You are not crazy

You met him at a birthday you went to as a fluke and he as a package.

He was the cousin of a friend, who sneaked into that party and, incidentally, into your life.

He looked at you, you looked at him, you felt that crush that the magazines talked about, and you knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

The early days were like a tabletop movie, between cheesy and torrid, although seen from now on you cannot deny that the wolf began to show its paw very soon.

Your friend already warned you that he was a fucking pimp, and your friends, that they didn't understand what you were doing with that ghost that didn't reach your soles.

That he would take the word out of your mouth as soon as he thought you were shadowing him.

That he would murder you with his gaze if you looked at another while he flirted with the stones.

What will anyone know about yours, you thought.

How it is with you

From the depth of love.

From the drunkenness of sex, sometimes wild;

others, tender.

Too many, and you deny this even to yourself, so sordid as to erase the border between what is consented and what is forced.

You're crazy, he would tell you when you protested, and he would go back to being the big and vulnerable boy you fell in love with that day.

And you forget the humiliations.

And you come to think that, it may be, that you are the same, that you are not fine.

And you always find an excuse for him.

He is nervous.

He is stressed.

You take it out of his boxes.

And he fights you over nothing, or nothing at all.

And you write the reasons on the sly so as not to lose your sanity.

But you cover it.

you cover it

Out of shame for him, but, above all, for yourself.

so sordid as to erase the border between what is consented and what is forced.

You're crazy, he would tell you when you protested, and he would go back to being the big and vulnerable boy you fell in love with that day.

And you forget the humiliations.

And you come to think that, it may be, that you are the same, that you are not fine.

And you always find an excuse for him.

He is nervous.

He is stressed.

You take it out of his boxes.

And he fights you over nothing, or nothing at all.

And you write the reasons on the sly so as not to lose your sanity.

But you cover it.

you cover it

Out of shame for him, but, above all, for yourself.

so sordid as to erase the border between what is consented and what is forced.

You're crazy, he would tell you when you protested, and he would go back to being the big and vulnerable boy you fell in love with that day.

And you forget the humiliations.

And you come to think that, it may be, that you are the same, that you are not fine.

And you always find an excuse for him.

He is nervous.

He is stressed.

You take it out of his boxes.

And he fights you over nothing, or nothing at all.

And you write the reasons on the sly so as not to lose your sanity.

But you cover it.

you cover it

Out of shame for him, but, above all, for yourself.

And you always find an excuse for him.

He is nervous.

He is stressed.

You take it out of his boxes.

And you get into a fight over nothing, or nothing at all.

And you write the reasons on the sly so as not to lose your sanity.

But you cover it.

you cover it

Out of shame for him, but, above all, for yourself.

And you always find an excuse for him.

He is nervous.

He is stressed.

You take it out of his boxes.

And you get into a fight over nothing, or nothing at all.

And you write the reasons on the sly so as not to lose your sanity.

But you cover it.

you cover it

Out of shame for him, but, above all, for yourself.

Until one day, defeated, you let your guard down and tell someone.

A friend, a sister, a neighbor.

And they tell you to get out of there.

That you can't stand

That you are worth more than that book abuser.

And you arm yourself with courage.

And you leave it.

But he doesn't let go.

And he calls you, and he haunts you, and he pleads with you.

Or it is you who is looking for him, dizzy from the vertigo of suddenly living without his yoke.

How he is going to be an abuser, you deceive yourself, if he has never laid his hand on you, except for some tantartan in the kitchen.

And you come back

And your friend, or your sister, or your neighbor get desperate with that I'm going, that I'm coming, and they hesitate between staying alert or leaving you for impossible.

And the next brawl you don't even know anymore, little food because of the guilt.

And so, between rows and rows, life goes by.

A subdued life, at best.

At worst,

a life mowed down by the umpteenth sexist murderer.

This story is not true, but it is plausible.

Thousands of women are living that hell out there right now.

You are not crazy.

Not alone.

We are failing you.

Don't let yourself down.

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