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X – Finally a Lap

Published by Bill Braga in Memories, Psychology, Psychiatry, Shamanism
data: 16/06/2020

I’m having yet another talk with the man in white, the impassable Dr. Lucas. He makes a point of maintaining his doctorly pose, the ferocity in his rude and reprehensive voice accompanied by the lord of truth look upon his face. But even he has bowed to my scrutiny. Today I left his office much more light on my feet, he said that soon I will be leaving, he said that I don’t belong to this hospital, but do you think that anyone can really belong to this place? Inside of Pinel, I knew all the different kinds of people there: geniuses, drug addicts, depressives, schizophrenics, neurotics, maniacs. I don’t think that I met one crazy person there. They all seemed saner to me than most people on the outside. It was the other people’s difficulty in dealing with them which had led them here. Family, society, none could bear the more profound views that each in their own way hurled toward life. No one there was mediocre, the world demands that we become mediocre, average level, or… they just isolate the problem by locking it away in a mental ward. I was not far from my travel companions. Lucas was mistaken. I should have made him see that. After I had seen my mom upon my arrival from that lysergic return trip to BH, I was unknowingly and at a rapid pace buying myself a ticket to that mental hospital.

When I saw my mother coming, my heart bounded in my chest once again. My father started whispering into my ear again, everything came back in an avalanche of emotions and impulses. I don’t know how my mom found me there, I don’t know if we spoke on the phone. I only know that I had been running away, but I wanted to see her. Mothers will always be a comfort. Why wasn’t my girlfriend there too? She could help find my father, she and Tatiana. I couldn’t even hear Tatiana anymore; she must have gone back to Juiz de Fora. She abandoned me. All of them, but the welcome I felt in Baiana do Acarajé Bar was broken by the arrival of three, although detached, loved ones. The line was broken and I could no longer contain myself.

At the sight of my mother with those eyes, tainted in despair and anguish, heavy eyes, my inner world divided in two. On one side there was the atmosphere of the Baiana, representing the world of Juiz de Fora, of the Party and freedom, bordering on libertinism. On the other was the world of BH – the conservativeness, the repression of desires, the containment. Paradoxically I had left Juiz de Fora in an explosion of (re)sentiments, to find comfort in BH, but my touchdown on capital soil put both worlds into shock. Had my mind, heart and soul gone into a big bang process?

I remember well their eyes, the three of them. They looked at me as if they didn’t recognize me. They looked at me condemningly. Not all three, only my mother and her boyfriend. My brother, dear friend, looked at me with frightened eyes, red from tears. But the tenderness and caring in his gaze was my guarantee. He was on my side, without having to understand me. My mother started to speak poorly of the place and the people around us. I started to defend them, loudly exposing the prejudices implicit in her speech, knowing that the illustrious unknown there were my compadres. They showed me their welcome, but not to her. Her boyfriend was trying to dupe me with his tasteless jokes. He was not on my side. The voices, I need to find them. I need my dad, Marquinhos. It was all wrong, everything was upside down, they needed to take me in to their arms, didn’t they see that I was in a highly harmful ambient? All of that prejudice, those narrow minded people, they would never understand my meandering ways, they could never help me open the doors of my perception. I needed them, I needed Tatiana, Sandra, my girlfriend, but all I had were two repressive sets of eyes staring at me. I need to find them, the ones on my side, the owners of the voices, I am sure that they are very close by.

My mother sought to contain me, wanted to take me home. How!? How she didn’t understand the search that I needed to fulfill. It was like a game, the voices told me the way, I had to go and in the end finding them I would fall into Tatiana’s arms, the only one who understands me, the only one who can help me. Maybe the others could also tell me where the hell my girlfriend was? No, I couldn’t count on her. She must have already felt the betrayal in my thoughts and feelings. She didn’t deserve it, even though I hadn’t reached the height of it, the betrayal was already done. She definitely didn’t deserve this, she wouldn’t understand anyway, better not to tell. Tatiana agreed. I needed to hear music, but I didn’t have my PSP. Yes, it was the link, the PSP and the music. They were the ones who always kept me connected with the voices and their owners. They transported me from that inhospitable and unpalatable reality. I need a cigarette, a nice healthy smoke. The cigarette that gives you wings. The beer that turns into water.  The excitement at a soul level. The splitting of my being. This is how I blended at least two conflicting sides of myself.

I remember Fernando Pessoa, who was not one, nor two, but infinite and his The book of Disquiet. One of the people inside Fernando wrote these words:

The feelings that hurt the most, the most panging emotions are the ones that are absurd – the longing for the impossible, precisely because they are impossible, the longing for what never was, the desire for what might have been, the hurt of not being the other, the dissatisfaction of existing in the world. All these half-tones within the unconsciousness of the soul create in us a sore landscape, an eternal sun-set of what we are…  What we feel then is a desert field darkening, sad reeds beside a river without boats, blackening clearly between distant shores.

I ask Sandra, dear nurse that comes by to give me company, if she knows Fernando. No, and neither does she know Vinicius well. Well then, let’s talk a little about them. I lie in her lap to tell her of the sad and beautiful plight of these two poets.

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12 Comentários
  1. Bruno Sundinha

    Creio que estou aprendendo a ler….ou pelo o menos tomando gosto! Mesmo voltando a nossa saga. Que pelo seu texto me faz lembrar das memórias de um tempo BEM estranho digamos assim. O que me conforta ao ler seus textos, é que felizmente eu sei o final… valeu manao!

    • Bill Braga

      É Sundinha, foi um tempo muito louco, eu diria, de tão estranho, mas que bom que você está tomando gosto pela leitura através das memórias deste tempo… E o fim desta nossa saga, nós construímos todo dia, não é meu caro amigo? Obrigado camarada!

  2. Myriam Menin Ferreira

    Biel, estou gostando muito das ilustrações da sua narrativa.E agora chegamos ao ponto em que entramos nós à procura do Biel, com muito sofrimento de todas as partes, encarando uma situação que precisaria ser enfrentada nem sempre com muita delicadeza.Continuo dizendo que cada um fez o melhor que podia no sentido de acolher voce e trazê-lo de volta. Voce sabe disso, não é ? Beijo grande da Vó

    • Bill Braga

      Olá Vó! Que bom que gosta das imagens, ponto para o editor! Concordo com você, é claro vó, todos fizeram o que conseguiam fazer, da forma em que deram conta. É como sempre digo, ninguém está preparado, ninguém pode estar pronto para encarar uma situação como esta que venho narrando. O sofrimento existiu, e é revivido por todos semanalmente, imagino, mas como diz a canção: “o fim é belo, e (in) certo, depende de como você vê!” obrigado pela leitura companheira! beijos!

  3. Me fez lembrar de uma – outra – passagem do Livro do Desassossego, “… no desalinho triste das minhas emoções confusas…”

    O imaginário de sensações que você vem criando ao longo dos textos me dobraram, confesso. Só não fico aflita no fim do texto porque já te vi recentemente com aquela cara boa de sempre, mas não fosse isso…!

    Segue firme daí que a gente segue lendo daqui : )

    • Bill Braga

      É deia, as emoções alguma vez não são confusas?

      Obrigado pela companhia, deixe as aflições de lado, o mundo já é cheio delas mesmo…

  4. Juliana Starling

    Efebo!

    Mergulhei nestes dez capítulos de uma vez só e… nossa!

    Além dos parabéns pela escrita maravilhosa, quero dizer que achei fantástica a atitude de compartilhar essa experiência de tentar explicar o incompreeensível! Acompanhar a “guerra”, como já dito em alguns comentários, e vc lutando para entender tudo, em momentos de lucidez (regados aos haldols da vida, está sendo fantástico!

    E, como profissional da saúde, estou achando sensacional a visão do “paciente”… que às vezes, para nós, é tão subjetiva e difícil de lidar! Se não se importar quero mto compartilhar seus textos com alguns colegas!

    Um grande beijo da mais nova leitora!

    Ju

    • Bill Braga

      Olá Ju, que bom que gostou… Claro que pode compartilhar, a ideia é esta, compartilhar experiencias, pode se sentir a vontade….

      Pois é, a ideia é tentar transportar o leitor para o mundo sob meu olhar… Realmente normalmente pacientes, ainda mais do “doentes mentais” são um pouco inacessíveis em sua visão do mundo, parece que há uma barreira entre médico e paciente, que deve ser quebrada horizontalmente, não verticalmente…

      Muito obrigado Ju, bem-vindo à esta viagem!

      beijos

  5. Marcela Boechat

    Acho que você conta o que nós não sabemos nem ver.

    Essa narrativa tão lúcida que dá as mãos para a imaginária me leva.

    Isso cria “A excitação da alma”.

    Mais uma vez,

    Parabéns e obrigada

    • Bill Braga

      Oi Marcela, eu que agradeço palavras tão belas e generosas…

      Talvez a excitação da minha alma que se transmita pelas palavras, e no gesto da leitura, esse estado se transmita e a narrativa crie a excitação da tua alma…

      muito obrigado, tua leitura companheira é o estímulo fundamental…

  6. Lucas Ferrari

    Grande Bill! Gostei muito desse capítulo! Que situação, esta, quando percebemos que no nosso porto-natal estão falando um idioma diferente do nosso… O que será que acontece? Se um idioma-raiz que subdivide-se em galhos diferentes seguindo em direções diferentes ou se um idioma-raiz que cresce em tronco unidirecional e nós, após longas, tortuosas e perdidas voltas de galho de cerrado que somos, que voltamos irreconhecíveis?

    • Bill Braga

      Pois é meu caro amigo… não creio que seja um caminho unidirecional.. As voltas tortuosas que você diz, são um emaranhado, uma teia, individualidades se expressão, experiências são vividas.. Mas como você diz, há ore a raiz ali, cravada, esperando as voltas, dos galhos-soltos…

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