Monat: Januar 2023

Mein Trauma ist nicht die erlebte Gewalt. Mein Trauma ist über das Erlebte, die Gewalt, die Zerstörung, das Böse nicht sprechen zu dürfen. Das kindliche Sprechverbot über mein Erleben erstickt(e) mich körperlich. Wenn Wahrhaftigkeit nicht erlaubt ist krepiere ich! Und ganz viel in mir will nicht erleben für meine Spezies sichtbar zu sein. Dennoch aus purer Verzweiflung die tiefe Angst vor Menschen benennen. Schreiben und erleben, wenn ich mich sicher fühlen möchte, muss ich nackt auf die Bühne. Die Hölle ist hell. Es gibt keine Möglichkeit mich mit Masken sicher zu fühlen. Finstere kosmische Intelligenz! Die Dunkelheit zerfetzt die Lichtkonzepte. Meine Liebe zur Zerstörung. Offengelegt da sein und vielleicht verstören…

Healing from Rape

I am here. You can see my wounds.

You`re allowed to know that I am going through crisis.

Nothing to hide. Nothing to rush. Nothing to shame.

Darkness is the true medicine.

Leaving no stone unturned seems to be the motto of this healing journey.

To express my rage and sorrow I hold on tightly to this story of my pain.

I learned to hide it, avoid it. For it won’t be met with grace.

I learned to fear it, to clench around it, for it will awaken the monster.

A ruthless monster, a raging monster, breaking all and anyone who dares to speak up.

Raising hands in front of those who dare to grieve.

Destroying the world around those who cry and wail.

Now I dare to grieve. I dare to wail.

I dare to speak. I dare to tell the story of how broke I am.

This untold story is going to ask for all of me in order to be told.

It will take all of my strength and courage.

All of my heart. All of my soul.

Meeting layers of despair, and absolute fear of approaching this wound.

I was scared to open what I had spent years burying, hiding, and running from.

I was not just encountering shame, but deep deep self-hatred.

Feeling like I would never be okay again.

Like opening this door would break me into a million pieces.

And it did. Because I was already broken from abuse in childhood.

On top being raped at the age of 16 broke me into a million pieces.

The lesson was that womanhood is a place of suffering.

I knew that it was rape. I knew I had not consented to the act.

And still, I couldn’t face the reality of it.

And still, I doubted myself.

I couldn´t tell anybody.

For over thrity years, I hid, avoided, ran from, and denied my pain.

I shaped and molded myself, trying so hard to become someone else.

I blamed myself. I believed that being who I am was why this had happened to me.

I suffered deeply. I was at war with myself, finding one weapon after another.

I committed spiritual suicide, ending my life while I was still alive.

Now I learn how to come back into my body.

I am learning how to show up for myself, how to hold my grief, pain, and trauma.

I was being prepared to face what felt to me like the biggest, most painful wound I had.

As I’ve been walking the path of healing, I knew my sexual trauma would need to emerge eventually.

And it had, in bits and pieces here and there. But never to this extent.

Never had I ever felt this absolute permission to be depressed, until I acknowledged what happened.

Never had I ever been as honest about my life journey, until I acknowledged fully what happened.

Listening to stories of other rape survivors, I started connecting the dots.

Depression. Lack of boundaries. Feeling easily violated. Nervous breakdown years. Self-isolation. It´s PTSD. And not just from childhood trauma, as I had been telling myself.

Grief. Uncovering the truth of what happened is one thing.

Grieving, allowing myself to feel the pain of it all, is another.

For this grief carries two deaths.

There is the pain of the incident itself, and then there is the pain from all of the running, hiding, and self-punishing. The latter hurt more.

“I am healing.” It is not easy to acknowledge.

I believed I would never be okay again.

And it is scary to admit that, I am, in fact, okay.

It’s as if I was failing, thinking that I was drowning, and then found myself standing in waist-high waters.

But it’s true. I am healing.

As I step into the portal of my grief,

I shed the illusions I’ve been carrying for so long.

I am becoming my True Self as I come back to my body,

I not only accept but embrace all of my experiences life is offering me.

Being opend to the love available for me.

In this space, here an now.

Thank you voilance, grief and healing.

Holy shit my life is so sensible and perceptible.

Das geschändete Kind, erwachsen

Gesungen, getanzt in endlosen Nächten
geflohen

Gelaufen, gerannt auf verworrenen Wegen,
verlassen

Verloren, verführt von lustvollen Mächten,
verdammt

Bald haltlos verachtend,
den Fremden im Spiegel gehöhnt und verlacht,
Tanzend am Abgrund, nichts achtend,
Empfinden längst aus dem Vergessen verbannt,
wird endlich der letzte Einsatz genannt.

Unter der Haut, den Leib geschunden,
Willkommen die Wunden, bleibt anderes verschwunden.
Vom Schmerz erhofft den erlösenden Regen,
der reinwäscht der Nächte bitteren Segen.

Gestürzt, gestrauchelt, an öden Tagen,
wieder gesucht, der Totenschlaf.

Wozu?
Stündlich sich mühselig labend,
verzweifelt stillend den unerträglichen Durst.
Weiter!

Anders jetzt.
Moment um Moment kehr ich zurück.

Unverhofft in -Liebe?- gewiegt,
die umhüllt, fleht und vergibt,
und sich die Strauchelnde
(nun endlich) ermattet ergibt.

Feuriges Zittern in jede Zelle eingebrannt,

ahnen kein Ende jetzt

die Erde zieht mich

zu sich.

Nach langem Luftanhalten durchs Becken tauchen.

Den Einsturz brauchen.

Es gibt keine Möglichkeit mich mit Masken sicher zu fühlen?

Weißt du wie viele Ängste in meinem Nervensystem hat unter dem Panzer glühen?

Nehmt mir nicht den Mut,

aber nehmt mir die Angst.

Nehmt mich ruhig auseinander,

aber haltet mich auch fest.

Nehmt mich ganz für euch,

aber lasst mich – wenn ich es möchte – auch gehen.

Nehmt mich als mich,

nicht als das, was ihr wollt.