The Silent Scream...

 

Dear Readers,

I sat at my desk, the fading light of the evening spilling into my room. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I stared at the article headline: “People Do Care About Others Sufferings.” It was meant to be hopeful, maybe even comforting. But to Me, it felt hollow. I had seen enough in my life to know that, more often than not, people turned a blind eye to real suffering.

I sighed and typed a single sentence beneath the article: “No one cares.”

I wasn’t expecting a response. I wasn’t even looking for one. It was more of a release, a small exhale of the frustration that had been building up inside me. But soon enough, a notification blinked on my screen. Someone had replied to my comment.

“You should be ashamed of yourself for saying that. People do care!”

I stared at the words. Ashamed? I had lived long enough, and suffered long enough, to know that people cared—just not about the right things. They cared about appearances, about being seen as caring. But when it came down to it, when suffering was raw and real, the world often turned its back.

I felt the familiar sting rise in my chest, the same one I had felt time and time again. The urge to defend myself, to explain the nights of isolation, the mornings filled with empty promises, the days when I had silently screamed for someone to listen, someone to see me. But I didn’t type any of it.

I knew it wouldn’t matter.

So instead, I closed the laptop and sat in the dim room, the weight of unspoken words pressing on me like an invisible hand. I wasn’t ashamed of what I had said—I was just tired of explaining the truth to people who didn’t want to hear it.

I remembered a time when I had believed, truly believed, that people cared. I had been younger then, more hopeful. I had thought that when you were at your lowest, someone would always reach out, pull you up, and remind you that you weren’t alone. But life had a way of eroding that belief, slowly, until it was just a distant echo of a lesson you once learned.

The comment still lingered in my mind. I should be ashamed.

I wasn’t ashamed. I was just… tired. Tired of pretending that everything was fine, tired of watching the world parade around in its false sympathy, deception, lies, cruelty, adultery, child abuse, homelessness, rape, parental alienation and now WAR. It was easier for people to claim they cared from a distance than to step into the muck and actually help. I had lived through it. I saw the silence, the turning away when things got difficult.

The truth was, people didn’t care about our suffering unless it inconvenienced them, unless it forced them to look at themselves and see something uncomfortable.

As the evening grew darker, I found myself standing by the window, staring out at the world. I couldn’t explain why I had felt compelled to leave that comment, or why the stranger’s response had left me feeling so heavy. But I knew one thing: I wasn’t ashamed.

I had lived through enough to understand that sometimes the only person who could truly care for my suffering was myself. The world would keep moving, pretending to listen, while I had to carry my own weight. And perhaps, one day, someone would prove me wrong. Maybe someone would show me that real empathy still existed beyond words on a screen.

But tonight wasn’t that night.

I smiled faintly to myself as I shut the curtains. Tomorrow, I’d face the world again. And though they may never care the way I had once hoped, I knew I'd survive it—because I always had.

This story weaves together the frustration of being misunderstood with the deeper, more personal journey of dealing with the isolation that suffering brings. 

God Bless Us All...