I read with interest your piece about “the silent treatment” as a response to conflict and thought it worth offering an alternative view that sometimes this is the only option available (The silent treatment: ‘One woman was ostracised by her husband for 40 years’, 12 December). I’m not sure that framing all people who stop talking to blood relatives as “sulkers” is necessarily accurate or helpful.
I have not spoken with my biological brother for the last 15-odd years. The basis for this was his psychological and physical abuse that not only overshadowed my childhood, but continued into adulthood, long after he should have known better. It took years of therapy to realise that I did not need to include this person in my life and I made the decision to cut ties. Despite pleas from our mother for me to “reconcile”, I have made it clear that reconciliation can only follow after an apology and acknowledgment from his end for threats, physical assaults and making me a figurative and literal punchbag, even into our 20s. Until then, there can be no grounds for a meaningful adult relationship.
He refuses to acknowledge what happened, as does my mother. Excuses are made, memories are twisted and questioned. When I challenged my mother’s tearful “Why do you treat your brother worse than you treat a stranger on the street?” I finally plucked up the courage to answer: that a stranger on the street doesn’t hit me or call me horrid things; that if my husband had done what my brother did, she’d have told me to call the police; that it is shameful for her to ask her daughter to “be tolerant” under such circumstances.
My refusal to engage is the last line of defence I have. I am not ashamed of that.
Name and address supplied
Over the course of my life, I have frequently been on the receiving end of silent treatment by my mother, who in turn has taught my siblings that this is an acceptable way to deal with relationships. It may be, as your article suggests, that this way of behaving isn’t unique to any particular personality type, but in my experience it has been covert narcissism that has been the driver.
Anything that has been perceived as me drawing attention to myself and which might in any functional family have been a source of celebration (showing any independence, getting into university, having a successful career, getting pregnant, having a role in the local community) has been punished by protracted episodes of silent treatment. My mother has blanked me on several occasions in public and, contrary to your somewhat sympathetic description of this behaviour being the way the perpetrators deal with uncomfortable emotions, she seems to rejoice in the grip of uncomprehending shame and self-reproach that she has caused me to feel and by which she has controlled our relationship.
A lifetime of this treatment and the very real possibility that the physical and mental effects of it would end up crushing me has ironically caused me to have no contact with my mother, despite the fact that we live on the same street. Unlike her, I do not rejoice in this, but she has taught me well.
Name and address supplied
Eighteen years ago, my marriage broke down. My husband and I had three children together. He wanted a shared parenting arrangement. The problem was he wouldn’t speak to me. At all.
All communication went through solicitors and the courts, where it was pointed out that in order for a shared parenting arrangement to function, a huge degree of cooperation and communication was essential. After the divorce was finalised, all communication stopped.
The article talks of the psychological damage that can be caused by the silent treatment; however, I found that the ramifications were more damaging on our children. Changes of arrangements were passed to me via the children, or not at all, meaning that that children were sometimes standing outside my house when I returned from work, when my ex-husband needed to be somewhere else. Sports equipment, uniform, coats were in the wrong house at the wrong time, making life very, very difficult day to day.
For the past 18 years I have felt like a woman who had children on her own. My husband’s family also joined in with the silent treatment. It was never my intention to raise my children alone, as if the father didn’t exist, but that is what has happened. I haven’t had a conversation with the father of my children for 18 years. No conversations about schooling, curfews, about driving lessons or whether to allow them to go to parties. When issues arose, I was on my own. Worse still, it meant that there was no consistency for the children in matters of discipline or family rules.
I agree with the article that one reason for the silent treatment can be that it is learned behaviour. My husband’s family used the silent treatment whenever relationship difficulties arose. His grandparents didn’t speak to each other, his sister didn’t speak to his mother. My children have asked about this over the years: why doesn’t Dad speak to you? Why doesn’t Auntie speak to Nana? It’s very difficult to give a reason for someone else’s behaviour. All I could say to them was that keeping the lines of communication open is essential for everyone. And they learned that first-hand. Now in their 20s, they still talk about the difficulties they have experienced.
Name and address supplied
