life is good life is good life is good life
'Then I'll go back to work; I'll listen to the gossip about who's going out with whom, who's suffering from what, how such and such a person was in tears about her husband, and I'll be left with the feeling that I'm privileged: I'm pretty, I have a job, I can have any boyfriend I choose. So I'll go back to the bars at the end of the day and the whole thing will start again.
My mother, who must be out of her mind with worry over my suicide attempt, will recover from the shock and will keep asking me what I'm going to do with my life, why I'm not the same as everyone else, things aren't really as complicated as I think they are. "Look at me, for example, I've been married to your father for years, and I've tried to give you the best possible upbringing and set you the best possible example."
One day I'll get tired of hearing her constantly repeating the same things, and to please her I'll marry a man whom I oblige myself to love. He and I will end up finding a way of dreaming a future together: a house in the country, children, our children's future. We'll make love often in the first year, less in the second, and after the third year, people perhaps think about sex only once every two weeks and transform the thought into action only once a month. Even worse, we'll barely talk. I'll force myself to accept the situation, and I'll wonder what's wrong with me, because he no longer takes interest in me, ignores me, and does nothing but talk about his friends as if they were his real world.
When the marriage is just about the fall apart, I'll get pregnant. We'll have a child, feel closer to each other for a while, and then the situation will go back to what it was before.
I'll begin to put on weight like the aunt the nurse was talking about yesterday - or was it days ago? I don't really know. And I'll start to go on diets, systematically defeated each day, each week, by the weight that keeps creeping up regardless of the controls I put on it. At that point I'll take those magic pills that stop you from feeling depressed; then I'll have a few more children, conceived during nights of love that pass all too quickly. I'll tell everyone that the children are my reason for living, when in reality my life is their reason for living.
People will always consider us a happy couple, and no one will know how much solitude, bitterness, and resignation lies beneath the surface happiness.
Until one day, when my husband takes a lover for the first time, and I will perhaps kick up a fuss like the nurse's aunt or think again of killing myself. By then, though, I'll be too old and cowardly, with two or three children who need my help, and I'll have to bring them up and help them find a place in the world before I can just abandon everything. I won't commit suicide: I'll make a scene; I'll threaten to leave and take the children with me. Like all men, my husband will back down; he'll tell me he loves me and that it won't happen again. It won't even occur to him that, if I really did decide to leave, my only option would be to go back to my parents' house and stay there for the rest of my life, forced to listen to my mother going on and on all day about how I lost my one opportunity for being happy, that he was a wonderful husband despite his peccadilloes, that my children will be traumatized by the separation.
Two or three years later, another woman will appear in his life. I'll find out - because I saw them or because someone told me - but this time I'll pretend I don't know. I used up all my energy fighting against that other love; I've no energy left; it's best to accept life as it really is and not as I imagined it to be. My mother was right.
He will continue being a considerate husband; I will continue working at the library, eating my sandwiches in the square opposite the theatre, reading books I never quite manage to finish, watching television programs that are the same as they were ten, twenty, fifty years ago.
... After that it's a matter of waiting for the children to grow up and of spending all day thinking about suicide, without the courage to do anything about it. One fine day I'll reach the conclusion that that's what life is like: There's no point worrying about it, nothing will change. And I'll accept it.
Veronika brought her interior monologue to a close and made a promise to herself: She would not leave Villete alive. It was best to put an end to everything now, while she was still brave and healthy enough to die."
Paulo Coelho - Veronika Decides to Die
My mother, who must be out of her mind with worry over my suicide attempt, will recover from the shock and will keep asking me what I'm going to do with my life, why I'm not the same as everyone else, things aren't really as complicated as I think they are. "Look at me, for example, I've been married to your father for years, and I've tried to give you the best possible upbringing and set you the best possible example."
One day I'll get tired of hearing her constantly repeating the same things, and to please her I'll marry a man whom I oblige myself to love. He and I will end up finding a way of dreaming a future together: a house in the country, children, our children's future. We'll make love often in the first year, less in the second, and after the third year, people perhaps think about sex only once every two weeks and transform the thought into action only once a month. Even worse, we'll barely talk. I'll force myself to accept the situation, and I'll wonder what's wrong with me, because he no longer takes interest in me, ignores me, and does nothing but talk about his friends as if they were his real world.
When the marriage is just about the fall apart, I'll get pregnant. We'll have a child, feel closer to each other for a while, and then the situation will go back to what it was before.
I'll begin to put on weight like the aunt the nurse was talking about yesterday - or was it days ago? I don't really know. And I'll start to go on diets, systematically defeated each day, each week, by the weight that keeps creeping up regardless of the controls I put on it. At that point I'll take those magic pills that stop you from feeling depressed; then I'll have a few more children, conceived during nights of love that pass all too quickly. I'll tell everyone that the children are my reason for living, when in reality my life is their reason for living.
People will always consider us a happy couple, and no one will know how much solitude, bitterness, and resignation lies beneath the surface happiness.
Until one day, when my husband takes a lover for the first time, and I will perhaps kick up a fuss like the nurse's aunt or think again of killing myself. By then, though, I'll be too old and cowardly, with two or three children who need my help, and I'll have to bring them up and help them find a place in the world before I can just abandon everything. I won't commit suicide: I'll make a scene; I'll threaten to leave and take the children with me. Like all men, my husband will back down; he'll tell me he loves me and that it won't happen again. It won't even occur to him that, if I really did decide to leave, my only option would be to go back to my parents' house and stay there for the rest of my life, forced to listen to my mother going on and on all day about how I lost my one opportunity for being happy, that he was a wonderful husband despite his peccadilloes, that my children will be traumatized by the separation.
Two or three years later, another woman will appear in his life. I'll find out - because I saw them or because someone told me - but this time I'll pretend I don't know. I used up all my energy fighting against that other love; I've no energy left; it's best to accept life as it really is and not as I imagined it to be. My mother was right.
He will continue being a considerate husband; I will continue working at the library, eating my sandwiches in the square opposite the theatre, reading books I never quite manage to finish, watching television programs that are the same as they were ten, twenty, fifty years ago.
... After that it's a matter of waiting for the children to grow up and of spending all day thinking about suicide, without the courage to do anything about it. One fine day I'll reach the conclusion that that's what life is like: There's no point worrying about it, nothing will change. And I'll accept it.
Veronika brought her interior monologue to a close and made a promise to herself: She would not leave Villete alive. It was best to put an end to everything now, while she was still brave and healthy enough to die."
Paulo Coelho - Veronika Decides to Die