Quiet Isn’t Always Violent

Sometimes, quiet is violent.
This lyric from twenty øne piløt’s song Car Radio has been my motto ever since I heard it. You see, I used to battle with major depressive disorder- for years. When I discovered twenty øne piløts, and Car Radio in particular, I finally felt as if somebody understood. Despite the fact that I may never meet Tyler Joseph and Josh Dun to tell them exactly how much they’ve helped me, I felt as if I had a deep connection to them and all of the other few, proud, and emotional.
Notice I talk about my depression in the past tense. This is because, for those of you who are new to my blog, God healed me of my depression this past winter. I know this may sound odd or overly charismatic, and I’ll never truly be able to prove it, but God came down to me when I was at my literal worst, numb to everything but the pain that consistently gnawed away at my mind, while I kneeled at an altar and cursed Him for letting me get this low. He flooded me with love, peace, and assurance that I hadn’t felt in years. This isn’t the type of youth conference spiritual high that goes away after a week or two; it was a real, honest miracle in which God cured me of a disease that was honestly and truly killing me (by causing me to almost finish the job myself). It’s gone, with the exception of some occasional situational depression that is much easier to fend off, but the walls and mannerisms that I developed as a defense might be more difficult to get rid of.
I’ve come to notice something about myself in the past couple weeks- mainly because I’ve started driving by myself a lot and therefore have a lot of time for thinking. When I was deep in the pit of depression, I would never allow myself to be in silence.
Sometimes, quiet is violent.
It was during the silence that I would begin to think about everything that was wrong with me. Everything I was doing wrong. Everything that life was throwing at me and everything that I couldn’t do to fix everything. I tried to cover it up by never allowing silence, and I filled every waking moment with music, Netflix, or conversation.
I’m forced to deal with what I feel, there is no distraction to mask what is real.
Even though my depression is gone and the violence but a memory, I still do everything I can to avoid the silence. When I’m driving by myself or walking to class with nothing but my thoughts, I find myself unable to stand the silence. I listen to music, I talk to myself, I call my parents or grandparents. In short, I do most anything I can to avoid the silence.
Sometimes, quiet is violent.
This is the mindset that I had for so long taken as truth. Because, at the time, it was. But due to the grace of God and the miracles of love He performed, it’s no longer my reality. Not anymore, anyways. I still overthink my assignments and freak out about bills, but there is no need to tie a noose around my mind, loose enough to breathe fine and tie it to a tree and tell it “you belong to me.” 
Sometimes, quiet is violent.
But here’s the thing. “Sometimes” means that there are times that aren’t included in the statement. Silence is what allows me to meditate on God and spend time in prayer with Him, pondering His call of my life and the reason for my past. I need the silence to bring me closer to Him.
Sometimes, quiet is violent.
And sometimes it’s not.

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