The Criminal in Me (Part 3): The Silent Trial

I didn’t notice it at first, but there was a trial happening inside me for years—a cold, deserted courtroom no one could see, because it wasn’t in a building. It was buried deep in the corners of my mind. And guess what? I was always the accused criminal in every case, facing charges for crimes I didn’t even know I’d committed. A trial I kept running away from, constantly escaping the consequences set by a faceless judge.

Turns out, it was always my own doing—for fearing to expose the weaknesses I buried beneath my skin.

There’s this quote I recently thought of, one that hits me harder than I expected:

"If the truth can prevent others from getting hurt, then let the truth dissolve into the skin that burns during the day and deteriorates by night."

There wasn’t a real judge in this courtroom, nor a jury—just haunted shadows of thoughts playing every role. The accuser? A long-lost friend I still remember too well—cold, relentless, and revengeful. The defense? Always underprepared, quivering beneath the weight of justice and emotional pressure. The witness? Probably just fragmented pieces of who I used to be. And the executioner? That role has always been me.

There was no set schedule, no opening statements—just pure silence looping endlessly in my head. I felt a strange curiosity, a weird confusion, because no one ever told me when this trial began. It just appeared—sometimes every few months, sometimes out of nowhere. It began with tiny moments: being blamed for something I never did, replaying a conversation I wished I’d handled differently, or feeling the guilt of never saying “I love you” to someone who deserved to hear it.

All of these became evidence. And I wondered—were these judgments, criticisms, or just plain self-discrimination? I never got an answer. They quickly turned into betrayal, pushing me to the edge and forcing me to quietly serve a sentence I never agreed to.

"Where is the justice and the rights that people always talk about?"

"Where are the answers I’ve yet to receive?"

"Is this how the inner world really works?"

I remember wanting so badly to defend myself, to raise my hand and speak—but the urge was forced down. I was too anxious, too scared of letting the outside world see the cracks beneath my skin. I was too busy performing as the best version of myself—the outstanding child, the supportive friend, the loving partner. People praised me for being strong, composed and independent. For always having the answers. For being the one who didn’t need help, who never crumbled.

But I never once felt joy in it.

It felt less like strength and more like responsibility—not dragging others into the mess I carried. As if asking for help meant I wasn’t trying hard enough. As if I was a failure for daring to open up.

Truth is—just like anyone else—I was breaking all along. But I didn’t dare admit it. I kept making excuses, telling myself to push through so I could be there for everyone else. So I could be the light for those drowning in their own fears.

The trial I never showed up for wasn’t about one incident. It was about an entire lifetime of moments piling up like dust in an abandoned room. All the times I laughed while breaking. All the times I said, "everything’s under control" when it wasn’t. All the moments I silenced the child, buried the artist, muted the rebel, punished the feeler.

Every night I stood at an invisible podium, lecturing myself with blood-stained statements like:

"You’re just too sensitive."

"You should be grateful anyone even ask for your help."

"Why are you still here? Waiting for someone to save you?"

"Get moving, no one is there to care for you."

"Don’t stop. Everyone is watching."

Each question was another arrow into my self-worth. The more I ignored the voices begging to be heard, the larger the courtroom grew.

And still—I never showed up.

I never once said aloud, "This isn’t fair."

I never once ranted, "I didn’t choose this role."

I just whispered to myself, "This is your path. Keep walking."

And so, I shrank. I made myself small enough to fit into the version of me that the world applauded. I let them mistake my silence for strength, while inside, trials raged on behind my eyes.

But after years of this, I realized: this war was never mine to begin with.

I didn’t choose to be my own executioner. I didn’t sign up to carry the crushing weight of perfection. And I certainly never agree to turn my emotions into weapons against myself.

Yet here I am—haunted by the cold echoes of a trial I never wanted.

But today… today, I want to walk through those courtroom doors. Not out of fear, not because someone forced me to, not to argue or to win.

But simply—to be real with myself.

To let the silenced parts of me take the stand. To hear the child whispering behind those closed doors. To acknowledge the courage of the teenager who grew up too fast. To validate the young adult still trying to prove he’s strong—even when every part of him feels broken.

This isn’t about blaming others. It’s not about seeking pity. This is about recognition. About realizing that healing doesn’t come from pretending everything’s fine. Healing begins when you finally show up for the version of yourself that was abandoned, dismissed, or silenced.

Because sometimes, the loudest pain is the one we’ve never spoken aloud.

The grief buried beneath smiles.

The ache haunting our dreams.

The illusion of always being the "tough one."

And sure—I don’t have all the answers. I still wake up questioning if I’m doing life right. I still hesitate before speaking. I still apologize too much. I still replay conversations, wondering if I was too much—or not enough.

But I’m done pretending.

I’m done sitting in that courtroom, waiting for permission to rest, to hope, to be soft again.

"If feelings were the only thing left in this world, I’d still be the one feeling empty."

But now, I’m not afraid to show up.

To defend myself against the verdicts I wrongly accepted.

To understand my feelings.

To express myself fully.

And most importantly—to forgive myself.

Maybe the biggest lie I believed was that I had to be on trial at all.

Maybe I was never meant to prove my worth.

Maybe I was never meant to hide my flaws.

Maybe I was just meant to be… me.

And if that’s true, then showing up is the first step toward freeing my weary soul.

Showing up isn’t about ego.

It’s about reclaiming authority over my story.

It’s about letting go of perfection.

It’s about holding space for every version of me—the loud and the quiet, the messy and the brave, the broken and the beautiful.

This trial? I’m opening the doors.

No more silent verdicts.

No more cross-examinations.

No more punishing myself for feeling too much.

"I’m not a criminal anymore. I’m a human who deserves care and love."

You’re allowed to show up for yourself.

No explanations needed.

No masks required.

Just you—in your quiet honesty and gentle truth.

You were never guilty of anything.

You were just trying to survive.

And that… that’s more than enough.

I believe in us.

To be continued…