Lost Boy

I was eleven years old when I wanted to kill myself for the first time.

Now, two decades later, I don’t feel that same burning despair in me anymore. But the fact that I even made it so far, was more a matter of lucky coincidences and the combined help of some wonderful people, rather than a clear-cut path forward.

None of those people were my biological family. In fact, my family played a big part in why I wanted to end everything in the first place.

From the outside, you probably would have never guessed it. Just some average, middle-class family in a small village, parents with decent jobs and children with higher education. Nothing out of the ordinary, right?

But to me, this scenery was the embodiment of years of mental torment. Mainly caused by my mother, but my father was also a willing accomplice.

Thinking back, I cannot remember a single moment during those years, in which I was genuinely happy for a significant amount of time. In fact, I cannot remember a single day. Maybe you think I’m exaggerating now. But I will tell you what happened: my brain blocked out so many memories from that time that I have no idea anymore, if there were happy moments. But do you know what I remember as clear as ice to this day? Every single event which caused me tremendous agony.

My Body Is A Cage

I certainly wasn’t an easy child. I didn’t relate to most other children, preferred books, video games and being terminally online. Hated family gatherings of every kind. Wanted to be left alone as much as possible. Hated being forced to go outside. Hated living in a small village with nothing to do and a bunch of close-minded people living around me. Hated Christmas where I had to pretend, we were a happy family, when just a few hours earlier I got screamed at for complete trivial shit.

Because my family environment was anything but the idyllic scenery I depicted above. For as long as I can think of, I was living there in a constant state of emergency. I could never be sure how my parents, especially my mother would react to anything I did. From one second to the next she would go from praise to screaming into my face and telling me how awful I was. For years, I was trapped in a constant state of emotional instability, because the very people who were supposed to protect me from exactly that, did nothing of the sort.
I had zero sense of reliability and could never be sure of what to expect next.

I remember every act of violence.
Physical (few, granted) and psychological (very, very many). Every beating. Every slap. Every rage filled moment. Every time my parents threatened to give me away. Every time they screamed at me over and over and over again. Every time I was able to see their disgust.
Word of advice if you ever want children: never subject them to any form of violence. They will remember and it will impact their future lives.
I remember everything.

And I haven’t even started talking about the crazy esoteric mumbo jumbo. My mother used to “treat” me with sodium chlorite when I was ill, because she read on the internet that this stuff is some kind of miracle drug. Fuck you. I despise you with every fibre of my existence. I’m glad, I cut you from my life so many years ago and will never speak to you again. You never bothered to ask. You never bothered to reflect. You never cared about what you put me through. It was only ever about what you wanted. How I made you feel. How I affected your life. Not once did you stop and asked yourself, if maybe you did something wrong. Not a single fucking time. If there is a hell, I hope you rot forever.

No forgiving. No forgetting.

Over the years, so many people told me “But she’s your mother, you need to forgive her”. The fuck I need to. Cutting her out of my life was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

If you never experienced years of mental agony and despair, because you were constantly afraid of how the one person who’s supposed to take care of you, might react, then just shut the fuck up and listen.

She scarred me for life. Many of my adult relationships were determined by a super fucked up pattern. I would try so fucking hard to please the other person, because I was constantly scared, that if I did only the slightest thing wrong, they might leave me forever. Guess what, eventually I did fuck up and some people really left me. Sometimes because I was so messed up und so hurt, that the only way for me to cope was to lash out and treat other people as shitty as I felt. Tried to make myself feel better by putting others down. Only cared about myself. See the irony? I became what I hated most.

For most of my life, I have been stuck in this never-ending cycle of repeating the same pattern, the same mistakes over and over and fucking over again. And when people I cared about treated me like shit? I ran after them like a beaten dog, because maybe this time it will be different. Maybe this time they will give me care, affection and respect. Maybe this time I am worthy of their attention.

I got hospitalized multiple times because I had mental breakdowns in the classroom or during a night out. I started to use so many benzos, I lost count of the days I lay completely numb on the floor in my room, after I had another breakdown and could barely breathe.

I remember that my mother told me multiple times, that in her bullshit worldview I “chose” to be her child. Fuck off. I never asked for this. Certainly not for her. The trouble with being born is your inability to say “no”.

Unbroken

I know this one has been rougher than my usual pieces these days. Kinda a throwback to a couple of years ago when I started this blog.

But after lying awake for too long in the middle of the night and with my mind racing even faster than usual, I just needed to let it out. And I am glad I did. Because even after all that shit, I’ve been through over the years, I still haven’t gone completely mad.

Eventually, I started to realise why these patterns existed. Why I made the same mistakes over and over again. And I started to take accountability for it. I cannot change what happened. Cannot heal the people I’ve hurt. Cannot mend every broken relationships. But I can do everything in my power to break the cycle.

Care deeply for people, without neglecting my well-being. Build intense bonds, without being constantly afraid, that they might leave me. Be open for new experiences and more liberal with my trust. Embrace my emotions rather than hiding from them.

I’m done running.