Women’s stories – Ester

Today the story is that of Esther, a girl who grew up in a southern province where being able to grow up unscathed from delinquency and perdition, is a privilege as well as a fortune.

“Around me I remember the gray images of anonymous palaces in which brigades of restless teenagers moved. My friends aspired nothing more than to find a man to take them away from that squalor. Marriage seemed the only way out.”

Enjoy your reading. 🙂

http://blog.pianetadonna.it/lestoriediagatha/

ESTER

Not me. I liked school, I wanted to be an important person.

Love was not enough to complete the image of my future in which I projected myself as an independent and realized woman. My desperate studying was my only means of trying to emerge from the quagmire I was in. I was studying with the greed of those who know that they only have one chance in the game of their lives. One hand in which to play everything. So since graduating, I’ve moved to university while I’ve seen my friends get married and have kids.

Men were a hindrance to me. Some small story had sometimes cheered my student days, but nothing more. The goal of graduation and a job made men and non-sense stories disappear on the horizon.

I wanted to be a lawyer. I knew the road was all uphill for a woman like me from a southern province, no recommendations, no discounts. But that made me even more heinous in my intention to take what I wanted with all of myself.
But when do you plan to get engaged? You never go out….That was the question that relatives and friends were insistently asking me. I don’t have time, I answered resolutely and annoyed at the same time.

Meanwhile, time was passing by. After practicing, I had found a job in a major firm as a lawyer. On the first day I looked at the desk that had been assigned to me with the sneer of an intimate deep satisfaction. I did it. I had sacrificed youth and loves but in the end I made it.
For some time I continued to taste the taste of conquest.
Then came the desire to complete the drawing. The work was there but something was moaning inside me. The lack of someone to share my successes with, my disappointments, my interests. Suddenly the veil that had always obtained in me the image of the male world was torn apart. I looked at them with different eyes, trying to find the sign that pointed me to the right one. My friends’ weddings were starting to make water all over the place. Stories that started with the most overwhelming love had turned into horror movie nightmares. I didn’t want to and I couldn’t go wrong.

As with graduation and work, i now had a new goal: to find the man of my life. Where to start? Where to look for him? In the office for heaven’s sake scorched earth. In the circle of my friendships idem. The feat was not at all easy while my biological clock was 38 years old. And I actually knew inside myself that what I was really looking for was just a son. The real goal behind the search for a man there was the desire of having a child.

I would walk past the shop windows of pram shops and children’s clothes and be enchanted. Time stopped on this desire. On my way to work by tram I often got lost in the dream of two small little feet to kiss.

And the more time passed, the more the thought of being a mother increased in me. Nature claimed his obolo and I could not oppose his design.

Candlelit dinners began, transformed almost into interviews, I might say, for men who were supposed to play not so much the role of companions, but the much more demanding role of fathers. I was looking for a dad for my baby, and none of them seemed up to it. I used to come home every time after those disappointed and bitter outings.

One morning I looked in the mirror and saw a little girl with wrinkles. The lack of pregnancy, the non-absolution of my biological task, had transformed me into an amorphous being, transporting me from youth to the most advanced maturity. The piece of my middle life was missing, the one I should have spent between ups and downs, between untold joys and sorrows, just like my friends, in any marriage, with any man I would then leave holding tight but the spoils: the children. My life had taken a different path. I wanted her to go down that path that had now taken me to a dead end and I had to get out of it.

That’s how my research became obsessive. By now my evenings spent between dance schools, aperitifs in the center, gallant appointments. I started sghembe stories, trying to straighten them out in the course of work. But nothing, they escaped my attempt to redesign them as I liked. So they ended up in the most apocalyptic fury or simply went off like a candle coming to its bottom.

One day, however, he arrived, like a sudden gust of wind. The moment my eyes met his including the taste of happiness, a sweet and unmistakable taste that I had never experienced before. In front of those eyes they lost their sense objective of all sorts. He was the man I wanted in my life without ifs and buts. And I would have taken it. He was husband and father, but that didn’t seem like a hindrance, just a setback. It wasn’t easy at first. It was time for lies and subterfuge, motel getaways and second thoughts, ” or you or me”, furious quarrels, sleepless nights as I knew he was lying in bed next to his wife.

But even more was about to happen.

A delay made me doubt that something had gone as planned. When I was 43, I was having an affair with a married man who wouldn’t leave his wife. A son was off-schedule. Yet a hope was lit. That of finally stroking those little feet I dreamed of in the tram. The one that he would renew by realizing that I was the woman of his life. I began to think that maybe that off-schedule was a sign of fate because it would bring order back to the delirium of our lives: he loved me and would leave his wife to be with me and the baby that would be born.

The pregnancy test I did it myself, on my way home after work, to my bathroom. Urine flowed on the strip as thoughts became liquid in my head. The result produced a rushing hot bow from the tip of the toes to that of the hair: positive. I ran on the phone to call him but stopped: it was evening and he was with his wife, I couldn’t do it. I left him a message, giving him an appointment the next day, for one of our evenings at my house.

It took him a while to respond or maybe I was just so impatient that I could decide to go to his house at the same time. Then came his Agree while I filled a bathtub to take a hot bath trying to tidy up my thoughts. I lit candles and incense and filled me with a glass of white wine. Stripping myself I looked in the mirror: those shapes that I now saw so slender would be filled with life. I immersed in hot water with my glass in my hand. I toasted life, love, my last chance.

I slept very little that night. The best of my life. I already felt like a mother.

The next day I barely held back the emotion and laboriously dragged my hours into the evening.

I had prepared a very romantic dinner, his favorite dishes, the music, the candles. When he arrived, he knew right away that I was hatching something. All he had to do was look at me in the eyes to see if there was anything new in the air. So I decided not to wait until the end of dinner to let him discover a note under the plate that announced to him: you will become a dad.
I’m not going to tell you about his reaction that night because it hurts. He simply told me that he had never thought of having a child with me, that he considered me Out of Time Maximum for a pregnancy that could have serious risks for the fetus, but above all that he intended to recover the relationship with his wife. He had children with a woman he had discovered he had always loved. I would not have lacked his support, however, to get us out of the unexpected. You have a problem growing inside, he told me.

In that moment I realized that I would be alone living what life was unexpectedly giving me.

I suffered a lot from the end of my romance. I still loved him. And I was deeply disappointed with him. But now I had an immensely bigger task to complete: to unearth those little feet.

I spent months trepidating waiting to see him. After the three months I started buying clothes, objects, creams that smelled good. I couldn’t wait to hold him in my arms, I knew it would be a boy, a bullying instinct pushed me to imagine it like this.

One night I fell asleep tired on the couch watching TV. It had been a cold February day, with a rushing wind, I remember it well. I woke up in a storm. I was inundated with blood, copious and kept coming out in a slingshot. Shocked I rushed to get a towel putting it between my legs and ran to the car wearing a coat on my nightgown. In the emergency room they took me urgently to gynecology for an ultrasound. I was crying and hoping with all of myself that it wouldn’t happen to me, it couldn’t be….The doctor’s words came to me from far away, amplified and metallic. They had done other analyses and the verdict was ready to be delivered, for me now at the bar: my baby was gone.

A dark, dusty cloud fell on my lost soul in the days to come.

A few years have passed but every time the cold January wind comes it takes me as a bewilderment. I remember it taking away from me the joy of being a mother, who swept away with the cold lashes my most beautiful dream.

I talk little about my pain, not even with my closest friends. It’s a silent presence, that I’m carrying like a heavy suitcase.

Today I live a new love story with the man who, with patience and self-denial, managed to sooth my wounds. Fate wanted me not to be a mother, but today I no longer feel like a little girl with wrinkles. I am afraid to say it but I live moments of happiness with my new love even if, on a cold and windy day in January, like today, I am afraid of losing everything. One more time.

If you want to tell your story and share it, you can contact me by email or in response to this post.

Women’s stories – Stella

Today we tell the story of Stella, who faces her husband’s betrayal and soon discovers that she cannot do anything about it.

Maybe life is like a river that goes to the sea. It didn’t go where intended to go, but it ended up where it needed to be.

Fabrizio Caramagna

STELLA

Christmas Eve. I remember the cold air in the morning while I was shopping. I wanted the dinner to be perfect in every detail. I would have carefully cooked fish dishes, I would have set the table with golden organza tulle.

Christmas music in the background would have spread notes of family intimacy in the air. The children would have worn the new red and black velvet dresses, running around joyfully and impatiently waiting to unwrap the gifts. Then the tree. I wanted it all with white flowers, really impressive. Everything had been studied in detail. For some time my husband hasn’t been the same. He always returned later in the evening and even on weekends he was often out for hypothetical work commitments.

He no longer looked me in the eyes. Indeed, he escaped my gaze. The conversation centered on the children, the shopping, the home. Never a word about us, about me, about what I felt. And I wanted to. Sometimes I looked at him absorbed in his thoughts. His body was next to mine but his soul was traveling elsewhere. We no longer made love. Little by little the habit of looking for each other under the bed sheets was lost. We lived in two parallel worlds that did not cross except in daily affairs. What still bound us? The mortgage to pay. The children. Years spent together. So many memories. But he was no longer mine. For a long time. Yet I still loved him, I was sure of it. I still wanted it. So, that Christmas Eve, I had decided to take him back.

I would have set up a perfect scene of family happiness to make him understand that his life was with us. Certainly not with the other, whose ghost now populated my sleepless and restless nights. My feminine intuition told me that that was the truth. All the clues pointed to this. There was no doubt. Then I should have tried to use all the weapons to my advantage. I was the wife. And I was the mother of his children. The woman he had shared everything with since we met twenty years earlier.

I would have populated that Christmas Eve with a radiant, sparkling atmosphere, made up of music, lights, colors, family scents. I wanted to make him understand that I didn’t care about his fling (because that’s what it was, I was sure).

A wife will have to forgive some of her husband’s mistakes and then be ready to pick him up in her big arms. The thought of the other bothered me, that yes. But more for her who had slipped subtly into our intimacy, than for him, whom I saw as aprey to her enchanting arts.

In my culture as a simple woman, educated in a farmers’ family, with sound principles and few frills, a woman had to have courage and common sense. Taking him back into my arms and forgiving him seemed like common sense. I imagined the scene at times. He who was crying on my breast invoking my forgiveness. I was crying and kissing him. And then we would have made love. Many times until the morning, when we would find ourselves in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in our hands looking at each other as it once was. As only he knew how to look at me and everything would be as before. Ring at the door. I go to open anxiously. The scene that I had set up as the backdrop for my victory over the other was ready.

Everything was perfect. Except him. Almost bothered by my attentions and the atmosphere with which I had enveloped him. The evening proceeded in a falsely serene atmosphere. The speeches are forced, the smiles painted on puzzled faces. At midnight we open the gifts to the delight of the children who perhaps do not notice the difficult lives of the adults around them. Let’s hope. There comes a time when we find ourselves alone. The time has come to tell him that I still love him and that I don’t care about the other one … But he does it before me.

He says my name like he hasn’t done for a long time. Stella… I have to tell you something. And then the whole truth falls on me like a winter avalanche. After that there is only silence and ice. He tells me he found out he loved a man. It had happened to him before, when he was very young, before we met. The story with me had made him think that this was just a youthful crush. Then came the marriage, the children, the house, the mortgage.

For some time, however, that desire that drowned in our marriage had resurfaced in him. He loved another. He could no longer deny it and pretend a life with me that no longer made sense. He decided to tell me on Christmas Eve … I swallow that truth like a bitter poison. I know I can’t compete with a man taking him away from me. My Christmas present. It’s not easy to walk again after a fall like this. Yet with so much pain, so much effort, today I still prepare Christmas dinner.

The music resounds and the organza tablecloth is still there. My children are grown up but still wait for midnight with the happiness of unwrapping their gifts. Next to me there is another who helps me cook Christmas Eve dinner. Everything will be perfect. I’m sure.

If you want to see the original video: https://www.facebook.com/RadioBinario7/videos/359291738003499/

storia vera, tratta dal blog: http://blog.pianetadonna.it/lestoriediagatha/stella/

Women’s stories – Clementine

Today’s story is that of Clementine, a woman who realizes that something is missing in her golden life. For a time she feels confused, lost: she has a husband who adores her, a much-desired son and a fulfilling job. What can she miss?

CLEMENTINE

Every morning leaving house before him, I would slide away from his body, letting him sleep. I was confused and sleepy in the kitchen in front of my cup of hot milk and wrote a love note saying good morning. For him. He would do the same by making me find a note in the evening. Good morning Princess. Goodnight beauty. Everyday. Years of engagement and marriage, the arrival of a child, had not in the least affected this sweet routine, the effusions, the love atmosphere and peace that hung around us. You don’t look like a married couple, many told us, but two sweethearts in love like the first day.

These sweet actions have cheered my wedding, apparently perfect and envied. Yet I felt inside me that a piece of my heart was missing. Yes, somewhere something was inexorably wavering. Sometimes I found myself in the office lost in distant thoughts, in imaginative worlds, losing all contact with real life. Something was wrong. The circle did not close perfectly on my life as a wife and mother. I had the terrible feeling of pretending, living a life that didnt belong to me. I was fumbling in an attempt to look into the immense void that had opened inside of me. What was I missing? A loving and caring husband, a desired and loved child, a satisfying and profitable job.

I had all the requisites that this society counts among those indispensable for a happy and fulfilled life. Yet they werent enough to make me feel complete. The sleepless nights began without a reason. My fear began of compromising with my increasingly frequent bad moods what I had built and wanted more than anything else in the world. That house, designed, furnished, desired, was becoming a prison in which my soul yearned to feel free and at peace.

This is how you found me when you entered in my life.

I saw you at an cocktail. You were on the sidelines with your drink in hand. You looked around bored. Instinct did it before me, before the elaboration of any rational thought, I was there next to you, talking about everything and nothing, happy to be inundated by your immense smile. I had lost track of space and time when my husband came to tell me it was time to go and asked me to introduce him to that new friend. Ginevra, nice to meet you.

That night I did nothing but think of you. I wanted to see you again. I just needed to see you again. In the morning I drank my coffee quickly and sneaked out of the house with one goal. Find yourself. In our conversation you told me to work in a real estate agency across town. I called the office saying I wasn’t going to work that day and came to see you. What madness!

A woman had changed my life. My belly was in turmoil, every fiber of my body trembled, when, standing in front of the agency’s window, I was trying to find the courage to come in and ask you if you wanted to have lunch with me. But the footsteps went by themselves towards your desk, without my being able in any way to hinder their determined and firm progress. I was passing by, shall we eat together? Yes, gladly … Then my heart was not wrong when it was deluded that for you too that meeting had been something strong and overwhelming. I went crazy with joy.

How to tell the happiness of that and subsequent lunches. Oh how many! Dinners at her house, chats on the sofa, walks looking at each others in the eyes. Ginevra and me.

When I was away from her the thought of those lips weakened me, I could not work, concentrate, think. Suddenly I no longer felt that emptiness that was drying me up. Ginevra had filled every gap in my soul.

Thus began my life in the middle, split in two realities. During the day still wife and mother, in the evening often a clandestine lover. I fulfilled my duties as a married woman: shopping, preparing lunches and dinners, the child from school, the swimming pool.

But a fire was growing inside me that made me feel alive and happy, making every molecule in my body vibrate. How many lies and how many excuses to cover that fire. I escaped more and more often from the hands of my husband who sought me out at night, in the dark.

I had to go away. I could not bear this life any longer. I was tired of too many lies, of the falsehood that I was surrounding my life with. And then I wanted to be with her, wake up and fall asleep in her arms. Everyday. So, on a June evening, the windows open on the incipient heat, I sat next to him and told him that I was not in love him anymore, to have great and new feelings for another person. I omitted that it was a woman. I didn’t want to upset him any more than he already was. But it wasn’t long before the truth broke out.

My husband did not accept that truth too harsh for his pride as a wounded male: his wife was leaving home for another woman. And then my son. In the midst of daily fights he was contended among the reasons of a father who camped dangerous consequences of my bad behaviour on his psyche.

Lawyers, psychologists, judges, friends no longer friends, poisoned my daily routine.

My battle still continues today. A relentless struggle to claim the legitimacy of our love. To try not to get overwhelmed by feelings of guilt for having lost everyday life with my son. No more kisses in the morning and cuddles in the evening, but only aseptic meetings for a few hours in anonymous places that take my breath away and the words to tell him how much I love him and how much I miss him. Short phone calls. How did school go? While a “as usual mom” closes the door to our brief conversation.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night in an indescribable anguish. Thoughts that create inner troubles, bizarre nocturnal awakenings and strange dreams. But above all an idea that terrorizes me: that she is no longer next to me and that my bed suddenly becomes cold and empty.

I think and think again: is it really that important to understand what we are, in love? Because love changes us, devastates us, makes us evolve, we lose ourselves, our boundaries as man and woman, our sex, and we become something else. I can’t find the answers I’m looking for.

I just know that today I am no longer the woman I used to be, writing good morning notes to her husband in an “almost perfect” life. I bet all my chips on this number, for me a winner in the roulette of life.

original story from: http://blog.pianetadonna.it/lestoriediagatha/clementine/

Women’s stories – Nadia

Today’s story is that of Nadia, who like many women in the world still find themselves having to live with violence within their homes, but who, thanks to her obstinacy and the help of special people with a big heart, managed to regain reins of her life.

“It is difficult when you are a victim of violence to react. Why? I can’t tell you, you come to think that we deserve it, or even worse – who will believe me“?

NADIA

Nadia is a young, determined woman, independent, with a good job and many friends. One day, at a party, she meets Joel, a beautiful young man. His green eyes are deep and intense.

A great love is born almost immediately, he is always caring and the months to come are full of happiness and the relationship seems to start under the best auspices. At some point, Nadia discovers she is pregnant, and the joy is immense.

“We really wanted to get married anyway, so now it will just happen sooner

The more time goes on, more of Joel‘s character gets worse and worse, and anything becomes a good reason to turn into increasingly fierce reproaches. But Nadia thinks it is due to the change in lifestyle, she no longer has a job and the baby is still very young.

For work reasons, he is very often away from home and even from a distance he always finds opportunities for insulting and threatening Nadia, who just thinks of her baby.

The clear sky is clouded by his returns, but finally he leaves again. Meanwhile, the money for rent and basic necessities are starting to run out. Time passes and, on the first day of kindergarten, Nadia decides to look for a job and finds it.

The real ordeal starts now…

Visits and calls on the workplace … until when even the employers intervene trying to discourage him by warning him that they would call the police.

At home Nadia tries, when he is there, to keep calm … always with great effort; the first slaps and outbursts of anger begin, sometimes for no reason.

Letting that first slap through, though, opened the door to violence. But Nadia must save what can be saved: it is not possible, what happened to him … It will pass, sooner or later he will calm down… until that day …

“I’ll take him away, you’ll never see him again.”

And so it is. One hot summer afternoon Nadia comes home from work and nobody is there.

They probably went to the park. Dinner time, nothing … Finally the phone rings, her voice asking “where are you?”

We’re not going home tonight.”

Nadia feels like the world is collapsing on her and hears a little voice shouting “you are a liar, you said you would take me home to my mummy”.

“At that moment Nadia realized that she couldn’t do it alone and that she had to ask for help.”

Thanks to the Anti-Violence Center for Women, to the lawyers, to the employers, to the police, Nadia managed to resume a normal life and to raise her son in a finally peaceful environment.

Women’s stories – Kira

Today we will tell the story of Kira, who after the loss of her great love finds the strength and courage to be reborn.

“When the gods decided to put you in my path, my life was leaking everywhere. I was divorcing the man I had loved all my life. I was practically biting off a piece of my flesh. How much pain. Nothing. it was more like before nor would it ever be.

I would have raised my daughters alone, for us no more Christmas lunches together, nor festive dinners around the table. No more mothers, fathers and children as in the drawings of my little daughter who they were holding hands.

And then the lawyers‘ delirium. The poison. Every molecule in my body was poisoned. “

KIRA

Enjoy your reading. 🙂

You found me like this when you came to my office. Black hair, blue eyes, radiant as the dawn light.

Fate was already plotting its drawings when you asked me to have a coffee together. You know, I’m new, I would like to understand how it works here…. You were asking me to help you fit into the new environment.

Thus began the sweet speeches, the fleeting glances, the belly in turmoil when you approached me.

One day you were absent and my day suddenly turned gray. I began to understand. For a long time we met as colleagues until it happened that the signs became increasingly clear on the horizon: you were my promised land. I had found my half of the apple.

Our souls proceeded light in unison: same tastes, same passions, same political ideas. An overwhelming physical attraction. Soon dinners or weekends together weren’t enough. We were greedy for each other. We wanted to live together at any time of the day. We wanted to meet each other in bed every night to whisper sweet words in our ears. We were addicted to the smells and flavors that were mixed in our love nights. Come and stay with me. I asked him one day without mincing words and he hugged me tightly. The following week we bought a new bed at Ikea. I was immensely happy. We spent a few years of serenity, until at a certain point, we started with strong quarrels.

Sudden and stormy explosions of his bad moods.

Passing clouds. I told myself. Instead they began to become more and more frequent. One evening he began to insult me for no reason, leaving me perplexed, astonished.

Those same gods who had lowered him into my life to soothe my wounds decided one day that it was time to take back their gift. I’m leaving. Sitting in the kitchen I hear those words that did not enter my head and remained stubbornly out of it.

I love another woman.

It happened, I’m sorry. Nobody is to blame. I felt under indictment. Lately you neglected me, always taken by the children, by work. Between us it was no longer the same. If you love me you have to let me go. I should have helped you build your raft back to Ithaca but I wasn’t ready. Something subtle and malicious was taking you away from me. I couldn’t do anything against this evil design. So I washed you with my most fragrant conditioners, dried you with my long hair and climbed the cliff to see you go and take off. And when you disappeared on the horizon I went back to my cave. To my long, cold winter. Without his sun, my body refused to live. I was beginning to lose weight, insomnia invaded my nights spent thinking about you. Which woman now had the privilege of being by your side, of being welcomed into your heart? I could still smell your musky smell but couldn’t find your chest to drown the pain in.

I was bumping into objects and memories that hung all over the place, ice stalactites in our alcove. In the office I was distant and absent. At home with my children I was at my worst. One day, for a triviality, I slapped my daughter. I will never forget those eyes that penetrated my eyes, digging in search of a small spark that would allow her to recognize her mother.

“You are no longer my mother”, she told me relentlessly. It was so, she was right. I felt a tightening in my stomach. I was afraid of losing her and her sister. I had to shake out of that numbness and react.

So, slowly I began every now and then to come out of my cave. First for fleeting excursions, then for longer and longer walks. I was beginning my ascent to the surface. I could not succumb to the waves of fate. I owed it to those two little sisters who looked at me with their big eyes. Like a castaway I clung to all sorts of wrecks in order to survive while waiting for a friendly ship to come and rescue me.

One day I was sitting on a bench at the lake. The hot sun reflected on the water streaked every now and then by white sails. I was fine. That sun entered me and warmed every crevice of my body. I felt the life he craved within me. I felt it throbbing in every fiber, in every piece of meat.

“Listen to this song a bit”. My daughter, sitting next to me, tells me, handing me the headset. I look at her and smiled. She has noticed my change and now she wants me to re-enter her world through the door of the music she loves. I feel happy and relieved. I suddenly rediscover my meaning in being a mother. The memory of that unhappy love slowly begins to fade. It will take some time, I will have to take care of my garden, weed it out, put water, plant new seeds, waiting for another fruitful spring.

http://blog.pianetadonna.it/lestoriediagatha/kira/

Women’s stories – Mery

Today’s story is that of Mery, a victim of food addiction, and how she recovered her life in order to return to live it with joy.

It is a long and tiring journey, but it is possible. So, when you meet a fat or obese person, know that they may not simply be greedy and “eater”.

An addiction may be hiding behind her round cheeks, which in turn hides a pain you can’t even imagine. That of wanting to fill, with food, the abyss of solitude.

MERY

Buona lettura. 🙂

Plump face, round and wobbly bottom, large breasts and stocky hands

But that beautiful smile is always there, which makes you want to crush those round cheeks.

But behind that heap of abundance, what is she hiding? It is clear that people tend to feel more sorry for an excessively thin person than someone who is surrounded by fat.

Hypocrisy aside, the most common phrase in the case is: “Eat less“. Well, unfortunately that’s not the case.

In the world there are many types of lethal addictions, of drugs, classified in various categories, as if to grant a conscientious penalty discount for having used them. Then there is IT, food. You can find it everywhere, they serve it in a thousand ways, it is cheap and it is legal. In short, the perfect drug.

I begin to have a strange confidence with it, to establish a good relationship, up to a sort of emotional relationship. I love it and hate it, I seek for it and I reject it. He doesn’t talk, he satisfies me, he doesn’t run away, he satisfies me, he doesn’t criticize, he satisfies me. “How many times have you ended up directly in my mouth passing through my hands”.

I need it. I look for it, I swallow it, I abuse of it and Flavor becomes irrelevant.

Just fill up.

Where the world does not go, he comes. To fill me with what I miss. To satisfy me.

But as in any sick love, pain comes sooner or later. I am addicted, I alter reality, the perception of quantity and images.

I see something repulsive in the mirrormyself. I crossed that line between abuse and addiction.

Now I am what I eat and what I eat is what I feel.

While the others are deceived by a beautiful smile, I slowly die inside, less and less master of my body, a diving suit.

Then I start living in a world built on excuses, held up by lies to myself and sealed by procrastination. Oh yeah! you know …. honestly it becomes “comfortable” to live like this.

The suffering that is felt is so strong that it acts as a refuge.

He welcomes me lovingly in his large arms. But then you realize that you are not living, you are just surviving. The thought of food annihilates every longing for life, sweeping away everything in its path: happiness, lightheartedness, the naturalness of small gestures.

We live in a society where it is not allowed to be the discordant with the standards.

Consequently you cancel yourself socially.

http://blog.pianetadonna.it/lestoriediagatha/mery/

Women’s stories – Romina

Starting from today, on every Sunday I will post stories about women. They are real stories of women who often have had to struggle to emerge even in very difficult times. Today’s story, taken from the blog http://blog.pianetadonna.it/lestoriediagatha/romina-2/, is that of Romina, a strong and sweet woman who managed family and work at a time when everything could seem lost.
My adolescence had passed unscathed until the separation of my parents which had sanctioned for us new and unexpected balances, no longer close around the reassuring family lunch table, curling up in symbiotic relationships. My mother and I became one thing. When I was 23, however, when we had now learned to rebuild new domestic scenarios and to move in the balance on new unsuspected balances, black clouds thickened over our lives. My mother, with whom I had shared everything since we were alone, in symbiosis with each other, always, MY MOTHER, falls ill with cancer. I follow her with all the love I can, support her and take care of her, running from one visit to another, from one doctor to another, confused and stunned by their grim words. I bounce between relentless white coats as my heart is empty and colorless. I try hard to show her my smile so that she will find the strength to cling to it and fight the dark evil that was taking her away. But at just 49 years old I see her go away in my arms, helpless, flabby, unable to hold her next to me. I still needed you. I was becoming a woman and I needed your help, I was asking for your advice, your scoldings, your wisdom. The cozy domestic intimacy you were the pivot of, was dismembered and torn apart. Nothing would have been like before. With your absence, reality took on dark traits. It is not true that if you lose someone because of an illness, you are more prepared to his death. My pain is endless. I am alone. The days follow one another in the same spasmodic search for new senses, goals to hold on to go forward, not to give in, supporting the pain, always alive, scorching. My love relationships overlook the abyss and look under the black precipice of despoiling. Misunderstandings. How to explain the magma that flows inside me? I can’t feel life anymore, I search for it, I crave it, but I don’t feel it. Yet sometimes in the dance I can feel for a few moments the heartbeat that had stopped that day, when I had to let her go away from me, unjustly. Sometimes the dance manages to repaint my world in black and white with bright colors. A corner of paradise, all mine. I had started at the age of 5 years with classical dance and artistic gymnastics and, without ever stopping, I had gone through modern, jazz, belly dance, couple dances: smooth, boogie woogie and Caribbean, my undisputed passion. When I’m happy I need to dance to express the joy that roars me inside, when I’m in the dark the dance brings light back into the dark and empty rooms of my soul. The notes of music take me away from pain, where there is no place for anyone. A dimension in which there are no diseases and detachments, no misunderstandings and hardships in living. Just me and music. And it is precisely on a dance floor that one evening I run into his eyes. Gently, he invites me to dance holding out my hand. I feel the grip of his warm body against mine, I abandon myself lightly letting myself be guided. With my eyes closed. That evening I am a dancing fire star. He is an Italian boogie and acrobatic rock champion. Between us there is immediately fire set on fire by the dance steps, marked by the notes of the music. And with the light dance steps we start to plan a life together, a house, a family. Three children are born, three boys who soon fill our home with cries and joy. But the clouds are not long in spreading out over my blue sky again. With three children, working away from home makes family management difficult, I have to quit. Meanwhile, love is not enough to keep up the pieces of my family and my life, which are inexorably crumbling. I separate myself from my dance and life partner, as had happened to my parents, many years before, and I find myself alone again, this time with three children to raise. I soon realize that the divorce allowance is not enough and I no longer have a job. What can I do to keep giving my children what they need to live? They are still very young and the road to growing them is all uphill. I have to find the strength not to lose heart. I have to do it. I find my kindergarten teacher diploma in a drawer and decide to open one alone without having an initial capital. As luck would have it, a place not far from my house is for sale. Using all my courage, I decide to take it over and repay it sliwly with the same income guaranteed by the registrations. A great bet. Of course, the first it will be tough, a lot of work and very few earnings, but I’m not discouraged. Such enthusiasm in this project is such that the registrations in a short time grow, guaranteeing not only some initial income, but reaching the point of creating a brand and a franchising network. Today I am a fulfilled woman, I love my job, I enjoy my children growing up and when I can I still go dancing. On evenings of freedom from family commitments, you can meet me on the track, or twirl lightly in a ballroom, free as the air. The force of life has scrambled the clouds from my horizon.