Twisted Ambitions

Prologue

When I was six years old, I developed a high-level anxiety disorder.

I was an absolutely happy “normal” kid until one day started to run out of air, like my lungs were being crushed, and I thought I was going to die.

I was hiding in my room, waiting until it stopped, until my life ended.

When it stopped, I pretended like nothing happened and didn’t tell anyone.

I was always good at pretending that everything was fine.

My grandmother used to say it was my special talent and that I got that trait from her.

I never thought she was being serious; I always thought that she just said that to make me feel better, but that changed when I saw her compulsively crying in her room on a summer afternoon.

Me and my brothers were playing with our friends and decided to hide; I went inside of the house, even though Grannie said to play in the garden.

I hid under her bed, thinking I was smarter than all of them.

And all of a sudden, I hear footsteps. I thought they had found me too soon, so I peek between the sheets of the duvet and the leg of the bed, and I watch Grannie coming into the room with that same shinny smile she always has on her face.

That little by little disappears, and the sound of her painful cry feels the walls in the room.

I thought of leaving my hideout to hug her and tell her.

“Grannie, everything is going to be all right; I’m right here with you.

” Like she’s done so many times with me, but I heard her voice in my head.

“We are the same, honey; we know how to pretend like no other.” I remembered how I hated when everyone could see my weaknesses because when they do, they have something to pick on.

So, I squeezed my eyes shut, covered my ears with my hands, and waited for her to get better until I realized she wasn’t in the room anymore.

I left the house and ran toward her while she was smiling and playing with my brothers.

I offered her the shiniest smile that I had and kept playing with them.

At that time, even at a tender age, I understood a lot more about insecurities and fears than most people could imagine.

I learned early that a smile is the best mask and that if you don’t have enough self-confidence or self-love, you can manufacture it.

Everything that you need is a shiny smile and a confident posture so no one suspects it.

This was my way of dealing with my problems: to look superior, keep my head high, and if you need to cry, do it alone at night when nobody can hear you.

But the issue is that even the best masks can have some cracks, almost so slightly, but still noticeable.

Mine showed up when I was twelve, and my parents decided to put a ‘pause’ in their marriage.

My shortness of breath appeared in front of them and my brothers at the dinner table, and there was nothing I could do to hide it.

On that night, the whole family gathered in the emergency room at the best hospital in the city, and the bomb went off.

The perfect princess had a fault, and it wasn’t small, anxiety disorder.

I remembered those words repeatedly coming out, like whispers from my father’s mouth, like he was disappointed.

The whole time, my mom was squeezing my hand and hugging me like I had a terminal illness.

For days, my older brothers didn’t look me in the eyes, maybe scared of unlocking another outbreak.

I remember grannie visiting, of patting my face , and sweetly whispering , “You are my other half, honey. I always knew we were the same.” And somehow, those words made me feel better; I can still feel her holding my hand; when my father came downstairs with his suitcases in hand, I remember turning away and not allowing a single tear to fall.

I remember not being able to sleep that night, getting out of bed, dragging myself through the hallway, and knocking on my older brother’s door.

When I opened it, both of my brothers were there; they were smiling at me and calling me over, so I ran toward them.

None of us slept that night; we played games and talked.

I felt something changed that day but didn’t know what.

I found out a year later that my parents would never live together.

Twelve months after my dad left the house, they got divorced, and five months later, he gathered the children that he hadn’t seen for four months in the city’s most expensive restaurant to introduce his new girlfriend, a few years younger than my mom and with no kids to take care twenty-four hours a day.

That day, I hated my dad in a way I could never explain through words.

I left the table rushed and angry, and I heard my chair hit the floor and my name being called several times.

I never looked back. I felt betrayed and fooled.

I felt like my mom deserved better and needed better, but unfortunately, there was nothing I could do to make that happen.

I barely even knew that my dad had moved to Italy again; the fact that he was completely dedicated to manufacturing weapons was going to change my life forever. At that time, I had no idea that his partnership with the world of crime would define the rest of my life.