Chapters

“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.

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I’ve always thought that some aspects of one’s life should be recorded and replayed time after time. In fact, if we think of the things adults tell about us whilst we are growing up, these stories are indeed replayed. That time when you fell from you bike, how much you pooped as a baby and about that day when you embarrassed your parents in front of everyone with your big mouth or cheeky behaviour. No matter whether you were a shy kid or a chatty one, there are always stories to be told about the person you once were and that you don’t quite remember to have been. The funny part is, perhaps, that when it comes our turn to tell that same frame our mums told the entire family and friends, the words will be shaped into different sentences, other compositions. Our picture of it won’t show much of the shame or the embarrassment, but more of the value of that memory in our story.

I happen to remember a lot about myself. Like little details and the order of events. Of course if you ask me what I ate for lunch last week I might say no, but whenever it comes to my childhood and adolescence things come to me crystal clear. Things that sometimes I wish I didn’t even think of, and others that I would trade a leg to live again. For a long time, I developed a sort of selective system inside my head where memories were catalogued into what mattered and what didn’t; what was pleasant and what was fun. The unpleasant ones were the black memories and they were always thrown in a box. The core memory files were those of a life as I wanted to remember, not as it really was.

If I address the blessings of having a good memory, I am going to tell you about the wonders of great parties and travels around the world. My greatest pride! I can describe you the great days I spent at the farm as a kid and the breathtaking sight of Whitehaven beach in Northern Australia. Swimming with nemos, sliding down waterfalls, riding horses and tasting exotic food on the streets of foreign towns. Sights, tastes, smells, heartbeat. I can still sense the same feelings from those at the time when each one of these things happened. I can close my eyes and still smell the seaweed while sitting on that boat anchored around the islands. I can describe to you in a hundred words how fast my heart pounded on my chest when those bunch of kids found a snake behind granny’s house and how much we laughed together in all those uncountable barbecues, wherever I happened to be. These memories are the ones that brings goosebumps, chicken skin and warmth to the heart. These are the ones to keep close and to repeat as much as I can.

The tears, the sorrows and the fear of the repetition belong to the curses of life. And yes, I call them curses. They are spells that seem to walk along with her in a daily and that together we try to work it out. They show everything that I should be afraid or scared of, bringing panic when all I need to do is to relax and enjoy. They are the things that made us afraid of the dark. These curses were brought through pain, misunderstandings or lies. Sometimes, all together in one. The excessive physical punishment, the repeated times I was taken as an adult whilst living on Earth for less than a decade, the lies I was told under justification of protection. All in the box, dressed in black.

So when it comes to the beginning of all of my memories and to telling you about them, perhaps the right start would be with “once upon a time, there was a little girl”, just like all the princess movies I watched as a little one. But, no. On this side, there’s never been a little girl and that is a very important side of us. No princess dresses were worn, no sweet bedtime stories were told. There was her and then there was me, and I was already an adult when it all started. Whenever I think of the things we’ve done together I get more and more convinced that perhaps it would have been better if we had met each other in a later stage in life. Perhaps a little more mature to be less reckless, more conscious and aware. The thing is, at the same time, that we needed each other. Most of all, she needed me. I was her protector, her shield. She was my innocence, my melancholia. I guess that this is the reason why my memories are also her memories. We created a version of us which brought a sense of completeness and freedom when all we saw was a hole in the puzzle.

For that and for more, I came to the conclusion that the little girl most people think to have known, in fact, never existed. At least truthfully on the inside. Life happened too early to her and, consequently, so did I. Together we brought up a different body, a freer mind and memories that makes us proud to tell. Together, we jumped out of airplanes in Australia, hiked through caves in Vietnam and climbed mountains in Brazil. We started almost two decades ago and we laughed, we cried and screamed and punched to survive. Maybe it all looks pretty on the outside, but that’s because we are pros in the system. We avoided anyone who would show up in black, or who would curse us with their memory spells. But most of all, we’ve never let the darkness inside shape the truth we’ve always wanted to keep in our smile.

It’s the scars she covers that unveil the horror of what was never to be told.

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I never thought my story was one worth to tell and I also never believed that anyone would be willing to listen, until I told it in secrecy for the first time. At that point, I realised that one’s story is much more than what is known and the things one chooses to remember. And yes, I say choose to. It is almost as if as the years go by, we develop a sort of selective memory of things that we like to bring back or that we don’t mind experiencing again. This can be convenient, at times, but it can also hide important events at its bottom of the memory box. Well, my story fits with the latter.

When my first words began to be spoken I didn’t realise that I could remember that much about myself. Not just that I didn’t think I had done and lived that much, but it felt like I was telling a story about someone else, another person’s life. It was a weird feeling, to say the least, to come back to myself in a sense of “that was really me!”. I think everyone has a few parts of life which don’t bring much happiness or that perhaps would like to erase. Yet, as much as a piece of me wishes that a lot of those things have gone differently, I get into the cliché that everything that happened brought me where I am today. And that’s certainly the nicest part of the whole thing.

So, as every story begins with an introduction, let me go first: My name is Layla. I am a part of her, she is a part of me. Perhaps this doesn’t make much sense now, but it will soon, I promise. There’s not much I remember of a happy childhood, like most kids I know. The memories I have are in some ways happy, but mostly filled with agony, fear and anxiety. Stick around and you will learn much about us. I take here the chance to warn you to expect things that you cannot believe to be true and to leave all your judgements out of this reading. Be open minded to whatever comes next.

This story is real. I am real.

For you out there who got the hint or the curiosity of what this is all about, I must confess that I am also not sure of the reasons why I decided to tell you this piece. I guess I figured that my endless search for understanding of the world should begin with making myself clear, as well as the reasons of my existence and those that justify why did I come to life. I realised that there’s much to tell and that the more I talk about things, the easier it becomes to remember who I really am. Or, in this case, who we really are. So many details have come clear in my head right alongside all I kept in the box for such a time. It feels like it belonged to Pandora, but either way, it has been opened and everything is now out. Most importantly, these chapters are our digging together through its contents.

Maybe you know me a little or a lot, maybe you think you know me, but perhaps you’ve got absolutely no idea of who I am or of my existence at all. The only thing I can tell you is that when the final chapter arrives you might look at yourself differently, but the picture you have of me will change. And you will remember me.

Once you join me through the tunnels of this box you will become a part of it. In some cases, you might even find yourself in a corner or two. If you ever heard me saying my name, you may have an idea of who I am. But if you haven’t, then it is my sole pleasure to twist the knob, open the door and welcome you with open arms to our story.

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