The start of the day and much of the afternoon was typical of a normal day. Breakfast, chores, shopping etc. Gonçalo’s parents were due late afternoon and I was looking forward to meeting them. Everything changed shortly after they arrived. I’d been chatting pleasantly with his father, his English was good and we had some common interests. Gonçalo was in the fireplace making a fire, his mother, standing by his side was shouting at him constantly. He’d already told me how she carries on about his diet and his illness. She was getting louder and louder, aggressively too, the noise was constant. He started to get agitated, this grown man of forty five years started to sing so loudly, I couldn’t hear myself think. It was an incredibly immature way to deal with his mothers mental torture. By now I knew, these two were very unstable, mentally ill. His singing got louder and louder, she was attempting to shout louder. He moved to the kitchen, just a few steps away into a separate room through an arch. She followed and continued with her noise. He flipped, screaming and shouting constantly. They were both at it. The father told me they had a problem, the two of them. He calmed the noise and Gonçalo went to his room and lay down for sometime. The father was very apologetic and said it had never been this bad before. I told him it was highly likely I would leave the next day. My heart was racing a little and my stomach had knotted. It didn’t altogether bother me but I was uncomfortable. This episode went on for quite some time. Eventually Gonçalo reappeared from his bedroom and apologised to me. I told him not to worry and that these things happen and I hoped he was OK. The boy of the former man was close to tears, I felt dreadfully sorry for him but at the same time I was thinking, it want right for him to invite people into his home, knowingly that every weekend was much the same. I could only think of maybe a poor young female traveller, how she would cope? I doubt she would, it could have a lasting effect on a lot of people. For me, it was just another experience. I didn’t like it, it was a concern but I dealt with it. Having said that, when I went to bed, I bolted the door.
The atmosphere wasn’t good, neither was the food we were eating. We were sat around the table, the father at the head and me opposite Jekyll and Hide. The mother has her head in her hands and she’s making grumbling noises with occasional shrieks. She stands and goes and sits in the inglenook, her head back in her hands. I can see the trauma in her face. Apparently she is like it with others too, her work colleagues. She has nightmares constantly, wakes in the early hours screaming and shouting.
Gonçalo is wreck, he’s emaciated. Most of his food is raw, it’s liquidised. His body has no time to take the nutrients, it must pass straight through him. He can’t see it and he’s an intelligent man. Personally, I think this guy needs sectioning and to be forced fed. It’s impossible for him to survive. He’s convinced foods other than veg. and fruit with over work his liver and pancreas. His eating habits aren’t good. He’ll just spit the food that he doesn’t want out of his mouth and on to the plate. His mother is no better.
I decided to pack my things but it was just not happening. I was just pushing stuff around in circles. There was no use anyway, the weather forecast was rain for tomorrow and I wasn’t prepared to cycle maybe forty miles to the nearest accommodation. I’d reassess tomorrow.