Chiara, the one who listens too much… to others

At 7:11 a.m., I wake up before my alarm goes off.

Not because I’m rested or because I have some kind of superpower,

but because I hear the noise of the building waking up. I hear EVERYTHING:

an elevator, a door, someone coughing.

I lie still. I listen. Motionless in bed, almost as if it were a kind of morning ritual without which I cannot start the day.

At 8:04 a.m., I’m at the bar ordering a coffee.

The bartender is talking on the phone, arguing quietly. I pretend to mind my own business, but then again, if we’ve been given ears, there must be a reason, right?

“Honey, it’s not what you think.”

He puts the cup down in front of me and sighs before hanging up.

And it’s stronger than me, my mouth speaks before my thoughts have finished forming.

“Long day?” I ask him.

“It’s already off to a bad start.”

I nod. As if I were part of the conversation and as if I somehow take his side, CONSIDERING THAT I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THE CONVERSATION IS ABOUT.

But just like that, out of bar brotherhood, I decide I’m on his side.

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At 9:36 a.m. in the office, the silence doesn’t last long.

Some people talk about their weekend, others complain, others just talk to fill the silence.

I listen to everyone. STRANGE!

A colleague says to me:

“You’re good, you always understand.”

I smile, because this time, on the contrary, my lips don’t know where to start…

I’m not saying that understanding is more tiring than talking, many, many times.

At 12:18 p.m., I eat lunch at my desk.

Two desks away, someone is crying on the phone, frowning and wondering if I should intervene.

They say, “I can’t take it anymore.”

I want to get up and say something appropriate. My fork is in midair, and I’m about to move, but…

I don’t.

Sometimes, just listening is too much, and it’s only halfway through the day.

I wonder: how do psychotherapists survive???

At 3:44 p.m. my mother sends me a three-minute voice message. Three minutes, maybe we’re talking less on the phone…

She talks about everything and nothing.

At the end, she says, “Sorry, I bored you.”

“No,” I reply quickly, “don’t worry about it.”

But in the meantime, I turn down the volume of the world, and my own.

At 6:27 p.m. on the bus, a couple is arguing quietly. Again, I look at them.

“You never listen to me.”

“I listen to you too much.”

I feel like smiling.

I also feel like crying a little.

I understand both of them equally. How strange.

At 8:53 p.m., finally silence at home. I’m alone tonight, which doesn’t happen often.

I turn everything off.

All I can hear is the refrigerator and my breathing.

I look at the house and everything in it.

I realize that I don’t really know what I think.

I know very well what everyone else thinks, but what about me?

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At 10:46 p.m., I slip into bed, look at the ceiling, and look inside myself.

I replay the day like listening to a voicemail that’s too long.

And I think that maybe listening is a gift.

But no one teaches you when it’s time to stop.

No one tells you how to cover your ears.

I close my eyes.

And I wonder if silence is scary…

or if we’re just not used to hearing our own voice.

Because that voice would definitely speak…

“Listening to everyone is easy. Listening to ourselves is the only thing we always put off.”