The history of EVELYONE. Chapter 1.
And PAFU, the demon.
I cannot see me. I only see me in the relationship with the other.
And what I see I don’t like at all. It is dark. It is deep. I feel a huge hole.
As far as I remember, I always see myself troughs the perspective of
others. In particular, one of my brothers and all my family. All of
these looks were ready to judge me, to evaluate me, and to criticize
me. I was all the time afraid of these gazes, so the only way I
discovered to get rid of them, it was to contain them within me, to
introject them, to possess them, and to dominate them. For this, I
started to take care of them, and I put all of them inside me.
Slowly, these looks have started to change me, to hurt me. I lost control, and they began to control me.
However, I thought I was doing well. The looks helped me to think
about myself, to see me, and to build myself. I knew they weren’t
accompanied by smile and joy, but they were the only ones I had.
And so, it felt natural to me to use them to build me.
Apart from my family, I didn’t have many external relationships. My
family was everything. Or it was just me who couldn’t see any other
important people a part of them. The world was vast and immense,
and I had never thought about it. My home was the space that I
knew; the roads travelled were reassuring; the rest was a background
that I didn’t belong to me. And it didn’t belong to me.
Sometimes I got confused. Often.
There was something wrong with these looks and the use that I made
of them. However, I needed raw material to build myself up, and
these looks, even if negative, became me, there are the bricks of my
identity. They were there all around me. I had enough of them every
day. My family offered daily freely fresh criticisms, comments,
adjectives, opinions about me in every daily interaction. I listened to
all of them without asking or reply. They spoke to me words that
sounded foreign to me, with a charge of hatred and aggression. I
knew they were terrible words, which I soon repeated and found it
useful to think about myself. Yet I was not entirely sure of their
meaning, belonging to a still un-know adult experience of pain that I
was just starting to know.
I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t find me anywhere. For this reason,
I started to live in my imagination. My imagination is a safe, silent
space, like a long table with a clean white tablecloth. On this table, I
can put what I want: people, objects, a beautiful body, some friends
and a lot of pleasant emotions.
Soon I start to love to be alone in this space. I love to spend a long
moment of the day there. I begin to create unlikely and original
dialogues with characters from reality transported with me to the new
context. It was a vast table white, clean, and I can use as alike — all for
me. And I was in control of all what happens in this space.
Sometimes, at the end of my imaginary session, I take a sponge, and I
clean the unreal surface of the table. So, it was ready again to be used
in the next session.
Everything becomes clean, smooth, ready to be used as a play table.
The words follow one another, the dialogues also, in a changing
context that I shape as I like. The web of words stretches along with
the table, covering it with repressed desires, laughter, smiles, gestures
of seduction, innocent and malicious light body touches of myself
and the others. Time passes, and the imagination becomes the field
of expression of my identity under construction.
Likely, the other gaze cannot enter in this space. So, there I was free.
I can dance, I can share, I can live. However, I feel that the others
were at the edge of my imaginary world. So, I keep a look to them, to
be sure they are outside.
At least in part, I feel safe. Each session ends with a sense of
At the end of each imaginary section, I was obligated to come back
to reality. Sometimes, I was scared of a lot of time spent in my
imagination, so I stop out brutally from there. Indeed, I didn’t want
that other member of the family has some suspicion about my space.
When I was back to reality, usually my mother or my brothers are
there. So, I feel tired in their presence, like after some sport session.
In my imagination, I met, for a short time, the boy I liked, the mother
who appreciates me, a whole loving and supportive family. My
interactions were done, my need filled, the reality was just not
My family was usually together to eat. At the table in the kitchen, I try
to become transparent, invisible, to reduce the notices, my voice was
off. But this strategy fails all the time. The others always have
something to address to me, commenting negatively my way to eat;
to dress; to walk. So, I cannot escape my imagination when I was
with them. I was obligated to stay with them to don’t show them my
imaginary space. So, I just give up emotionally, lay down any
resistance, and let them eat all my identity, bites made of jokes,
caricatures, digs, and insults.
I wished to have a new family. So, I realize that I can have a new one
in my imagination. I started to build a new mother and father — a
better one. I tried to tolerate the interactions with the real one. But I
often lose hope. They didn’t listen to me, understand me, care of me.
So, I take my vengeance in being happy in my room, with the
In real life, the behaviour of my parents confuses me. They give me
food and shelter, blankets, clothes. They give me some social
experience with aunts, grandmother, mum’s friends. I never miss the
essential. Girls around me were better dressed, but it was ok. For me,
it was customary to feel apart and be less of the other girls.
Yet I feel lonely; I overthink, I feel superflux. I feel like I’m worth
nothing. I was there to collect everyone’s negative emotions, to grasp
the discomfort, the sense of sadness, the agitation, the
embarrassment, the malicious gaze, the hypocritical smile that
disappears from the lips as soon as turned the corner.
I started to question If my family love me. Or if they hate me. I
cannot answer. They love-hate me. I do the same to them. I cannot
live without them, and I was scared to wish me an independent life. I
will not question me anymore, too much pain about who I was, too
much weigh on my feet. I just let them do to me what they want.
I discovered that I could be useful in one way. This way is to collect
their negative emotions. It was the only things that were already
there, in abundance, and it was free. I decide to collect and store in
myself all the negative emotions I could find.
I feel strongly connected with my family. Indeed, I spent all my time
in the house or the possible time.
I never allow myself to think of another place where to go to live. My
mother was so critical with all people, included her friends and family
that I didn’t find any options left. I was condemned do stay there
So, day after day, I learn to live the emotion of others. In particular,
the negative one. I was these emotions. I pick up all the negativity
that I found around me, the shame, and the blaming. For me, I was
helping the other to free them from the pain, and so I can have it for
me. I feel helpful.
In particular, my mother was more and more ready to give me her
emotions of frustration, aggression, and impatience. They were
thrown at me all the time, in every time I exchanged with her. Ready
to protect me or her (not sure), I let the negativity to enter in me as
quickly as possible, and then throw them into the black hole of my
I thought the negative emotion would disappear from there for
forever. It was one of my more significant mistakes. Without know, I
began to accumulate all of this row harmful materials, with my
innocent convictions that I was rid of it forever. A black cloud of
fears started to be around me.
The emotions were the more painful experiences I have to live.
I am still lost in my emotions.
Throwing them inside my heart, I hoped to be free of them. But I
will discover after that it was not valid. I was an emotional cocktail of
negativity. I felt intensely the guilty, the shame, the inferiority, the
I start to close myself to the reality to be ready to trap inside me all
that row emotional feeling that it was not suitable for the family. I
didn’t suspect how much space was inside me.