A history of “violence”

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You know people say that we are not only made by our parents, their choices, our choices in life, we are also the fruit of past generation history, pains, hopes, dreams and regrets. Yesterday, in bed, as I was about to let sleep takes me to a faraway land, something hit me. Even though I had a happy childhood, with loving parents and grandparents, who encouraged me, trusted me and did everything in their power to give me the best, violence was not far. Violence was on the dinner table, in my mother’s memories that she would share again and again, so she can heal – violence against her a child (physical and sexual violence) – violence against her mother (physical and emotional). Violence was everywhere.

My imagination created many images in my mind. Violence became part of me, as I tried to do everything to make my mum happy. I took a charge that wasn’t mine. Nobody realized it. I was such a happy and quiet child.

Life kept going and I kept moving with it without understanding why I found myself engaged in many relationships tainted by violence: I was harassed at primary school for 4 years – my first boyfriend was a battered child – I worked 3 years with a toxic and crazy fashion designer – I met my ex-husband and discovered violence is not only physical, it’s in the words, the threats, the silence too.

My grand-mother always stayed and keeps staying silent about the violence she was exposed to for many years. She says “it was not that bad”. I can’t hear this. Violence broke my mum. Violence took up power in our life. Violence made me a victim for years.

Somedays I feel that violence is inside me. I try my best to tame it. These days I need silence and peace, so I can let it go without hurting anyone around. Somedays I can’t, so I shout and bury my head in a soft cushion. It feels like violence is tattooed on my skin, like something I can’t get rid of. When my sweet boy turned 2 and started using his hands and fists when he did not get what he wanted, many memories rushed through me. The fact that young kids can’t express their emotions did not help me dealing with his outburst or anger and violence. It was like the story repeated itself.

That’s the reason why I am working a lot on me, asking for professional help when the charge is too heavy. I want to let violence behind. I don’t want violence to be part of the next chapter of our life. We learn together, celebrating victories, searching for peace, towards more light.

4 years relationship, divorce & a manuscript

Our relationship is already summed up in a big file, full of notes, letters, forecast budgets, solicitor fees, court ruling papers, translations, testimonies. It took 4 years to eventually close our case.

Our relationship is contained into a manuscript of 25 chapters, 165 pages, 68 000 words. I never thought I could achieve this one day. I should thank you for this. You gave me matters to discuss, feelings to explore, emotions to review in details, issues to solve. Your madness left invisible scars on my skin, in my mind. You gave me the chance to heal myself, to reconnect with the “true me”. I should thank you for this.

I need a couple of hours to finalize our 4 years relationship. I need a couple of hours to explain what happened after.

When I left I thought it was over. I was wrong. Another story started, the one that would crushed my heart in pieces but the one that would take me to the beautiful light after the chaos of the thunderstorm.

I always loved jigsaw. You must have known this. You don’t know anything about me. It’s the most difficult one I had to do, putting the pieces of my heart back together. It took me ages. Every time I thought I was on the right path, something went wrong and I had to start all over again. I am still working on it.

At the beginning writing was evidence. I needed to get you out of my head. I needed space to let go. I needed words to get rid of guilt. Healing process – dealing with grief. Ups and many downs. Then writing became a way to free my anger. I had so much resentment in me. There could not be any forgiveness. After a while, anger vanished and I started seeing things a different way. I wanted to understand.

Why you?

Why “yes”, when all my heart was shouting “no”?

Why I let you play with me in such a terrible way?

What happened in me? I had always been a happy child, a dreamer, a girl in love with life, a smiling lady. I had always been surrounded by loving and caring people.

What made me choose you? What made me think I would save you? What made me think you would save me? Save me from what?

Writing gave me the chance to answer some of these questions. Now I know why I want to finish this story. Sharing my experience is key. Sharing the worst before the best. Sharing to help. Sharing to tell the truth about you, about me, about the magnificent light, about the violence of your silences, about the pain inside my chest, about your status of victim, about my resilience, my faith.

Being true to ourselves…

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I wanted to be her. Confident. In love. With herself. With the world.

I wanted to be like her. Walking proudly in high heels and feeling like I own the world.

I wanted to be her. So sure of herself. So chatty. So beautiful.

I wanted to be like her. Wearing red lip-gloss and sunglasses. Short skirts and bikinis.

I wanted to be her. So much.

I thought she was happy, she had the perfect life, the perfect family.

And then…

She vanished into the night.

And all truth about her came back in a flash of dark light.

She was not loved, she was consumed by passion.

She was not happy, she was in much pain.

She was fake.

She was somebody she was not, so she could face life.

She was smiling at the world. Inside, she was crying.

We never know what people are going through, what life they have, what happens behind closed doors: the best or the worst.

Praying for the best. Always. And remembering that we should never envy others but look at ourselves with love, enjoy whatever is good in our life and change the things that don’t seem right (for us). 

Across the Bridge

I don’t know your name

The secrets of your heart

The pain inside

That you hide

I don’t know your age

The heaviness of your past

Through my lens

I identify

Serious darkness

Invisible scars

I don’t know who you are

What your dreams are made of

Or whether the stars

Shine

On your side of the globe

Through my lens

I can see

Terrible tragedies

Keeping you away

From being free

I don’t know your name

I only crossed your gaze

The other day

From the other side of the bridge

My own place of safety

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When life is messy…

Sometime life is pretty messy

Sometime life is crazy or sad

Sometime we feel like dropping on our knees

Sometime we feel like giving up

Sometime people are letting us down

Sometime people are showing us their dark side

Sometime life seems like a never ending struggle

Sometime nothing makes sense

Sometime we do feel like crap, not good enough

Sometime we only wish to stay all day in our pajamas cursing the entire world

Self-absorbed in the visualization on our worst future nightmare

Self-pity works miracles but does not serve us in the long run

Indulging in chocolate cookies or alcohol is not good either

At least we are trying something to feel better

Sometime life gives us sour lemons

And it’s up to us

To stand up

To show up

To decide between fear and love

To choose what we’d like to experience…

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Being a woman

I forgot what it meant

Being a woman

I forgot what it’s like

Being looked at

***

He said things

I did not want to hear

Lack of confidence

My body is a mess

Inside

I feel scared

Trusting again

***

He told me

It’s time to let go

To let love knock at the door

Of my heart

***

I am so good at listening to others

At helping them

I am so bad at letting someone take care of me

Telling me how fabulous I am

***

Images are rushing in front of my eyes

Being naked is scaring me

How to be myself when deep down

The scars are still bleeding?

***

I want to scream

How can I forgive myself?

How can I let go of something that is killing me?

How somebody will see behind

My broken femininity?

***

I forgot what it meant

Being a woman

I forgot what it’s like

Being looked at

***

I forgot I was loveable

I forgot I was beautiful

 

84 more victims

Watching the words

Flying by

Singing songs

I hear from a distance

Watching hatred

Consuming lives

And shattering so many dreams

So much blood

On the pavement

That no waves could remove

A smile on a photo

And tears in our eyes

Behind us, water shades of blue

Telling us we are alive

Only Love can save us

When inside we are burning

With rage and anger

Thinking of men, women

Even more dramatic, young children

Eyes dazzled by fireworks in the dark sky

Falling down under the wheels

Of a mad truck

84 more victims

Killed by an insane religious fanatic

Orlando Blues

I feel for the mothers

For their cries in the dark

I feel for the fathers

For the deep pain in their heart

I feel for the brothers, the sisters, the neighbors

For the memory they treasure

Of a young guy coming home

Being free to love

I feel for the killer

For his lack of self-love

I feel for his family

For the loss of innocence

I feel for the wounded

For the ones who survived

I feel for the dead

For their bodies lost in bloodshed

I feel for the world

For the ones feeling empty and scared

I feel for the world

For the ones who don’t care

I feel for the world

For the ones shouting back

Let us live in Peace

Let us free to be who we are.

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I pray for the Orlando Victims of Human Madness

The Warrior

Just thought it would be nice to share the first poem I wrote (in English) – It was during a writing course I took in 2010 in Dublin. 

Sitting breathless on the grave

Stay silent and be brave

An instant rush in the past

Wishing today will never last

Here and there time goes by

There’s an empty hole in the sky

On the road night and day

Running the distance that separate our lives

Feeling dead anyway

No miracle to keep us alive

Falling apart, no desire

The one who stands is a warrior

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