Self-esteem injections straight into the veins – I’m not speaking any more

How strange these October days are, poised between newspapers up against the wall and apathy. Poised between the summer sun and the sudden downpour that heralds yet another strange winter. Hovering between this overwhelming urge to scream and those shy, silent, gentle yet actually furious smiles, reserved in particular for people who never listen to a word, who couldn’t care less.

During a conversation (one I did not seek out), they fix their gaze on a point somewhere between my forehead and the horizon, ready to pounce the moment they can have their say – and never let go of it again. They proceed to explain to me how one eats, how one reads, what one thinks, what one watches in the evening, which cinema one goes to, how one loves and even how one hates. How talented, generous, heroic, attentive and, above all, good at listening to others they are. To use the word they like, even if they’ve never put its meaning into practice: they’re very empathetic.

October is full of people who may well have taken self-esteem courses – I think this in a moment of naivety – but then I reason: in a course, you have to pay attention and remain silent whilst someone is teaching, so that can’t be it. Evidently, they’ve had self-esteem electroshock therapy. Doses of self-celebration fired directly into the brain, injections of arrogance three times a day – morning, afternoon and evening. In my case, I merely received an early-morning jolt.

The mother was asleep when she began dreaming of the seaside. She was dreaming without a care in the world. She woke at the first sound: ‘Mum?’ Opening her eyes, she saw her usually cocky son now standing before her, trembling. “Mum, we’ve been sleeping with the front door wide open. It was me last night when I got back – I made a right mess of things – and now two out of three cats have gone missing. I’ve looked everywhere for them, but they’re nowhere to be found.” He was on the verge of tears, so it did not occur to me that perhaps we had been drugged by a gang of DNA thieves. I did not consider any worst-case scenario; on the contrary, a strange calm (or perhaps I was still half-asleep) came over me. That night, it was just the two of us: my son and me. At dawn, however, neither of us was dead and the house appeared undisturbed. As I descended the staircase in my nightdress, I reasoned that any potential thieves, attackers, killers, maniacs or kidnappers might have been deterred by the open door and the disorder in my daughter’s room, and had fled. I do not believe so, after they had taken the cats. I do not believe so, after they had killed the dog, who was sleeping blissfully in his bed and did not even prick up an ear when we set out to look for our pets. Deep down, he was hoping to have gotten rid of them for good. I proceeded to the top of the stairs while Giulio moved to the bottom. The animals were located simultaneously, prompting calls between us: “Mum!” “Giulio!” “Found them!” “Found them!” The cat Giulio located followed him meekly, evidently satisfied with the adventure and in need only of food. The second cat, more insecure, was a force of nature. It would not allow me to catch it; it growled and hissed. When I seized it by the scruff of the neck, it tore my nightdress, scratched me, howled at me, threatened me and bit me. Back home, it was purring away and twirling its tail. Despite the scratches, I still have no doubts: I prefer these chaotic wake-up calls to those delirious October conversations. My cat realised it afterwards – but what about you?