is it better to speak or to die?
the million dollar question.
“Is it better to speak or to die?”
This quote originally hails from a French writer named Marguerite de Navarre who wrote it in a story in a collection published in 1558 called Heptameron. 450 years later, author Andre Aciman used the quote as the penultimate question informing his novel Call Me by Your Name published in 2007. The acclaimed book became an acclaimed movie ten years later featuring Timothy Chalamet as Elio and Armie Hammer as Oliver.
I’ve never read Call Me by Your Name. If having the movie on while friends threw an impromptu party in their dorm room my freshman year counts, then I’ve kind of seen the movie. I’m somewhat ashamed to admit I first heard the question in a TikTok audio of the movie scene with mellow music in the background.
And boy did that question make me think.
“Is it better to speak or to die?”
When I was in fifth grade, our teacher assigned us a project simulating the stock market and paired me with two girls I was desperate to be friends with. They were tall and they were pretty and they were popular and they were everything I wished to be. For the first few days of the project, I tried to keep up with them, but my lack of past history and abysmal understanding of math left me in the dust.
Anxiety put me in a chokehold and tightened its grip the longer the project went on. I assumed the role of record keeper, writing down the companies we invested in and the numbers they told me were important, and decided to stop talking altogether. I feared how stupid I would look if I tried to help with the math and it ended up wrong or ask about the newest movie that came out to find they had already seen it together twice.
I was always painfully shy, but this was different. This felt like a life or death situation. I chose life, or life where those two girls didn’t go tell all their friends how dumb I was. Looking back, I think it might’ve actually been the beginning of the end.
“Is it better to speak or to die?”
When I was in my junior year of high school, lunchtime was a war zone. 42 minutes of forced continuous human interaction with nowhere to hide. Armed with my lunchbox and books for my next classes, I prepared for the battle that sitting with the senior theatre kids roused in my head. They knew who I was because my best friend was in the shows with them and earned a seat at the table, but I had no business being there. I just didn’t have anyone else to sit with or anywhere else to go.
I was a silent interloper in their home, a live wire of nerves. The others talked about their dreams for college, cracked jokes, and played games, and I wanted more than anything to contribute something to the table, to be worthy of taking up space there. The words would crumble on my tongue though, as I begged myself to say something—anything—to stop being the weird girl who worried so much about what others thought she barely spoke.
We frequently entertained visitors at the round table, pulling over extra chairs to accommodate boyfriends or new friends or that one kid from physics who needed to help someone with homework. I’ll never forget the day a boy who was in a few of my classes came to sit with his girlfriend. My seat was the one next to his girlfriend and he moved my chair over for me before I sat down. I said a quick thank you to which he responded, “Oh my god, she talks!”
I don’t remember what happened after that. My brain went blank as shock and anxiety overtook my senses. I believed people would judge me for the things I had to say, so I stayed quiet. It turned out they were judging me anyway for not saying anything at all.
It was then I knew I had a problem. My death sentence was set in stone. I hoped college would be the chance for me to change it all and be the version of me who worried about nothing and could make friends easily. I just had to get there.
“Is it better to speak or to die?”
When I was a rising junior in college, I doubted I would live to see the next year. It’s impossible to defy a supposed death sentence, and I had a one way ticket to the bottom. That summer I reached the point I couldn’t call people on the phone or leave the house by myself or talk to literally anyone.
I can’t say I remember much from this time period, but what I do remember is feeling so scared and tired all the time. So tired of being scared all the time. Tired of being this version of myself but not knowing how to start unraveling the mess.
Turns out what I needed was a six week long intensive outpatient therapy program.
At my intake, I was given the diagnosis of Social Anxiety Disorder along with her sisters Generalized Anxiety and Major Depressive Disorder. Boom, the bitch finally had a name.
Those six weeks saved my life. The mess slowly but surely detangled itself as I gained the skills to combat the vicious family of mental illness inhabiting my brain. For the first time I learned that my struggles weren’t singular just to me and lots of people go through similar things. Lots of people who with the right help live wonderful lives. I went back to school my junior year a different person, one who was willing and hopeful to try.
“Is it better to speak or to die?”
When I was at my grandma’s house two days ago, she told me that you simply cannot and never should talk to people about certain things, like religion and politics for example. I, being more outspoken than ever three years removed from getting my life back, disagreed.
Part of the reason I am the way I am is because my family subscribes to a “peace at all costs” mentality. If someone says something that makes you upset or makes you feel small, don’t go against them. If someone does something that makes you upset or makes you feel small, don’t tell them. Keep the peace.
I love my grandma, but after being silent for most of my life, I say to hell with peace. If peaceful means dancing around each other afraid to break the shells we’re walking on, I don’t want a part of it.
This way of living only festers anxiety and distance and I find myself wishing people would talk more. Express more. Learn more. Be real for once.
I am a passionate person when it comes to the things I believe and love. I shouldn’t have to pick and choose the parts of myself I’m allowed to share with others. I shouldn’t have to swallow my feelings in the hope of sparing others. Is that so bad to believe?
I wanted to write about Marguerite de Navarre’s quote because I started doubting and thinking that maybe speaking is dying. Facing backlash from family for daring to say and talk about what no one else will is isolating. Trying to express yourself but the words not landing is disparaging. Posting writing and talking more invites judgement and feels embarrassing. Is it worth it then? Is it better to speak or to die?
What I’ve realized is that if you are not speaking, you are dying. The life I lived when I was younger is proof. I wasn’t literally dying, but the more I bottled up the more I withered away. I’m proud of the person I am now who’s willing to take more chances and commit to being authentically myself. I couldn't leave my house three years ago, but then I went on to live in another country for six months and that’s really fucking awesome!
What I also realized is in the literal since, we all are going to die eventually. So why not be the loudest version of yourself and enjoy living a vibrant life. Don’t cut yourself down so others can feel big or comfortable. Killing parts of yourself for the sake of others only kills you faster.
I’m going to keep being loud, whatever that looks like, and I hope you will too.
In the meantime, I want to read Marguerite de Navarre’s story. And Call Me by Your Name. Alas, the never ending TBR pile grows!
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Disclaimer: It appears my family has found my substack. I never really intended for my family to read this, but hello there! If you’ve read this far, I want to say that while I appreciate the concern, I am doing perfectly okay! This account and my writing are simply reflections on the past, musings about the future, and whatever else spouts out of my brain in between. It’s a way to express myself the way I want to moreover. While you might not have realized how much I’ve struggled in the past, I have done (and still do) a lot of work to support myself and my well being (therapy is awesome)! I am completely open to talking about anything anytime because like I said in my first post, no one is alone!