Why I Disappear When I Need You Most

July 16, 2025 · 4 min read

A fearful avoidant’s story of silence, survival, and self-rescue.

Yesterday I posted a note that said, “When I go silent, I need someone to slap the words out of me… or spank. We could make it fun.” To the outside world, that might’ve seemed out of nowhere. Out of pocket. But to me, it was the most honest thing I could say. So I’ll make it clear for you too.

Born in a Snowstorm

I was not an unloved child. I know my mom cherishes my existence. But she never understood my emotional state of being. Even from birth.

She had me in the middle of a snowstorm, in Aspen, Colorado, 1980. 24+ hours of back labor. No meds. After a full day of immense pain, the midwife got her to the hospital. This is when they would have done a C-section nowadays. But she suffered through it, and I was born at 2:34 a.m. She was tapped out. Body in shock. Nervous system burnt out. I was placed in the nursery.

I was born into this world a menace to my mother, nearly killing her in pain, and was handed to the wolves. She didn’t feel the instinct to hold me. To comfort me. To nurture. It just wasn’t there. She knows it was postpartum depression — the worst case her friend the midwife had ever seen. But it was also… just her.

After 45 years with her, I believe she has undiagnosed autistic traits. I’m not mad at her. I understand her. Now. But for a brand-new human — an emotional, sensitive Pisces — those early lessons were brutal. I have memories of being in a crib, desperate, crying for something I couldn’t name. And no one came.

What I Learned Instead

Eventually, I found my thumb. And that brought a type of comfort I held on to for far too long.

I remember the frustration on my mother’s face. The exhaustion. I remember being left with babysitters while she worked. The ache of wanting to be with her. I remember her face when she pulled herself out of my grip. Her frustration. Her friend’s impatience. I get it now as a mom. But back then? Those moments shaped my entire being.

When I was 4, we lived in a two-story condo in downtown Aspen. I begged my mom to sleep with me every night. One night, she actually laid down with me. It was the highlight of my four-year-old life. I remember the deep breath I took. The feeling of absolute peace. Then I remember her sneaking out. The nightlight left on in the kitchen. I remember every detail.

At 5, we moved to Rhode Island. I was in constant motion — new schools, new babysitters, sweet families who’d bring me in and feed me their favorites. But the longing for my mother was palpable. I’d pray for her safe return the second she left for work, promising God I would be a good girl. I’d press my face to the window until I couldn’t see her anymore.

It was a ritual. I had to stay at least 60 seconds after she disappeared. I truly believed that was the only way to keep her safe. If a siren passed during the day, I would panic silently. Is today going to be the day she doesn’t come back? My body flooded with terror. This was daily. For years.

She says I was a happy child. And I was… when she returned. But she wasn’t there for the hours of me being tortured in my head. She still doesn’t fully understand when I say I felt sad and alone a lot.

Kelly

When we were home together, she never played with me. Never sat on the floor and entered my world. I had Barbies and Cabbage Patch Kids to keep me company. I created elaborate storylines, built entire lives for them.

At one point, I even made up an imaginary friend. Her name was Kelly. Not because I needed one, but because my mom was thrilled I had someone to talk to who wasn’t her. It made her feel like I was doing okay. Even when I told her last year that I made Kelly up just to make her happy, she didn’t believe me.

“No, Audra. She was real to you. You talked to her all the time!”

Listen lady. I remember bull-shitting you the entire time, and I hated myself for it. I got really good at telling my mom what she wanted to hear.

I didn’t feel I had the safety of becoming… me. With my own opinions. With my own answers. I was there purely to ensure my mother’s happiness.

394,200 Hours of Masking

They say it takes 12,000 hours to become an expert at something. There are 8,760 hours in a year. I am 45 years old.

8,760 hours/year \times 45 years = 394,200 hours of learning to tell you what you want to hear. I am a master.

For me to willingly take that mask off is a challenge hailed down by Zeus. And that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do for the past five years. That’s why I isolated. That’s why I couldn’t carry anyone else’s burdens anymore. I have been fighting for my life.

On good days, I’m deliberate. I am slow to respond. I pause. I process. And then, only then, will I speak my truth with kindness, clarity, and calm. On bad days, I shrink. I agree. I shrug my shoulders. I go silent. I go back to a place where my thoughts are comfort — and my thoughts throw blows. Where my thoughts become my heaven and my hell.

That’s what I meant in that note. When I go silent — the kind that no longer volunteers information, no longer tries to help you understand, the kind that doesn’t look you in the eye — that is when sometimes I wish someone would pull me out. Someone who understands that silence is my scream.

I had to get to a point where I learned: that someone has to be me. I have to be the one to notice. To intervene. To hold my own hand and walk myself back. No more waiting for rescue.

Sometimes the silence returns — deafening, painful. The kind that wraps itself around me like a shroud.

But these days, I meet myself at the edge of the spiral. I ask what she needs. I ask what she’s afraid of. I wrap her in the kind of love I used to beg others for.

And slowly, I walk her home.

Silence is no longer where I want to go to vanish. It’s where I go to listen.

This is not the absence of pain. This is the transformation of it.