Tag: part one

There is an incredible thing about feeling alone in the crowd that I never quite fully understood, but that has conquered my heart many times. So often we were surrounded by numbers and yet, loneliness came about like there was nothing but silence. Perhaps it sounds like a sad thing to say or to experience, but it was like a feeling of dozing off or lifting from the ground and reaching some place which no one else was there. It was a peaceful loneliness.

Weird as it is and as it may sound, that was always a nice place to be. I mostly enjoy being around friends, gathering as many of them as we can, but places and situations were seldom neither as easy nor as comfortable as they should have been. And it wasn’t personal or targeted to anyone… it mostly came in a spur, unplanned, as if in a certain point of the conversation, the loudness and all the craziness they’re all doing and talking about simply did not existed anymore. I was no longer there. Strangest thing is that we were a constant center of attentions, either if in our group or among others we happened to meet. We filled the spot of the joker, the carer and the one who always had a funny thing to say. And y-e-s, we enjoyed that. Fact is that the more we had around us, the more we needed to go. Many times I caught myself sitting on my bed in the dark while the music still played outside and the guests danced on it, only to get a few moments up there. I reached out to this secret and private place where there was just a lot of us. Safety, comfort and a lot of ease are the things we encountered in it. Seconds were like centuries.

I can only hope that perhaps you understand by now that life hasn’t been so kind to us with the things that we could not choose. Once I heard from someone whom I really admire that the most important feeling a child must have while growing up isn’t love or tenderness… it is safety. Well, if you’ve kept yourself up to date and read the chapters of our story till here, I guess you have a good idea of how it happened for us. We were very unsafe growing up both before and after the walls topped with electric barbed wires that surrounded the house. There was violence in and outside. One could take you out of this world and rip your body apart while the other could destroy your heart and your mind in a way that blurred all roads to sanity. To me, they were both the same.

Fast forwarding to young adult years, I remember having to overcome a lot of crap I didn’t understand in order to get where I wanted to be. Yeah, well, I know we all do, but this isn’t the point now. Fact is that I often managed, somehow, and bystanders were amazed by it. Most didn’t know my whole story or were I came from, only that I popped up there from the coast. Some of them would come to me to open up about their own lives and ask for advice. I’ve always offered it with care and kindness and they were surprised with “how mature I was”. I reckon people looking at me and saying that I was lucky to have it all figured out, being strong, still managing to be happy and to laugh loudly at a party. Little they knew that there was a lot behind those laughs. Essentially, these were people who came from families that were publicly fucked up, shameless broken homes. Ours was just too far away for them to judge as well as too well behaved while visiting. Their mask was their most powerful weapon and they wore it well.

And so, in the middle of a party, a concert or even sitting by the bar table with friends on a Friday evening, laughing and having fun, I dozed off. Something else came into mind which absolutely was nothing at all. Everything around me turned silent and I couldn’t hear a thing anymore. Kinda like they show in the movies when someone is about to have an epiphany, if you know what I mean. My eyes fixed on something and my mind moving back and forth in a joyful emptiness. A safe place where we blocked the blend of bad things that our young heart has felt and our eyes have seen. In the middle of the chaos, we encountered the breath that kept us going.

Those seconds in stillness brought us our ease. There was safety in the silence and clear waters over the memories. We saw it all, we knew it all. We saw the wonders of silence while searching for the noise. At last, the balance of our blend made it perfect. And in the crowded loneliness, we found our peace.

Are you afraid of the dark?

It may sound as the beginning of a child’s tale, but it is just another part of this story. After reading all of these chapters, I suppose you already have a notion of the type of person I am and of my personality itself. I like to think of myself as a badass, fearless and defiant to everything and everyone. I enjoy the idea that I can overcome many issues and that I see the world in a way that no one else does. I see myself as unique and incomparable. I’ve always despised the idea of being a commoner, someone relatable to and “normal”. I needed to stand out, shine brighter, and I managed to do so. Many times I heard from people that this is what they saw on me and it felt good. Little they knew that deep inside, we were fighting something that most see as silly, but that for us has always been a synonym of danger: darkness.

I know it sounds like I am talking in riddles or even making a mystery, but it isn’t the case this time. It is a true fear of the dark and we carry it with us for as long as I can remember. I cannot say exactly how long has she carried it for, but as for me, darkness reminds me of the day I was born. You see, we haven’t yet talked about the day of my birth and that is something I still need some time to talk about. Have a little more patience, it will come. As for now, let me tell you this.

The fear of the darkness is entangled within me. It goes from literal to figurative and it makes me shiver from the tip of my toes to the edge of my hair foils. I cannot stand outside in the open when it’s dark, I cannot stand inside with the curtains open and the windows reflecting the inside, when it is dark from outside. I cannot lay down in bed with my eyes open and the lights off, and I would rather starve inside should all my food be laying outside in the dark for any reason. Noises in the dark make me panic, shadows give me chills. These things bring me into complete state of shock and alert. For us, darkness is the house of dangers and danger always appeared as soon as I could no longer see what was out there. They were always watching from outside the window, waiting until the brightness was gone, craving to hear the deep breathe of the sleepers so they could strike. Burglars, perverts, liars. Their presence was constant and there were no barriers to keep them out.

Before I was born, and yet as a very young kid, the darkness in her room was filled with shining images stuffed animals and little glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling that helped her to get the best of dreams. By then, darkness was as it should be: just our place on Earth facing the opposite side of the sun. It was a reason to play catch with the cousins and to stare at the sky at the farm, filled with glowing infinite stars that could only be seen there, so far away from city lights. It did not harm, it did not bring sadness. Before my birth, darkness was still light.

As time goes by, it is still hard to get used to it. I chose to be somewhere else, far away from the dangers that haunted me in the darkness of the South, but it ain’t as easy. Here, the dark is again the same as when she lived without me. It is safer. Many times I wish I could snap my fingers and change it, take it easier and breathe deeper so it will go away, but it simply doesn’t. At the first sight of sunset, curtains are closed and doors are locked and checked twice. No efforts are spared to make sure I am safe and that nothing and no-one will come from it.

It is strange how people play with what they do not understand. Countless times, we have been joked at because of this fear and with the jokes it came a huge lack of confirmation that it will all be okay. It was and still is tiring but also necessary to make sure that I can sleep tight instead of lying awake. “You need to take it easier”, I hear, “don’t be ridiculous, there’s nothing out there”, they say. So much for their own amusement and so little for understanding and seeing my feelings. I get it, it is perhaps childish for a grown up woman to fear de dark, but so many years of fear cannot disappear with the snap of your fingers. Shouldn’t it simply be treated as any other flaw? So far, I have never crossed anyone who was fully able to comprehend and respect it, instead, they decided to play with my weakness and that has always been really hard to take. They make it sound like paranoia or childish behaviour, but what they don’t know is how deep it is all actually buried inside my mind.

Everything is vivid and bright in our mind and soul. No one has lived what we have, no one has seen what we’ve seen. The dark brought us the hot iron that burned our peace and destroyed our ease. We felt in our skin the dangers of the darkness and for that and for more, we crave for those faces to forever go away.

There was a time when some things we did got a bit out of control and most of her memories of it became a big blur. I had to tell her about it, cause I was the one in charge almost the entire time. It was a period of liberation, a celebration of freedom. We had just moved away, freed ourselves from the duties that were never supposed to be ours and finally able to be whoever we wanted to be. No permissions were requested, no questions of what is right or wrong, only us and our wishes to become true. The biggest party was about to start and there was no time to say goodnight.

It may sound as cliché, but yes, it all started when we went to college. As part of our “fleeing plan”, I had decided that we would, by any means, not attend to university in the same city, or the same state as we lived in. We would go away, someplace where people were warmer and nicer and there would be some good distance between us and the coast. We chose to go back to our beloved countryside and to make the best out of our years there. A new city, the perfect scenario for a brilliant restart.

Everything was brand new and we wanted to do it all. Well, I did. She was mellow on most of the first days, still rethinking of whether it was a good idea to move away and reconsidering the plan. We didn’t know many people in town and it was indeed boring at the beginning. Just like our first experience at the countryside eight years before, we were “the new girl” and that wasn’t a very nice feeling at its start. She told me to take charge and I gladly obliged. I felt that it demanded some drastic decisions and I made them without hesitation. It was show time!

It happened as you may expect: parties, loads of new friends, countless beers and hours hanging around and getting to know everyone. I spent almost every free hour looking for a party or starting one. I would convince people to go to festivals in cities nearby and to transform our weekends in huge celebrations, no matter where or how: the idea was to meet new people, constantly be with them and to feel that this was the best choice. We had given ourselves to the nights and we were never alone. All the fun in the world was ours and there was nothing and no one who could take it away from us. So we thought.

Over the first couple of years, there were a few things I did not do under her request, but one in specific set us aside in many situations among our friends. The choice to not join them was the best one, I agreed, but I hated the feeling of being left behind or be “missing out” on something more than anything. Their parties were always boosted up by the ingredient that sets the night on fire and brings up the endless feeling to everything: cocaine. The “crystal sugar”, as we called it, was a constant companion among our friends. They would go to a ‘corner’ from time to time, or inside the car or wherever it was out of plain sight to take a hit. Few lines and they were good to go for the next hour. The party never stopped. Many days, they would drop me off or I would sleep in the car while they were still on with their effects and I hated myself in the next day for being the “loser”. She had a strict rule about it and I agreed many times. In the back of my head, I knew of its dangers and I was certain of keeping us out of it. It just didn’t last long enough.

I can recall every single detail of the day of our first time on it: the situation, the people around, the why’s and the how’s. It was a festival outside the city. Thirty-five people in one house, three days of continuous party. I resisted the first night and day, until the second night came along with an invitation. “Are you sure you don’t want to get some?”, I heard while standing by the door. “No, I’m good!”, I said. I looked at them going over the lines that whitened the dark kitchen counter and before I realised, I had already said it. “Fuck it, I’ll do it!”. I heard some cheering from one of my girlfriends and she walked me through it. Two lines and we were off. “Don’t find weird if your heart start beating super fast and if something bitter comes down your throat”, she said. I was anxious, but most of all, I was scared. I didn’t know what was I supposed to do or to expect from it. And then, while walking back to the concert pavilion, it kicked in. I felt like I had superpowers and that nothing and no one could ever beat me. It was the best feeling in the world and it was only the beginning.

Two years were flying by and “the sugar” became our new best friend. My ties with the group strengthened even more and our weekends were endless. Just as promised, I was never again the first one to go to bed. It was easier than food and cheaper too. For all the time we were with the guys, we never spent a single penny on it. We went out many times to buy it, but we never took a single money bill out of our own pockets for it. And it wasn’t necessary. “Your company is enough payment”, I heard overtime. Life was a big ass paradise and I was enjoying it all. Until the wake up call slapped us in the face.

She told me we were failing college and that I needed to stop. That degree was our dream and I was screwing it all up. I mean, I am a daredevil, I couldn’t say no to the party and yet, I am here to protect her from her demons and bad feelings and I thought this was one other way to not look at them. I gave her wings, but I forgot how to fly. Isolation, loneliness and resistance were what came next. We locked ourselves in the house, we wouldn’t answer phone calls and we would reject our friends. All we’d built over the years was gone in order to clean our system and resume the good things in our life. Some serious action was needed. They would knock our door countless times while I would cry and crave on the inside, with no answer. It lasted long enough until it all became silence. No one could know, no one would understand. I needed to cleanse my body from it and I had to do it myself. Barely eating, going out only for essentials. No one saw me again but the people behind the gates of the university. I became a ghost and I took my distance from everything.

With six months left for graduation, all was under control again. I was in better shape and those friends were missed, but not recalled. I decided it was a better choice to stay away from them, since they wouldn’t understand my choices. They were friends with the nights and that’s how they saw me as well. Only now I understand that. Now I see how much the cocaine helped us forget our demons and the suffering from the inside. How much it gave us the powers that many took away before we were even able to experience it. How much it dragged us down to a world of blindness.

As the years go by, I still remember her sitting on the corner every time I was to cut a line. I remember her face and how many times I chose to look away so then I could give us the power we so much craved for. “It is for the best”, I thought every time. Our life was forever changed and as a result, I became a strong and constant piece of her inner self. And yet, with the sorrows and addictions finally gone and with all the years of recalling those facts, we finally understood the meaning of my existence, setting free the demons responsible for the truth on the real reasons why I came into her life.

What is the price of your freedom?

The moment I saw the world she lived in I knew, that at some point, I would have to break us free. For a long time, I witnessed the lust, greed and all those unspeakable sins happening right in front of us. I saw lies being told, cheating partners and adults looking at kids in ways that one should never do. She grew up in a place where all of it was seen as normal, accepted and never to be questioned or discussed. Well, we already know what happened when she asked questions, so she remained silent. She thought it was all part of life and she lived her days as it actually was.

All was kept in a box. A strange blend of images, smells, words and feelings which were compiled and automatically sent to this squared compartment she kept inside her head, all the way to the back, where no one – not even herself- would reach or dare to open. She was given a duty bigger than her own life and she vowed to oblige regardless of the consequences it could bring upon herself. That is how she is, you know. She gives herself to others in times of need without doubts or second thoughts. At the sight of a tear rolling down the face of a loved one, she feels powerless if nothing can be done. Her empathy is so great that even if it is not her fault, she still feels so. We’ve kept the good parts of this feeling throughout the years, but at that time, her duty was to protect the one who brought her to life. She was bred to be her mother’s lion.

For many years she learned that the father was guilty and that his guilt had no exceptions. Illnesses, suffering, adultery, lies and negligence were some of his crimes. She grew up learning how bad was that man and how poisoning was his presence. She heard from her protected one that he was the one and only responsible and all she thought was that he had to pay. I shouted at him in her name and tried to bring her the inner peace she longed for. Countless times, facing tears and suffering, her hands touched her mothers’ with the reassurance that there would never be loneliness. At the same time, she begged her to leave him, to flee and restart. But no matter what happened, no matter the choices, things remained the same. And just like everything else, the series of events were sucked into the box.

One day, I took over. For two days, the mother was sleeping in another room, crying from dawn to dust, while the sinner remained in his normal life. No actual changes, only complaints and whining to our ears. I watched it all go back to normal on the third day and I could bear no longer the sight. Silence was not an answer anymore. Under a demand for my respect, I shouted the question of where was hers for herself. I reassured the companionship, but I demanded that she took actions for my support. Slaps and punches were the answers we got as well as the acceptance and the fear of what was yet to come. We finally understood that her chains were never to be broken.

Looking at the scars and red skin in our arms and legs, I decided that the time had come. No love, no duty and no heart could stand such life. Of all the things that once made sense, none of them stood out to change my mind. The symbiosis had become vague in its most crucial point in space and we had to find a new meaning for all of it. Distance was the answer. “What the eyes don’t see, the heart doesn’t feel”, it’s how they say. We still had two more years to come before we could make the move ourselves, but the plan was made and the mind was set. The pain of untying the ropes was the only certainty we could feel in the guts.

And as a bird leaves her babies in the nest to hunt for survival, we left the structure to make our own choices. Heart tight, holding back the tears we knew it would come. Somehow, I managed to abandon our post and release us from duty. In the end, redemption was the cure for our aching heart. A new life, a new sight, a future filled with freedom. It all lasted long enough for us to be as happy as one can be with the liberating choices made for the sake of oneself. For our sake.

What we didn’t know was that our meeting with freedom was accompanied by the box of sins we’d hidden so well. “You face your demons and you are free”. The lid popped open, the faces and odors came out. Things once taken as normal began to show its true face. A pool of lies, pure horror.

And at that point I knew that the lion inside us was gone and that our heartbeat for the past would never be the same.

There is a part of this story which is both sad and beautiful. It regards the people who lived around us, who we met early in life and the ones who stayed with us as we reached the adult age. Friends, acquaintances, colleagues, mates. We’ve lived in many places and the roles these people played along the way were determined from the start.

Let me explain.

Before I came into her life, the first people she met were blood related. That sounds obvious, given that everyone has parents, but I mean cousins… a whole bunch of them. They were her first and only friends, until a certain point. As a young kid, she wasn’t allowed to hang out with the girls who lived in the neighbourhood, cause her parents thought they were bad influences. The brother had friends, went around with other boys, but there was no good company for her. All she had were the classmates, the ones with whom she’d spend a small part of the day. She tried to have friends and to keep them. She wrote in their agendas and asked them to write in hers. They exchanged vows of “friends forever” and she hoped on that promise. But then again, her happiness didn’t last long.

Under a last minute notice, the family decided to move to the countryside. We didn’t have a choice and we were not allowed to cry. She wished with all her heart that her friends wouldn’t forget her and that, perhaps, the new people would be nice to us. It all happened around the time we met, but her reliance on me wasn’t yet as great as today, thus her heart was still suffering from the departure. She was in a city that she’d never heard about. She knew neither things about it, nor anyone who lived there. Her only certainty was that she was bounded to that place and to remain silent.

Four weeks had passed and school holidays were still on. No other kids around, only her bedroom, her books and songs. She didn’t take interest in anything, but to think of her friends. She missed them with all of her heart and wondered if they felt the same. Under such pain, she asked the mother to make a phone call and promised to make it at the time which it wouldn’t cost much. It was a time when telephones were not as common as today, so expensive they were. With permission and condition, she dialled the number of the name in her agenda, but her pounding heart, anxiety and excitement were not enough to stop the shocking answer on the other side. There were no memories of her existence. She gave her name, school, age and description, but no acknowledgment emerged on the other side of the line. “You wrote on my agenda, you said we’d be best friends forever!”, she said in tears. “I know who you are, I just don’t know why you’re calling me”, the voice said.

Polite, yet sad, she hung up. “How could she forget me?”, she wondered in tears. Soaked in her own misery, she promised to never try again.

As the new school year began, she thought of leaving her feelings aside. She was introduced as “the new girl”, but didn’t give much to it. The story was simple: she didn’t have a choice. Everything was new, confusing, overwhelming. She was so young and yet learned to take it day by day, getting on group assignments and learning about her classmates from the outside. We would talk from time to time and although no one else would ever tell, it was clear on how much loneliness still lived inside her. We talked about her birthday, which she liked so much, and things started to change.

She invited very few people. Some boys and girls she used to eat together on the breaks. She had no one else, her cousins were miles away. When they all showed up, her fears became smiles. Such gratitude for a simple and kind act. All pleasant, all very strange. She’d never seen such true amicability before or witnessed anyone so interested in who she really is. It was a brand new world.

Embracing it all together, our ties grew stronger and though the brother still had much more privileges in meeting people, we had finally found true friends. Not only in school, we made new acquaintances from classmates’ friends and built a whole new circle, brand new connections. Almost two years had passed and we carried a feeling of belonging with us when the mother informed that we would return to the coast and that nothing could be done about it. While the brother jumped in happiness, her heart stopped for a moment while I stood there in absurd. She felt her loneliness taking over again and a movie replayed in her head. Nothing could be done, she had to let it all go.

Back to the city where it all started, she decided to leave the countryside behind in many ways. We had a new school, new people and a completely new mindset. Her priorities were others and so were her tastes. I decided to take action as I saw in her silence a need to recover and since we came back as preteen, I got us ready to become a rebel. I gave her the feeling that she was hers and that no one else mattered. There was no point in growing ties with anyone else. Together, we succeeded for a while, but her heart gave up to truly miss the countryside.

Six months later, when she could bear it no longer, she asked me to do the calling. She was afraid of what would come out of it. We picked up the phone and dialled to one of the friends from far away. I had no words, I could not believe. Unlike the time before, there was no need to explain, to say names or to describe anything: the sound of my voice was enough to bring smiles and happy words to the other side of the line. “We were worried about you! Why did you disappear?”, we heard. Tears of joy, a feeling without translation.

Even though we were grounded so far away, our heart and mind had finally found its place. The many years that followed were filled with more calls, letters and visits. Our bodies have grown and developed as much as our love and interaction with one another. There’s always been distance, time and other variables to keep us apart from those childhood mates. New people, new acquaintances, new feelings. The memories are what bond us and show that those two years in a foreign place created a feeling of belonging between those kids.

And as happy moments do, that phone call got us one of the most beautiful gifts of true friendships. We had finally discovered the meaning of home.   

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.

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.

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.