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- 06/08/2012
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
2012 - Summer - Choices Entry
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
2012 - Summer - Choices Entry
And Outside It's Dark - 1. And Outside It's Dark
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, eyeing the reporter as she leafed through her stack of papers, no doubt the result of many hours of labor, investigating my career and my life. Interviews made me nervous, even well-planned, predictable and superficial ones like these. My publicist had informed this reporter of the topics that would be strictly off limits, but when you have monsters in your closet, doing an interview is impossible without sometimes bending the truth. I'd always preferred not doing any interviews at all. Unfortunately, I needed to promote my latest album, and interviews came with the territory. At least that's what my record label always told me.
Even at the start of my career, when I had nothing to hide, I had despised promotional activities. Traveling from place to place, answering the same inane questions over and over, with the constant focus on my personal life as opposed to the music. Don't get me wrong, I felt very blessed to have been given the opportunity, and worked tirelessly, day and night, without a single complaint. Perhaps it was due to the way I was raised. But when I would lie there in those empty hotel rooms, wishing for sleep to come get me, I would fantasize about dropping everything, leaving it all behind. I would tell myself it wasn't worth it. Of course, the next morning, I'd get up and continue on the same path. And now, ten years later, nothing had changed. I was still moving forward on that same path. The only difference was that these days, promotional activities forced me to be more of an actor, rather than a singer.
"Why did you move to England?" the reporter asked. The past few years this had been one of the most common questions. Why would an Italian pop singer want to leave behind his home country?
"I love Italy. It will always be home," I answered with honesty. "But at the same time, I am a man of the world. I love to travel and find inspiration in other countries. London is a melting pot of musical styles, and I feel this has contributed greatly to the latest album, and the one before that. I really enjoy living here. It's easier too, because I'm not recognized as much. In England I can blend in and be a normal person."
It was the same old answer, and not completely untrue. It is quite unsettling when you can’t even go to the supermarket without signing some autographs.
We went over the same old things, the beginnings of my career, my successes up until now, the new album, the upcoming tour, my thoughts about this year's Sanremo Music Festival and the increasing importance of TV singing competitions. Despite being a natural introvert, for some reason I had always been blessed with eloquence, and even people who weren't my fans would often praise the way I answered even the simplest questions.
"You are one of the most romantic-minded contemporary singers in our country, providing the soundtrack to countless love stories, both the tragic ones and those with happy endings," the reporter looked into my eyes. I had a feeling that, having laid the groundwork, she would now fish for more interesting details. That's how these interviews usually went. "Yet your own love life has, up until now, been a bit of a blank slate. You're a very reserved, very private person. Rumors about your alleged homosexuality continue to circulate, while there are also many young women trying to sell their story of having spent one glorious night with you. Any comment on this?" she asked, even though I was fairly sure my publicist had asked her not to. Knowing he was about to interrupt, I stopped him with a quick shake of the head. I had this under control.
"I treat my personal life as just that, strictly personal," I easily kept my friendly tone. After years of practice, it had become second nature to always act as professional as possible. "But I will say this. I draw inspiration from both my own life and the lives of my friends. Love is a beautiful, universal language, one that I very much enjoy writing and singing about. And one that I like to experience. I always make an effort to stay positive and focus on the good things in life. I don't want to waste time, constantly addressing malicious rumors," I said with a slight grimace, not wanting to sound homophobic, but realizing it could come across that way.
"So are you currently involved with someone?" she pressed. I was starting to feel a little dismayed by her bluntness.
"Possibly," was my vague reply. "I'm a bit hesitant to talk about it. When you are in my position, it's not that easy to trust a stranger. It takes time."
"Interesting," she nodded, scribbling down some notes. "Is this also a reason why you moved to England? Because the relative anonymity makes it easier to begin a relationship?"
I nodded, having expected her to arrive at this conclusion, as a few others had done before. "It's true. No one knows who I am in England, so over there it is possible to make a connection with someone, without that voice in the back of your mind wondering about their true intentions. Due to the cultural differences between us and the British people, I can't really say it is easier to connect with them, but for me, it's less frightening." Little did she know I spent most of my free time locked up in my apartment, not interacting with anyone.
"Will you stay abroad, or do you envision an eventual return to Italy?" the reporter asked.
"I won't grow old in England, I can say that much. I can't stay in one place for too long," I replied. The truth was that I had no idea if I would ever move back.
"Lastly, do you want to put to rest the rumors about your homosexuality?" she suddenly went back there, catching me a little off guard. I swallowed nervously. Not many had dared to ask the question directly. I took a few seconds, trying to find the optimal response. Not saying anything would be like a silent affirmation. The only other option was to lie, and I had never lied on record. I did not want to lie.
"As I said before, I won't address malicious rumors," I said as I kept my poker face. "Your less honorable colleagues will continue to write whatever they want, it doesn't really matter what I say," I shrugged.
With a cordial smile and greeting, the interview was concluded, and the first leg of promotion for the new album had come to an end. In the taxi, on the way to Milan Malpensa airport, I closed my eyes and went over the final questions and answers. I felt disgusted with myself, particularly for describing the gay rumors as "malicious". I was such a fraud. How could my career, my songs, mean anything, when they all came from such a dark and twisted place? I winced, thinking about my future, and saw myself living alone for another ten years, which would make me a 40-year-old, unloved recluse. I shuddered, trying to shake the overwhelming fear that usually accompanied that vision. Why did I feel like I was locked inside a prison, unable to free myself? Why did I feel so guilty, and so deserving of this anguish? A tear rolling down my cheek brought me back to reality, and I quickly wiped it away, carefully reconstructing the mask that was supposed to keep all of this invisible to others. I swallowed the lump in my throat, pushing the monsters deeper inside. I was looking forward to the flight home.
"Dude, you have to come down here, everyone's having a blast, but it's a bit strange that we're celebrating your achievement and you're not even around," my manager, Davide, shouted into the phone, trying to hear his own voice over the loud music. I suppressed a groan as I felt the onset of a headache. Tonight had been the final night of my sold-out tour, and my team was out celebrating. Without me, of course. As usual, after saying goodnight to the 20,000-some crowd, I had quickly fled to the hotel.
"We've been over this. I'd rather rest," I told him. "Just let it go. I don't feel like socializing. They know how much I appreciate them, and they know how I am. No one expects me to be there anyway," I shrugged.
"Bullshit! No one's telling you to become friends with these people. What's the problem with having some fun once in a while? Look, we're worried about you, okay?"
"I have enough fun on stage," I defended myself. "And I'm going to hang up now, because I don't want to argue, not today," I said, before pressing the red button and shutting off my phone. Davide was one of the few people that I thought of as a friend, and he was the best manager I could possibly hope for, but I hated when he got like this. I had never been a very social creature and I wasn't going to force myself to become one.
It’s not that I was against the idea of a party or a night out in some club. I’d done plenty of that in my lifetime. The problem was that I had built walls around myself, and it was very tiring being around people who wanted to see beyond them, or worse, who tried to break them down. As long as we were in a professional setting, I enjoyed the sharing of ideas, and working together with others. I could discuss music and music business for hours on end. I always felt that everything I had accomplished in my career was very much a team effort.
But the personal side, that was more difficult. Sometimes I felt like I was two different entities. The professional, of whom I was very proud, who was loved and respected by millions of people, who was kind, approachable, disciplined, controlled. And the actual person, of whom I felt very ashamed, who was not well known even by his closest friends and family, and who felt very lonely, unhappy and hopeless. I enjoyed being the professional, and I despised being the person. My deepest wish was for the two to become one, but that had always seemed completely impossible. I felt like I had to choose either one or the other. I felt like my devotion to the professional entity had been the reason for my success, and the destruction of the personal entity the price that I had paid for it.
Time passed slowly in the hotel room as I watched TV with about a quarter of my total attention. The rest of it was dozing off little by little. Moments later, I was rudely awakened from my slumber by an aggressive knock on the door.
“Open up, it’s me, Davide,” a voice shouted. Of course that bastard would come track me down. Knowing that if I didn’t open the door he would stand there until sunrise, I got up, opened the door, and let him in. I tried to let the anger and disdain show on my face, but I was too tired. The neutral and distant look would have to do.
“What are you doing here? Just go back to the others,” I told him as he looked around the room, as if he were searching for something or someone. “I was just watching TV,” I explained after observing him for half a minute. Maybe he was expecting to find a bong or a prostitute. He turned to look at me.
“So you work your ass off for months, doing concert after concert, you manage to sell out the damn Olympic stadium, the whole damn country is at your feet and all you want to do is hide in here and watch…” he glanced at the screen. It was some MTV reality show. “Whatever that shit is.”
“Uh, yes,” I said as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “You know I don’t like getting caught up in all that stuff. I just want to chill for a bit. This weekend I’m headed to my parents’ house,” I shrugged. “And it was only half of the stadium.”
He rolled his eyes, sitting down on the bed, nervously picking at the covers. “I really don’t know what to do with you. It seems you’re only getting worse and worse.”
“Worse how?” I raised an eyebrow at him. I was always very careful not to let my personal issues affect my professional life. “Was there something wrong vocally? I thought it was alright today,” I said to myself, before humming some notes to affirm the quality of my voice.
“Not you the singer. You! You keep pulling away from all of us,” he accused.
“That’s just how I am, how I’ve always been. Nothing has changed,” I looked at him, confused.
He sighed and appeared to be lost in thought for a while, as if he wasn’t sure about what to say, or how to say it. “I know you think you have us all fooled, but it’s not true, man. Your face, your eyes, the body language, the little gestures, they all betray you. You’re more and more… consumed by your sadness or whatever. You look so fucking unhappy all the time. Even when you smile,” he kept looking at me and I had to look away.
“It’s not…” I wanted to deny it, but I could barely make a sound.
“And we damn well know what’s really going on, at least I do. And I know your friends do as well. We know,” he stressed. “And we desperately want to help you, because this shit is going to eventually destroy you, and I’m pretty sure you know that too. You need to talk to someone, anyone. You have to give a voice to your thoughts and get them sorted out. It’s the only way.”
I stood frozen. I still couldn’t look at him. A confrontation like this had always been one of my worst fears.
“And I know you’re not able to talk to me about this, probably not your family either, or your other friends. I’m going to arrange for you to see a therapist, and you will go there and put it all on the table. All of it. And I know you are terrified of that, and you don’t want to go, but you have to. You have to. If not for yourself, do it for the people who love you.”
He stood up and grabbed my shoulders.
“Because we love you. You’re a fucking amazing person and you deserve to be happy and to enjoy the life that you’ve earned. I wish, I really wish that you could see that. There’s nothing about you that’s bad, or that you need to hide. Nothing,” he stressed. “And don’t tell me I’m wrong, because again, your face is betraying you,” he said, as I felt the tears stinging my eyes. He headed to the door. “I’ll be in touch.”
After he left, I still could not move. I felt like my world had ended. I thought I had been so careful, but they had known all along. They knew and now they were going to interfere. Help? I was beyond help. I fell face down on the bed, and cried myself to a restless sleep.
In London, the city that had been my home for the past few years, there were a few places I liked to go to on the rare occasion that I needed some human contact. Whether it was a one night stand, or simply a chat, or even for people watching, being out and about was necessary sometimes, even for me. On one particular autumn night, I found myself at a local, gay-friendly pub, staring at my beer and imagining myself drowning in it.
It had been nearly a year since I first started seeing the therapist, a choice my manager had essentially made for me. I wanted to believe it was a road to recovery, but it felt more like a series of roundabouts that never led anywhere. We had gone over all of my insecurities, my fears, and my monsters, and while it felt slightly liberating to discuss them with a neutral party, a solution had not presented itself. My career was my life, and my therapist could not promise me that it would survive coming out of the closet. Especially in my home country, with its Catholic background and deep-rooted homophobia. I could also not shake the immense guilt I felt regarding my homosexuality, despite knowing it wasn’t something I could control, and despite being raised to have no ill feelings towards it. More guilt was added to this for having hidden it from everyone, even my parents and brother, for so long. And while I craved to be loved, to have someone next to me to share my life with, it continued to be a distant, unattainable fantasy. One I didn’t even feel I deserved.
The antidepressants that were eventually prescribed to me also weren’t the miracle cure that I’d hoped they would be. If anything, they made me feel less of everything. If before I’d been sitting on a bench, watching the world pass me by, I was now doing so with my eyes half closed.
“You look like you could use some company,” a pleasant, strangely accented voice pulled me out of my pint of beer. I looked to my right, staring into a pair of warm green eyes, and the handsome face they belonged to. He looked a little older than I was, perhaps late 30s or early 40s, and I decided I’d play along.
“You’re right, I could,” I said with a smile, and a heavier accent than normal. “I’m Ivano,” I lied. I had several fake names and background stories worked out in my head, ready to be used whenever I needed them.
“Alan,” he nodded. “You don’t look or sound like you’re from around here.”
“I’m Italian. Here on business. And maybe some pleasure,” I flirted. “You don’t sound very English either.”
“True, but I’m not as exotic as you I’m afraid. I’m from Ireland.”
We hit it off quite well, engaging in some pleasant banter, exchanging our life stories. He was surprisingly forthcoming, and did not seem to have constructed an identity the way I had. I learned he was married with three young children, and he spoke of his family with great pride and joy. He also revealed that his wife did not know about his little escapades, and that he thought it was for the best.
“I know what you’re thinking, that I’m deceiving my wife and my kids, that I’m a bad person,” he guessed. But while I can be a fairly judgmental person, I didn’t think much of it. His story was common in these circles.
“Not really,” I said. “It’s your life. If she’s happy, then you’re not really hurting anyone.”
“Exactly,” he looked relieved to have my approval. “Life’s about compromise. I could never be like this 24/7, it’s just not who I want to be,” he said. “Even if I don’t love her in that way, she is my best friend and I would do anything for her and my kids.”
After a few hours he suggested I go with him to his hotel, the standard ending to an evening like this. I accepted and followed him out of the pub, but we didn’t get very far.
“I’ve been meaning to do this since I first saw you sitting there,” he said, and suddenly his hands were pressing me close to him and his lips were on mine. I moaned, allowing our tongues to duel, as I surrendered to his affection. He was good, really good. He was a bit taller and stronger, and I felt safe in his arms, as one hand roamed further down to grab my ass.
Yet despite being slightly drunk, and in lust with this man, I suddenly found myself thinking of his family. I thought about his wife, who would never be able to feel the passion that so obviously coursed through him as long as he was with the right gender. His kids, who could possibly grow up and live out their whole lives without ever knowing who their father really was. He’d built the perfect double life, selfishly manipulating all those around him so that he could be happy with the cards that life had dealt him. And I found myself feeling envious of him, yet also afraid, and no longer willing to be a part of it. Of any of it. I felt more disgusted with myself than ever before. I felt so sad, so inadequate.
“I’m sorry,” I breathed after pushing him away from me. “I don’t think I can do this after all.”
“Oh,” he frowned. “Are you sure? Was I being too aggressive? I mean, I thought we clicked. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he looked genuinely apologetic. In a way, he really wasn’t a bad person. At least not intentionally.
“No, it’s just,” I stammered. For some reason I felt on the verge of a panic attack, and I had not felt anything close to that since I first started taking the medication. “I have to go. Ciao,” I said, before running away. I didn’t dare to look back, but I was fairly sure he wasn’t going to follow me. I kept running all the way back to my apartment, fleeing inside and slamming the door shut. Once inside, I must have looked more pathetic than ever, half sobbing, half catching my breath.
I hated who I was, who I had become. I felt completely defeated. More than ever, I wanted to disappear for good. And I made up my mind.
This final decision would at least give my contribution to the world the legacy that it deserved. I did not want my work to be tainted with scandals and exposés. These songs meant something to many people, and I did not want to take that away from them. I knew that I would never be able to live the wholesome, happy life that by now seemed way too far-fetched and idiotic. And continuing to live this double life only made me feel worse and worse about myself. There was no more reason for me to go on.
With strange calmness, I tidied up my apartment, and made the final preparations. Knowing that everything was about to end made me feel more relieved than I had ever felt in my life. I looked through my medicine cabinet, and while I wasn’t sure they’d kill me, I believed that enough sleeping pills and antidepressants would at least put me into a coma. At that point, such a fate was good enough for me. I never wanted to be conscious anymore. I briefly considered hanging myself, or something more drastic, but I preferred a clean exit. My family probably would, as well.
I don’t know what it is that saved me. My own will power, divine intervention, I really don’t know. But after swallowing the first few pills, I hesitated. And in that moment of hesitation, the rational side of myself convinced me not to do it. Not because I was afraid, or because I didn’t want to be a coward. But for a few seconds, it did not seem like this was the appropriate moment to surrender. And I bolted to the bathroom, dumping all of the pills into the toilet, flushing them all down. I flushed over and over. They needed to go, before I reconsidered. I reached into the bowl, already feeling the regret and the failure. I really could not do anything right.
Shortly after, I collapsed.
I did not wake until the next afternoon, my body aching from having slept on the bathroom floor. After getting my bearings, I realized what I had almost done, and could not help but cry. Why did I hate myself so deeply? Why was I spending my days being so unhappy, feeling so sorry for myself, when I had so much? Why did I feel so fucking guilty? What had I ever done wrong?
It was then that some sort of switch was flipped inside. I was going to talk. I was going to talk about everything, to anyone who was willing to listen. I owed it to myself to try. I could always kill myself later.
I stood up and took a few steps to the sink, splashing some water on my face, before looking in the mirror and frowning at my reflection. It’s one thing to make a resolution, but how, where to start?
“Son, you don’t know how I relieved I am that you finally found the courage,” my dad told me as he pulled me into a hug. “You were wasting away in that God forsaken country and your mother and I have been worried sick. Don’t ever forget how much we love you and how proud we are,” he insisted. I chuckled to myself, because it seemed a little rehearsed, like he’d been expecting this talk for many years. And perhaps he had been.
“I won’t, dad. I won’t,” I said. He was the first person on the list I’d made of people who I needed to talk to, and despite being a nervous wreck for a week, the moment itself had been strangely easy and comfortable. It was the first time in my life that I hadn’t answered his “how are you?” with “fine."
“So, what’s the deal, what does this mean? What’s the plan? What are you going to do?” he asked me.
“Tell everyone. Mom, the rest of the family, my friends,” I hesitated. “The world.”
His eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. “Whoa.”
“Yeah,” I smiled at him. “I’m still terrified, to be honest. But I’m going to follow through. Even if my career won’t be the same. I’m thinking of writing, or perhaps producing for other artists. We’ll see what happens.”
He looked confused. “Wait a minute,” he wagged his finger at me. “You think your fans would abandon you just like that?”
“Not all of them of course,” I shrugged. “But let’s be realistic here. Most of my fans are young women. I’m going to break all of their hearts, and they’ll move on to the next heartthrob. Radio won’t play me as much. Religious hate groups will come after me,” I went on to list all of the repercussions that I’d always believed coming out would have on my career.
“Nonsense,” my dad scoffed. “You don’t know your fans all that well, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re so much more than a simple pop singer,” he explained. “As president of your fan club, I should know. They don’t talk about how they want to marry you. At least, not that much,” he grinned. “It’s your songs, son. You touch people with that voice of yours. That won’t change. Your songs aren’t going to change.”
“It’s easy to say, dad,” I was skeptical. “I think you give me too much credit.”
“See? Your humility, people love that too,” he patted my shoulder. “I’m just saying, get those silly ideas about giving up on singing out of your mind. Trying and failing is better than not trying at all. Considering what you’ve been through, you should know this,” he said. “Now come on son, let’s go inside. Your mother’s made pasta, and you have something to tell her.”
I smiled, reveling in this new feeling of closeness with my dad. Perhaps he was right. I followed him inside, humming a new melody as it came to me. I should at least try and make the best album I could possibly make. After all, who knew what the future would bring?
Paura, tanta paura
Paura di star bene, di scegliere e sbagliare
Ma ciò che mi fa stare bene, ora sei, tu amore
E fuori è buio
Ma ci sei tu amore
E fuori è buio
(Afraid, so afraid
Afraid of feeling good, of choosing and making mistakes
But what makes me feel good now, is you, love
And outside it’s dark
But there you are, love
And outside it’s dark)
- “E Fuori è Buio” by Tiziano Ferro
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6
Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
2012 - Summer - Choices Entry
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
2012 - Summer - Choices Entry
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