The history of EVELYONE. Chapter 1.

8 min readNov 23, 2020


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

imaginary parents.

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

with them.

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.




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