Author: Gio

The grave sound of my voice can never be silenced.

For as long as I remember, I fiercely believed in it. In the same period, punishment was what I got for speaking up my mind and letting my feelings out. I’ve always wanted to understand life and the things that happened around me, but I was never allowed to. My silence was demanded, but I kept on trying. I said and repeated it all, as many times as I could, until I got an answer to my questions or an explanation to what was happening. Was I wrong for trying to make some sense out of the situation? According to them, I was.

For many years, my words were spoken in between slaps, whipping and punches. The face in front of me was always outraged by the sound of my sentences and I still believe that if anyone would be looking from the outside, nothing would make sense. How could a question hurt that much? The marks in my body, my legs in burning red and my eyes tearing away were all the answers I had left. When it seemed enough for my aggressor, I would sit on the corner of my bedroom, sobbing in pain, confused and lonely. I needed to know, I had to understand. I couldn’t settle for silence and plain obedience. But no matter how hurting I was, it was all not enough to the one holding the whip.

As a child, I was told to shut up over and over again. I was hit with sandals, mainly. As a teenager, anything would do. Water hoses, tree branches, or whatever object which would swing over my skin and bruise it deeply. Everyone needed to know that I was a bad girl. I was forced to go to school in shorts, already as a teenager, for the simple amusement of her genitor. She would say proudly that people would see that I was properly corrected and that I had someone with a firm hand at home. When I told this at school, it didn’t matter whether they wanted to do anything. Where we come from, parents are considered to be in their holy right if they want to punish their children, no matter how hard or strong. It didn’t matter if I was right or wrong, if I deserved it or not: the parental judgement was enough to believe that I did something wrong in the eyes of… I don’t know, God, I guess. And for a long time, I felt ashamed of speaking up.

Growing up, I was told to forget it all and to let it be cause well, “they’re your parents and you should endlessly respect them and simply obey”. The pain they caused us for so many years was supposed to be set aside and let the feelings of love and care overcome it all. I played along, just like we do when society dictates us the rules by which we should live in. I never gave it a lot of importance, never thought it would grow in me. “Maybe I did deserve it”, I used to think. I developed a guilt that wasn’t mine and that’s how sick-minded we were taught to be. The years passed and as a young adult, some of the marks in our body disappeared. Some we still carry with us, but I often used to make up a story for them to not let her parents look bad. “Focus on the good things, they matter the most!”, I was told. Eventually, everyone believed it, but deep inside we knew. And with an aching heart, we would let it all go.
The real problems were the wounds that no one could see.

The lies that once consumed the true story revealed themselves as we reached the adult age. What I always avoided, what I always told myself to fight was the thing I feared the most, but that I eventually could not control: I became an aggressive person. I blindly entered the dominant world as an active punisher. If my voice was rejected, if my questions were unanswered, I would demand it by force. For a long while, no associations were made between an abusive childhood and the rage I felt inside as an adult. The reasons why I did it and why did it all happen were only clarified years later, but just like the ones that still stain our skin, I left many marks behind.

Perhaps this is a shame I will carry with me forever. I’ve never let her in, as I took full responsibility for all those actions. It was me who sharpened the nails to use them as weapons, and it was also me who chose anger rather than reason. These are the things that will be with me forever and that no matter what happens, I can only help her to not become like that as well. She is our only hope. She is sweet and caring and I know she wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone, but my actions reflected upon her and now there’s judgement to her face. There is shame to her face. We are facing our demons together and although she still wonders why I am still around, she knows that none of this is my fault, or hers, or our per se. Our soul was corrupted by rage at times where questions were supposed to be asked and reason was supposed to be taught.

The anger that once lived in my mind still lies around, within us. It pokes our thoughts, it craves to come out. Our quest to be heard and to get answers is still alive, but it has now a different place in our heart.
It is the silence that challenges us at times when nothing else makes sense.

There is a story about a boy who conquered her heart long before she knew what true love was. He would try to find her eyes and profess his love for her, while keeping it a secret to everyone else. Only she was capable of detecting his signs. We were already acquainted at that time, but it was all genuine to my eyes and I didn’t want to interfere. I thought that maybe he would be the one to make things better for her, bring her happiness, reduce her pain, give her the comfort and the true love she so much longed for. I then stepped aside and let her be. When it all began, they were kids. Simple, fragile, still discovering life. Their roots were similar and so was their environment. In spite of growing up in different worlds, they seemed perfect to each other. And although their headspace was not the same, I still thought it was a good time. 

He spent years trying to grab her attention, making himself noticeable, but she would only acknowledge his presence. His intentions, though noble and visible to all other kids around were in no way perceived. She had other thoughts and, at that time, she believed that no one would ever be good enough to protect her from her demons and the things that haunted her days. She needed a protector, but her need was bigger than her sight. She became proud of herself, fully obedient to her genitors. It was perhaps one of the times where her loudness could barely be heard, so much her heart was on dimmed lights. She truly did not believe that anyone could ever be good enough. No one could save her.

One day, while attending the Sunday mass, her eyes finally landed on his. Her eyes had no target, but she felt the gaze penetrating her soul and she couldn’t deviate. Her mind raced with questions, her guts pierced by feelings provoked by his look and she couldn’t look away. It was all immediately imprinted in her soul, deep in her structure. She let him in and he used all the space he could. For the first time, she felt hope. With the opening space, he came close. Approached with ease, as a tamer towards a wild bull. And yes, that’s how she looked from the outside: a wild bull. I take the credit, I made her looks incredible. We needed a strong shield, and yet, a shield that would both attract and repel. She, then, accepted his approach and got close to him. They finally felt each other’s heart. 

Just like in the movies, their love was made to be. They were happy, belonging, dreaming about their future together. I guess everyone has that once in a lifetime. Nothing else mattered but one another. Four summers had passed and they knew nothing but happiness. I remained there, next to her, but watching it all from the outside. I finally thought that her sorrows would be soon gone forever, that her heart would rejoice in trusting. There would be no more loneliness. She learned to love, to trust, to be happy. She felt complete and secure. Until it seemed to be no longer enough for him. 

Under a promise to return, he left to pursue a better life. Flew thousands of miles away to try and make it work, to get enough savings to build their future. She suffered, begged him to stay, but he couldn’t. She longed to tag along, but her heart wasn’t yet ready and she knew her own time would come. He said it would only be for a year, he promised with all his heart. She believed him and behind she stayed. I watched her days come and go and her loneliness growing stronger. She was back at the beginning, no comfort, no love. He tried to keep in touch, they managed to make it work. Thirteen months had passed before he returned. She was tired of waiting, he agreed that it was time. Her hopes almost lost, came back in love and agony. Her soul mate was about to return, her love story would continue. 

She surprised him with open arms and the hours of wait became half. Long run to get together, she could wait no longer. She’d given herself entirely for that moment. Shock, tears, laugh, happiness. She was his and he was hers. They were finally together again to press the restart button and give shape to their future. Marriage, house, babies. Everything seemed perfect on time. I saw her agony closer to an end. 

As all love stories have a twist, hers was of the most inconvenience. Only twenty-four hours after landing, she discovered he was ready to fly again. While making his things ready to stay, the paper at the bottom of his bag changed it all. A return ticket. He hadn’t come to stay, he didn’t plan on making their future. Excuses and more excuses. There was no explanation and not enough reasons. The joy and the love from the day before, now became scream, misbelief and despair. He had lied to her. He’d broken her soul. He’d crushed her inner self. A life once planned was no longer the one together. All had been broken apart. 

Her rage over the deceit and her pieces over the floor gave her red eyes. I watched it all from the outside. I couldn’t believe in what had just happened. When it all started, I wanted to say something, to warn her or try and change her mind, but her sweetness is genuine and her need was desperate. And then I saw her suffering and I suffered too. I am a daredevil with a hard case, but she’s my innocence and to hurt someone’s innocence is like stabbing one’s child to death. And he had just stabbed mine. That’s when guilt came onto me.

Together, we left. We destroyed his name, his memory, his wild wishes. I took over and revenge was served hot. That was the first time that true-love-disney-bullshit blew over our faces and I was decided to not let it happen again. I felt that, perhaps, I had let her believe too fiercely and act too deeply on something that I had not yet fully grasped. It was the first time I let my guard down and she got hurt. She did get hurt many times after that, but she’s still my purest being and it gets hard to not let her go, for so much she loves people and to believe in them. With it all done, I set her rules to never break: no lies, no cheating, no abandonment. Kill it at first sight and don’t let it in, no matter the pain, no matter how true is your love. These three capital sins wouldn’t come close any longer. She agreed with me and we moved on. This was her first real heartbreak.

What I just did not realised, until years later, was that her soul had been forever marked and that she took pleasure in revenge. His knife had stabbed my innocence right in the heart opening space for my growth. And from then, love took a turn that changed forever our entire lives.     

“You are so loud that I can barely understand what you say”.

Yeah, I’ve heard that a lot. One of the things I can recall being called of the most in life it’s certainly “a loud person”. Talking loud and fast is a trait that has grown in me while having a lot to say, living in a world full of poor listeners. But even though there is a consciousness around it, I used to take that “loud label” very hard. I mean, it is in fact something that I cannot always manage, but being raised by a controlling parent can make you feel guilty over things you can’t quite explain. And yet, this ‘noisy’ trait is entirely imprinted in my personality. A great part of the environment where I was brought up is ruled by the “survival of the loudest”. It was not about the strongest or the one with the most interesting stories or conversations: it was and it has always been about the one who speaks the loudest. Over the years, I have developed a bit of an ease to take up this tag over myself, but more than accepting the label, it has made me reflect upon the true meaning of being loud.

I guess it all started as a baby: she cried for anything and everything. If she woke up and no one was around, she’d cry. Not like most of other babies do, it was a painful shout. Hungry, sad, desperate, afraid. she’d crawl her way out around the house, mouth wide open, tears running down and a big crave for comfort. The issue was that this so needed comfort was not always there. There were many complaints about her crying and it ended up being a reason for laughter among the adults around her. Apparently, the episode was so constant that a picture was taken to make the scene permanent and that could and was constantly shown during family gatherings. You might think that maybe I should’ve just laughed along or that I shouldn’t take it so hard. Yes, I used to think that too. I told her that too, eventually. The thing is that this laughter, this negligence to her feelings as a toddler has grown bigger than simply a “child’s trait”. This need for comfort, this crave for a safety which would soften her soul and release her from despair grew into a great fear of abandonment which, until fully acknowledged, damaged both relations and friendships. Later in life, when I came into the picture, she was no longer alone and she could always rest her head on me. But as a kid, there was no comfort, no joy and no one to take her into adult arms and put an end on her sorrow. She was annoying, they said. But as an adult, we were needy.

After long years of self-doubt and excessive uncomfortable comments, I decided to embrace the label and take it into the heart. Our loudness, however, appeared to have already developed its own identity. With the big curls all over the place and her lungs screaming for warmth, she was an early speaker. In fact, she was an early everything. She talked before she walked, both before twelve months old, skipped a year in kindergarten for being too smart -or too loud, who knows-, and had always opinions ahead of her own time and age. To be loud is the one thing that I have always known about her since her birth and that it speaks out in the way I present myself to the world. Our loudness is part of what makes us complete. The adolescence as “one of the guys”, holding up strong vocals and a firm voice, and walking up straight with a posture of a powerful female were my trademarks. Our loudness is what stamped our presence on the sidewalk, and made and transformed us in the purple duck among the white swans. Together, we are the sweetness inside the daredevil.

While growing up, there was a lot to be loud about. Rage, power, justice. In the absence of those comforting arms which should have held her as a child, we found comfort in heavy metal, parties and drugs. The escape valve worked flawlessly for years, but eventually it clogged and stopped within seconds. I used to think that it would be there forever, but suddenly everything lost sense and I was no longer loud. It was one of those moments in life when the doubts you’ve always used as a shield become certainties and unveil the truths you are never ready for. In my case, it happened when I learned that the toddler, the baby back then who had nothing but her tears to ask for comfort was left alone by choice. That the absence of solace was a conscious parental choice. And on that moment, everything stopped.
Silence prevailed for a moment. The certainties, the methods and the strategies failed. Worse than that, we had no voice at all.

That was then. The silence prevailed for long and it was indeed crucial to make sense of its revelations, but now it was gone. The strategies have changed and the coping method is different. There is no longer a need for comfort or to crave for company. Consolations are no longer place. Instead, there is a hunger for noise, for speaking up instead of hiding. Now, our valves are no longer developed to escape, but to return to the beginning, to handpick the signs and to be loud in the way that no one has ever been before.