Christina Rasmussen

The Quiet Pain

I jammed my thumb in the door of my car last Saturday.

The door closed completely.

Not just a little bit. But all the way, shut.

As if my thumb was not inside the door.

I nearly passed out but I had to find the strength to open the door to get my thumb back out.

In those seconds, I was overwhelmed with the pain.

But I was able to get my other hand to open the door.

Then the pain got so much worse. I iced it. I steadied myself.

I lost all color from my face.

And waited it out.

I am very quiet when I am hurting a lot.

If you were there, when the door closed on me you would have never known it.

Pain that severe makes me quiet.

I bet your pain is quiet too. Like mine.

I bet most people who suffer a lot…

Suffer in complete silence.

I listen for those.

I listen for the reader that never writes to me.

I read all the emails you never send me.

Did you know?

I know the quietness of your pain.
The pain you never write about.
Not to me, not to anyone.
Pain of that kind has no words.
It is so deep that it can’t even find its way to human expression.
It is still made of sound. Vibration.
I listen for it. And find my way there.
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So I could find the words to write to you, the reader who is quiet.

Living with the pain that has no words.

This letter is for you.  

Because I heard you.

I heard the sound the pain makes inside your heart.

With listening for you,


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