I once wrote about the nature of unvocalized pain.
A. pointed out that I missed out a critical dimension of the playground scream: When it’s due to pain (rather than, say, indignation), le scream tends to… appear… only after the subject confirms the presence of a suitable audience.
Friends have said that they, too, tend to respond to pain with silence.
I think about this sometimes. What is the line between silence and vocalizing in the face of pain? Maybe one dimension is the acuteness of the pain or of the anticipation of pain:
Since my partner loves planes and watching Air Crash Investigations, he knows that when pilots realize a crash is coming up, they often say no more than “Oh, shit.” Passengers, too. Unlike in movies, people don’t actually generally scream when the plane is on its way down.
Which reminds me of a moment half a lifetime ago, when I walked into an open dryer door on a stackable washer and dryer. Next thing I knew, I was sitting on the floor (in voiceless confusion).
Incidentally, this is also what happened one day when, as I washed dishes, A. came up to me and said, “I have cancer.”
Way to bring down the mood, Ophira.
This Glass Has Water 