were worth more. Being quiet while I showered was only three points. Not snoring was eight. She told me she could never take points away “for no reason,” but I would have to spend points on food, which meant I would always have to earn them. Always have to perform. Always have to prove I deserved to eat.
And at the time, I was just nine. Big brown eyes. A heart that loved her mommy. So I shrugged and wrapped my arms around her without saying a word, because saying a word might trigger her. Plus, I was used to being quiet anyway. I honestly didn’t think this would change much. I didn’t understand it was the start of a cage with a scoreboard.
The next morning, I followed my usual routine. I moved slowly. Drew back the curtains gently. Waited until I got to school bathrooms to change out of my pajamas, because the fabric made noise in the house. I wore the same strained, frozen face every day, the one that said, I’m here but I’m not taking up space. Apparently it pleased her, because when I got home from school, she handed me the report card again. In big bold lettering it said: 30 points, with a bunch of smiley faces and hearts.
And before I could say anything, she opened the fridge and showed me what I could pick for dinner. I could afford almost everything except the ice cream. So I chose my favorite steak, and we sat down like a normal family, like something healthy, like something safe.
Lol. JK.
She cooked the steak until it was basically leather. So overdone I couldn’t swallow it without chewing hard. And mouth sounds—chewing sounds—were deadly to my mother. I tried to chew extremely slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible, trying to let saliva do the work so I wouldn’t have to. Five minutes passed and I was still on the first piece. I couldn’t take it anymore. I discreetly spit it into a tissue, deciding I would eat nothing that day.
But she noticed anyway.
“What the f— are you doing?” my mom yelled. “A cow died for you today. The least you can do is eat it all. Put it back in your mouth now.”
My tiny fingers unraveled the tissue and shoved it back into my mouth. On the way in, my mouth opened, and my tongue smacked the roof of my mouth. A tiny sound. A stupid sound. The kind no one would even notice.
But I was too late.
The room went silent. Then she slammed both fists down on the flowery tablecloth.
“You disgraceful bitch!” she screamed, at the top of her lungs.
She grabbed the report card back from me and burned it on the stove.
“You think I can’t make you suffer the same way you make me suffer? Think again.”
I was already terrified, but then she grabbed my hands and shoved them toward the stove. Not into the fire, not fully, but close enough that the heat stung and my brain screamed.
“The burning pain you feel is only twenty percent of how I feel when you make noise,” she said. “Remember that.”
Luckily, she never actually put my hands in the flames. And I didn’t burst into tears. I didn’t cry at all. Not because I wasn’t upset. I was. Not because I didn’t want to. I did. But because crying made noise, and noise meant punishment. So I swallowed it and went to bed like a ghost.
And that’s how I had oxygen for dinner. And breakfast. And lunch. And dinner again.
That one moment put me into the minus zone on my meal points. I had nothing to buy meals with. I couldn’t earn points in my sleep. I couldn’t earn points fast enough in the morning. So I didn’t eat.
My mom liked to tell people she wasn’t like “other abusive parents.” She wasn’t trying to keep me healthy enough to avoid raising alarm bells. She wasn’t thinking that far ahead. She was thinking about quiet. Control. Silence.
After three days of pure starvation, I fainted at school. It wasn’t even dramatic—maybe twenty seconds. But everyone panicked, and when I woke up, the first thing I said was—
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall so loudly. Please don’t starve me anymore.”
Lol.
The guidance counselor—Mrs. Henderson—pulled me into her room and handed me a Hershey’s milk chocolate bar, a banana, and a Kind bar. I chewed so fast I gagged. When I looked up, her eyes were filled with tears and her face had gone ghost white. She didn’t even ask questions at first. She just reached for her phone and told me they were calling CPS.
Her hands shook as she dialed. Each beep made my stomach twist tighter. She kept glancing at me between pressing buttons, like she was checking I wouldn’t vanish.
“Yes, this is Mrs. Henderson at Oakwood Elementary. I need to report a case of suspected child abuse and neglect.”
Her voice cracked on the last word. She gave them our address. My name. My mother’s name. Each detail felt like another nail in a coffin I couldn’t identify yet.
While she talked, I sat completely still. My body had learned stillness meant safety. Movement created sound. Sound created pain. Even with my stomach finally full, the habit stayed. I counted my breath silently, making sure each inhale and exhale made no noise.
Mrs. Henderson hung up and turned back to me.
“Sweetie, some people are going to come talk to you. They just want to make sure you’re safe.”
She pulled her chair closer, and the scraping sound made me flinch.
“Can you tell me more about what’s been happening at home?”
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