I read accounts of surviving war prisonersthat told one thing, which stayed with me:
They have forgot their father's voices, even the sounds of their children's voices. But they will never forget the sound of their torturer's voice..
Whe i think of torture and sounds, i am supposed to imagine the sounds of electric cables. Of Tools. Of dripping water. Or the amicable talk of a person who is just trying to get you to tell them what they want. Or the threats. The mocking bile.
But at the same time, with shame and guilt, i think of sounds that partain to my past. Cause as much as i think words are improtant and essential and shall not be soiled with lies, i make connections in my head that are personal and private. And work only, possibly, for me.
To me torture is also the sound of a small vacuum cleaner. It wasnbt connected with pain. Not in a direct way. But that thing was sued from my father to disrupt our nerves, when we lived together. It was a small portable one with a hissing toneless screech, that could mute anything in its surroundings.
A classic move by father was, whenever he was feeling like demand9ing attention or simplòy disrupting everything that was happening in the house, or most ofthe times just out of some manic desire to clean, was to push the button on the cleaner in a rhythmic manner. That would cause the tool to emit a series of loud noises that could go on for as long as an hour or more. This would happen at any moment of the day or night.
My father was an insomniac for years,, un til he found comfort in pills. So he would come as close asa he could to my room or bed and start pushing the cleaner. So i would wake up. And any protest woudl be met with insults and a probable fight. No physic al attacks, just more noises and less sleep. So i would just be quiet, hoiping that he wouldtire himself out and i could get at least an hour of sleep before going to school. That never happened. I became also an insomniac and started medicating myself at an early age. I am still addicted to those meds.
Now. I am aware that this doesnt count as torture., I'm just talking abvout sounds that evoke disgust, tension and discomfort.
But to counter this, and not sound like a complete wuss, ill tell you this: at this point in my life, i still have moments of panic, terror, and depression. When i wake in the early morning, my brain's chemical are at their lowest. Its the black area, as i call it. the moment when all i want is to be dead or asleep. And the moment where i need a push to find the strength to fight, the most.
That push used to be meds. Or coffee. Or booze. Or drugs.
none of those are there nowadays. What i have, though, is stronger than all of them combined. Mp3 files, with a voice on them. A voice that soothes me, makes me laugh and makes me feel stronger than a million warriors. And makes me feel full of happiness and able to win anything, so i will hear it again.
That is my new drug. And a victory. Fuck the vaccum cleaner (not really)