CHAPTER 4: Alessandro’s monologue

A Foreign Guy’s Perspective

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Alessandro aimlessly pedalled around the park. He liked it there. It reminded him of the parks in Italy. Why did everything remind him of Italy?

It was a beautiful evening. The birds were singing, flowers were blooming. But he wasn’t looking. Something about the jasmine-laced breeze and the lighting was conducive to thoughts. He got off his bike and walked around a small lake. He was reflecting on the last conversation and all the unsaid things. Reflecting on his life.

“Hah, ‘the world crashing down!’ I know what that feels like,” thought Alessandro moodily as his mind sucked him into his most painful memory for the billionth time. 

“Alessandro, piccolo*… You probably aren’t going to like this, but… we’re going to India,” His mom had said, her face unusually blank. Huh? A vacation!? That sounded like GREAT news to 14-year-old Alessandro! 

*piccolo = little one in Italian

“Forever.” 

‘’...”

He was silent. It took a moment for the full weight of it to settle. 

That right there was the moment his already-fragile roots got yanked out of the earth. His favourite things? Gone. His much-cherished sticker collection on the wall? Gone. All his hangout spots? Gone. The home that he had spent his whole life in? Gone. All his friends? His therapist, who he trusted and had grown to consider as a friend? Gone. 

I wish I could share as much as they do.

But how do I tell them what the “stuff” was? That I was this close to ending my life!? 

How do I tell them that they’re my only friends here? That they are the only ones who accept me for who I am - a white, gay dude? That everyone else is only nice on the surface, but they always seem to just… “other” me?

How do I tell them about all the times I was bullied for being different, for being a “nerd,” for being gay?

How do I tell them I'm scared of being vulnerable? Scared of opening myself up to the judgement and criticism that always follows?

How do I tell them about the growing fear in my mind, this malicious disease taking over and poisoning everything in its contact, trapping me in my own head?

He absently started picking up stones and skipping them on the water.

What if they think I’m weak? Like my dad did every time I cried? “Don’t cry like a girl,” he said; “ Be strong,” he said; “Man up,” he said. 

So I tried to do just that. But instead of growing stronger, I learnt to hide my weakness. 

No, I can’t tell them all this. I have to hold it all in. I have to be strong. After all, I am a man.

He flinched as a jasmine flower blew into his face. Another reminder of his garden in Italy. Of his life before everything started to unravel. When he was carefree and open and… happy. 

But I need to talk to someone about what's going on, or I’ll implode! I CAN'T go back to those depths again. But I don't know who to trust! 

Maybe… Sara is right… Maybe I should look for a new therapist. Who though? And how? 

When he was in Italy, it was a little easier. There was more awareness - even acceptance - of mental health issues. In India, though, there was so much stigma associated with mental illnesses. As Ayesha said, nobody gets it.

It was getting dark. He’d better head back home. As he walked up to his bike, a thought occurred to him. 

The school counsellor! She had given a couple of talks to his class on mental health awareness. She looked approachable and friendly enough. Maybe he would try her out. He felt relieved at the thought; like a burden was already falling off his shoulders. He got back on his bike and pedalled home.

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