Natza Farré: "In my family, which is somewhat Sicilian, conflict is rampant."

With honesty and without embellishments that would not do it justice, Natza Farré (Barcelona, ​​1972) collects in The last time I say goodbye to you (Angle Editorial) Her experiences as the sister of a drug addict. An autobiographical novel that explores family relationships, guilt, and the silence surrounding a period in which many young people tied their lives to drugs. The last time I say goodbye to you It's a very personal book. When did you decide to write it, and how long did it take you?

— There's been years of mental work involved since the idea for the book first took root in my mind. I tried to write it very often, starting and then abandoning it. Then, when I realized I couldn't bear to have it in my head anymore, that's when I decided to contact a publisher, in this case Rosa Rey of Angle Editorial, and ask if she could read some of what I had and give me a deadline, because in journalism and screenwriting we work with deadlines. Since I had it so firmly in my mind, what I needed was the push from someone to say, "Now give it to me." The writing process was easy because I had it so clearly in my head; I had already worked on it extensively.

The book is about your brother, a drug addict, and your relationship with him.

— I would say it speaks, above all, about me, about being a sister. Obviously, my brother is one of the main characters, but it's primarily a sister's perspective on a specific family situation. I'm the youngest of six siblings, and it's a relationship that has interested me a lot and that isn't explored much, especially not in this way. When there's a family drama, we [the siblings], who aren't supporting actors, are treated somewhat like supporting actors. Yet, we're right there, in the front row, seeing everything and suffering through it all, above all.

Do you remember when you became aware that your brother had a drug problem?

— I remember meeting my brother when he already had a drug problem because our seven-and-a-half-year age difference meant that by the time I was becoming aware of things, he was already a teenager, and we were already struggling. Therefore, I don't remember ever seeing my brother in a good place.

The book talks a lot about silence inside and outside the home. Did you never talk about your brother's drug addiction at home?

— I was born in the 70s; parents didn't talk about things. They talked about necessities: "What do you need? Food, schoolwork." We've made a huge generational leap. When we were little, all this communication didn't exist, neither at home nor outside, much less outside. Many people around you suffered the same thing, and nobody told us, because it was shameful to have that kind of situation at home. So, everything was shrouded in this silence, and you got caught up in it, but it was a very thick fog that ended up destroying you.

Carla Simón, Maria Arnal Alba Flores and Alba Flores have spoken about situations similar to the one you experienced. Why is the silence being broken now, and why does it seem to be only women breaking it?

— Because men don't talk about interesting things. No, I'm just kidding. Basically, the fact that we're women has a lot to do with the fact that we talk a lot about emotions, and I don't know why men still don't talk about emotions. And then, it's true that I'm the oldest of all these examples, but I do think we've all had to let some time pass before we could digest these stories, which we've lived through very closely. In my case, I've been through a lot of therapy because the emotions you experience are very strong and it's very difficult to process them on your own. Now is when we can start talking without romanticizing the '80s and '90s. There's this musical nostalgia, but of course, there was a devastation caused by heroin and AIDS that marked an entire generation, and that happened back then.

Right now, we're experiencing a resurgence in heroin use. Do you think there are any parallels between the 1980s and the present day?

— What I've heard is that heroin is very cheap now, and that's why there's a surge. It's the law of supply and demand; it's a bit like how the market works, and I think human beings always have a need to escape themselves. The world we live in increasingly gives us reasons to run away from ourselves. But it's also true that, just as many people find other ways out, a person who is addicted is addicted; they simply can't help it. It's not a choice; it's an illness. A lot of education still needs to be done because it's very difficult, because it's not seen as just another illness. I mean, cancer is one thing, and addiction is another. I think the surge also has to do with how the drug market works, with what's more profitable, what's less profitable, and with corruption. Police corruption related to drugs, which sounds very stereotypical, is a reality. And that, for me, is the biggest problem.

In the book, in fact, you make that comparison between drug addiction and cancer, and you remind us that you don't tell a cancer patient "Stop being sick."

— Yes, but because of the social stigma, because compassion isn't the same. And I actually understand it, because I've also gone through this process of saying "Just quit" as if it were easy. But of course, I was little and it was hard for me to understand the whole process. But now that there's so much more information, how come we're still like this? It's like these people who have so little sensitivity about alcohol and who, if you don't drink, force you to drink. Listen, you don't know what anyone is going through, just leave people alone. Or like when people talk about children, right? You don't know if they didn't want to have children or couldn't have them. It's a lack of social sensitivity. If you have doubts, just leave it alone, keep quiet. In this case, silence is always better than putting your foot in it like so many people are doing.

Now that you've published the book, do you talk to your siblings about everything you went through?

— No. I have different relationships with each of my siblings; with some, I have very little contact. With siblings, you establish a type of relationship that's very difficult to break.

Do we have to break the taboo and say that, sometimes, we don't like our family members?

— I'd say it's not always the case. If we start talking about families, we'll see that nothing is idyllic. There are families that avoid conflict and maintain a certain stability. In my family, which is somewhat Sicilian, conflict arises from anger. And that's okay. Families are human relationships, and they are made up of individuals who, despite sharing genetics, can be completely different. That's why I find it so interesting. You start from a shared life and common ground that shapes your childhood, and that determines your future, but later on, perhaps you have nothing left to say to yourself. The book covers many themes, but one is the exploration of the relationship between siblings, knowing whether you love a sibling because you've been told you have to love them or because you truly do. The line is very fine. It's very difficult to know when you've been told so many times.

It can also happen with parents.

— Absolutely. Look, I insist, all kinds of conflicts that can happen between people occur within families. Sexual violence mostly takes place within families. That means the family isn't paradise. And that means you can have a father or a mother who are very bad people. We've idealized mothers, but mothers, besides being mothers, are people.

In the book you also detail your own cruelty towards your brother. Have you been able to reconcile with that part of yourself, or is reconciliation unnecessary?

— Yes, it's necessary; it does a lot of harm. I'm not like that, I don't want to be like that. I don't have evil inside me. I've worked on it a lot and I've finally found peace, but remembering it has caused me pain.

Have you ever used excerpts from diaries and letters? When you read what you wrote, do you recognize yourself?

— Yes, you recognize yourself. It's all real material. Back then, people were very inclined to keep diaries, precisely because we couldn't talk about it, and this way we got it off our chests. I don't recommend rereading diaries, and in fact, I'm about to burn them all. I wasn't able to finish reading them. I didn't have a very happy youth, and it saddens me greatly to think that those years were difficult. It's all very well written there. I'll burn them because I don't want to go back, and I don't want anyone to know anything more.

At one point in the book you say, "Everything that's broken in my life has been on the inside." Is rebuilding yourself from the inside as easy as putting a cast on your arm?

— I can't really say because I've never broken anything external, and maybe to compensate, everything inside has broken. But I don't think so; there's no cast you can put on to fix it.

Have you ever thought about what your relationship with your brother would be like if he were still alive?

— It's not worth dwelling on, nor is it worth wondering what would have happened if I hadn't fallen into drugs. Those are other lives; it's not the one I've lived. I think the book makes it clear that, while all this was happening, life wasn't all misfortune. There's a combination of tragedy and comedy. To survive, I tend toward comedy, and there are moments that are even funny within the drama. Yes, there were very difficult moments, and if I have to conclude anything about my childhood, it's that it was happy, even though this [my brother's illness] was always there.

So, has humor been of any use to you?

— You know that people who work in comedy tend towards depression. Humor is an escape from a reality that overwhelms us. For me, humor is in my DNA; I inherited it. It has helped me a lot to survive personal situations, but also the world, since I dedicate myself to writing about the world. It's very heavy. Existence itself weighs heavily on me; I've never understood it. We're here passing the time to get to some place we already know is a black hole we'll fall into. This has also been very good for me in putting things into perspective and making decisions with much less fear. like when I quit radio.

In the book you talk about two deaths, that of your brother and that of your father, experienced in very different ways.

— One of the chapters I found hardest to write was the one about my father's death, because he's been dead for over thirty years. It's incredibly difficult for me to have lived without him all these years. Extremely difficult. He's a very powerful presence in my life, and he did me terrible damage, on a personal level. With my brother's death, I was already quite old and had to face it with too much responsibility, from my perspective. But in my father's case, dying so young, it was very hard for me to process. In my brother's case, because he died so old, considering how he had lived, there was a part of his death that was an immense relief, yes. He had lived a very complicated life with a lot of suffering. When there's so much suffering, you want it to end. It's human. You want it to end for everyone, for him and for everyone else. It also generates a bit of guilt, but you really enter another stage where you're more at peace, generally speaking. You have a deep sadness because you think about a very sad life.

Have you found that your story resonates with other people?

— It's amazing. I had sensed a gap in the literature on this topic, and now I'm receiving a huge number of messages from people saying, "You've written my family's book." We were all there. They're very similar situations. I'm receiving so many expressions of gratitude...

Is it easy to manage?

— No, I wasn't expecting it. You're at home writing things and, suddenly... Literature has always given me an incredible sense of companionship. When you find authors who are there for you and explain things you can't quite explain yourself, and so on. When you do that and receive it, it's very moving.