The Asteroid Field That Saved My Life

That time I didn’t kill myself because I had to watch The Empire Strikes Back

Note: This post has been a draft for about two weeks. I’m closing it tonight for all-too-obvious reasons.

When I was 13, my body revolted against myself, and I almost bled to death. I barely made it. I emerged from the hospital without a spleen who was consuming all my platelets, and with two parents who were quite angry for the stress I had caused to the family.

My parents were left-wing intellectuals, so I was sent to a psychotherapist. My father was cultivating his ties to Catholic circles, so I was sent to a psychiatrist suggested by an Opus Dei member. My mother was depressed, so she went along with it.

When I was 14, Freddie Mercury died and I found out that gay people existed. My parents had told me everything about sex, but forgot to mention that possibility. Incidentally, the next time someone tells you that the 90s were a great time for LGBT people, send them down into a trash compactor.

A few months after finding out that gay people existed, I eventually realised what was behind this conversation I had with my father:

me: It was worth not coming out to dinner with B. yesterday night — I’ve seen The Empire Strikes Back!

father: Oh, did you like Han Solo? He’s handsome, right?

[me, in my head: WHO? The Princess was the beautiful one!]

me: …I liked Luke a bit more…?

Yes, it took a few months. I’ve always been a late bloomer — that is, I’ve never been the sharpest tool in the box of human relationships.

As every good girl would do, I reported it all to the doctor. I was actually a bit proud to be part of a cool circle that included a man with that voice, Achilles, and Julius Caesar (I was studying the classics, like a good girl).

The doctor was — not shocked. She was something worse. Disgusted. Nauseated. Repulsed. And she was making it clear: you’re sick, morbid, and nobody will ever love you, so you’d better work on changing that and everything about yourself now.

I was 14. My father was busy with charming his very brilliant circles, my mother was busy with hiding her very unbecoming depression. I had two fixed points in my life: my psychiatrist and my grandmother.

I was sure my grandmother could not understand. I was wrong, but only a decade later I realised that her story about standing by her gay friend in the 50s was a hint. File that under “teenager” or “never the sharpest tool” — or both, if you wish.

I was left with my doctor. Other doctors had saved my life when my body misbehaved, this doctor would have saved my life when my mind misbehaved — right? So, every week: twenty minutes on an old-fashioned tram, five minutes walk, two flights of stairs, then:

doc: Did you think about girls?

me: Yes.

doc: You are mentally disturbed.

Then two flights of stairs, five minutes walk, twenty minutes on an old-fashioned tram, back home.

But a few months before I had spent two months of allowance on something precious: a videocassette of The Empire Strikes Back, original language. I already knew the Italian dubbed version, but now I was learning the real one. I was learning the language that I’m speaking somewhere I’m free to be myself, now, twenty-five years later; and I was learning a lot more.

I was watching her, and I was listening. There’s nothing like knowing you didn’t know to make you appreciate what you find out. I was listening to the real sound of the film — some time later I found out that the Leigh Brackett in the end titles was a woman, some time later again I found out that Carrie Fisher had crafted her words (their words!) into that perfect rhythm. I was overwhelmed by those sounds, I was learning them like spells.

The other cinephiles at school did not understand how I could cheapen what I learned from Hitchcock/Truffaut by analysing that popcorn movie. It was not serious stuff, back then, Lucas and Spielberg. Incidentally, the next time someone tells you that the 90s were a great time to be pop movie critics, feed them to the Sarlacc.

I was 15, I was seeing the doctor every week, every week I was told I was a pervert.

I spent the time on the tram rehearsing the magic spells:

You like me because I’m a scoundrel, there aren’t enough scoundrels in your life.

I love you. / I know.

There’s no time to discuss it in a committee! / I am not a committee!

I went back home and I watched and listened.

I went to the bathroom. I took out the pills. Aspirin. Blood thinner, I would have gone back to hospital. Turn everything off. The pills were in my hand. Fly away with the rest of the garbage. Find a city in the clouds, maybe. I loved that outfit, the red one.

No, wait. What’s the melodic line of the violins in the asteroid field sequence? At the beginning. It’s dun-dun-dùdun-dùun. Isn’t it?

The pills were in the toilet.

I watched that sequence three times.

[dun-dun-dùdun-dùun]

Han: You said you wanted to be around when I made a mistake? This could be it, sweetheart.

Leia: I take it back. We’re going to get pulverised if we stay here much longer.

C3Po: Pulverised?!

Then I watched all the film, again.

And again.

And I didn’t kill myself.

Incidentally, the next time someone tells you that it’s just a pop movie full of special effects, freeze them in carbonite.

Coda 1: How Another Pop Movie Saved Me From That Fascist

A few weeks later a new film opened. I talked about it to the doctor, like a good patient. And I was sure I had done something right: this was a real movie, a serious one, even if it was Spielberg…

The doctor was angry again.

It’s all a lie. It’s a lie of the Jews! Do you really think you know it better than I do? Six million people, it’s a lie! A plot, they have their circles…

I got up from the couch. I told her that I would have come back with her cheque the next day. Goodbye.

With hindsight, I think I switched to my grandmother’s voice: an octave lower than my usual one, almost but not really a growl, oozing contempt, as cold as the deepest level of Dante’s Hell. The voice of a woman who stands by her gay friend in the 50s — in uber-Catholic Italy.

I didn’t tell my parents why I was leaving therapy. I told them I thought the money was better spent on something else. My mother nodded, signed the cheque, went back to bed. My father said that it was a shame, that the doctor had ties with such-and-such, but I was his daughter after all.

I told my grandmother about the movie. She just said that during the war movies were always in black and white. I wonder if that was a hint.

Coda 2: I Return Myself, More Or Less

It took me some time to realise that someone who says those things about Jews is called something along the lines of “fascist piece of shit” and is not to be trusted in anything. Years of people telling me I was scum, and a lot of “I love you even if”. I’ve always been slow to learn this sort of things.

Eventually, I made it through it all.

My shields were damaged. The motivator of my hyperdrive failed a few times.

I patched myself up. I found help in unexpected places.

I found new friends. I even found a new family.

I’m 39. I’m not ashamed of finding beauty in my most pop gut reactions. I barely wait for others to realise their depth. If I need to act tough, I still switch to my grandmother’s voice. If I need to feel tough, I think I came so far, far away. I talk a lot; I don’t hint very much, I say things out loud.

I try to write well-crafted words, with a decent rhythm. It’s my little rebellion, being alive and proud.