It seems that violence within the family is more common than it is thought, it is absolutely democratic, cross-generational, regardless of social rank, economic or cultural level. Its effects are always most serious, be it a blatant physical violence evident at least to its victims, or a devious, insidious psychological cruelty that acts along a continuum of often ingravescent intensity, with unforeseeable developments.
I’ve experienced it, I’ve been – as always happens -, the victim and paradoxically the accomplice, although unconscious, for long dark years, till the depression, till reaching the bottom in order to find in extreme misery the point from which begin the ascent.
Mine is the story of many women, of a little loved child who becomes a “very good one” in order to try to earn affection and recognition, and for this reason takes care of everybody but herself. As an adult she chooses a partner whom doesn’t love her for what she is, doesn’t recognize her, doesn’t respect her, doesn’t care about her, but expects so much, more and more, never being satisfied, devaluating her and her actions, reacting with brutality to all her attempts to protect herself.
But when by now the pain that begun in infancy seems to endure in a never-ending repetition compulsion, something happens and life takes another direction.
These “pop poems” were born during the laborious and hurting route towards salvation.
They came out spontaneously, unavoidable, like screams of anger and pain, like an uncontrollable and liberating weeping, like smiles of hope when I found along the way what of intact and beautiful there still was in me and in my life, and that gave me the energy to continue.
For some time I held these verses in a drawer, in quarantine, until I perceived another possible reason for them to exist.
I publish them now, the first part of my history overcame, to provide my testimony in the hope that they can serve someone else, to give voice to the tearing and conflicting feelings of those who had my same experiences and is now about to face the road taking them out of violence.
Perhaps the knowledge of my own unexpressed emotions and sharing them with others will add strength to the courage of these persons.
As far as I’m concerned it has been laborious, but it was worth the pain: I start another life in planning freedom.
Thanks to Elisabetta Beltrami, Francesca Pisani Doni, Ambrogio Colombo, Jacques Renò, Alberto Cappi, Eleonora Voltolina, Ottavio Rossani, Jo Lanero, Alessandro Manitto, Annamaria Teruzzi, Alessandra Travaglini, Rita Mastrovilli, Giovanna Ferrante for the encouragement, suggestions, reviews, and the technical and artistic help in making this book. Translation by Virginia Welby
To U.T., whom I’ve stolen the title of this collection, to his music which goes with me.
