My story

I want to write this blog to help myself process my thoughts, but perhaps also to help others feel a little less alone.

My goal is to reflect on myself, my life, and the experiences that have shaped me. I want to write as honestly as I can, with as little filtering as possible.

This blog begins with the story of my life. A story that will be told in several parts, because some stories simply cannot be told on a single page.

This is my story—both the good and the bad, the highs and the lows, the mistakes and the right choices. It is the story of how life can take from you, but also give something back.

And maybe, along the way, someone will recognize a part of themselves in it.

Part 1

Over my 41 years, I have had many experiences. Experiences that have shaped me into the person I am today.

Life begins shaping us from the very start. From the day we are born, it lays the foundation for the choices we make, how we see ourselves, and how we treat the people around us.

This is not an easy story to write.

But I am writing it anyway.

I was born on a summer day in July, the third of three siblings. We were all close in age: my oldest sibling was born in November 1981, the second in February 1983, and I arrived the following year.

My parents got married when I was baptized.

A year later, they divorced.

Shortly afterward, Child Protective Services became involved. By the time I was only eighteen months old, my siblings and I had been placed in an institution. A few months later, we were moved into foster care.

We lived there until I was six years old.

Then we were sent back to live with our mother.

It was supposed to be what was best for every child.

I wish I could say it was the best thing for me.

But that would be a lie.

I was a shy child.

Tough on the outside, but deeply insecure on the inside.

I never quite felt like I belonged.

Kindergarten was fine, but school quickly became a challenge. The girls excluded me, so I usually spent my time with the boys.

I struggled to pay attention in class.

Most of the time I drifted off into daydreams—or simply disappeared into my own thoughts.

Eventually I became just another child in the crowd.

Almost invisible.

At home, life was completely different.

The woman who gave birth to me was never awake in the mornings. She never woke us up, never helped us when we needed it.

I wet the bed for years, but she never changed the sheets, never sent me to shower, never packed my lunch, never packed my school bag or my gym clothes.

She never made sure we got to school on time.

She never wished us a good day.

She wasn’t even there on my very first day of school.

But we had our grandparents.

And they did all of those things.

Every single day.

My grandmother and grandfather were safety.

They were love.

They were the safe harbor we could always return to.

Something all three of us desperately needed.

Because home was very different.

My mother carried an anger inside her.

An anger, mixed with deep emotional turmoil, that made everyday life completely unpredictable.

You constantly had to watch her mood.

Read every signal.

Everything revolved around adapting, because her mood determined how severe the punishment would be.

If you accidentally broke something, the consequences could range from gentle to brutal.

Sometimes she would simply say,

«It’s okay. I love you. Anyone can make a mistake.»

Other times, her eyes turned black with rage.

She would scream.

She would yell.

She would tell you that you ruined everything—that she couldn’t have anything left out because of you.

Sometimes she grabbed our ears and pulled them.

Other times she grabbed us behind the ears, tangled her fingers in our hair, and shook us back and forth like rag dolls.

Sometimes she slapped us across the face.

Sometimes it was all of it at once.

I was afraid of her for many years.

But we also had good moments.

We would sit together while she read us books.

We watched The Chronicles of Narnia and the Eurovision Song Contest together.

We ate waffles while my grandparents stopped by—they lived only fifty meters away.

Those moments became tiny pockets of safety.

Small opportunities to breathe in the middle of all the chaos.

But those moments wouldn’t last.

In April 1993, my little sister was born.

My mother had found a new partner.

And we were moving in with him.

Two hours away.

Two hours away from the only place that felt safe.

I don’t know how many times, between the ages of six and nine, I asked myself:

Why was I born?

Why do I have to go through this?

Why am I alive?

What have I done to deserve this?

It wasn’t just the fear of doing something wrong.

It was the fear of the smallest things.

Even not finishing your dinner could be terrifying.

If you didn’t eat everything, your plate was put in the refrigerator and served again at the next meal.

In the worst cases, you were force-fed.

One particular incident has stayed with me ever since.

Even today, just thinking about it brings tears to my eyes.

Perhaps it was the most traumatic experience I had ever lived through at that point.

My brother hadn’t finished his meal.

The woman who gave birth to us sat him down on a chair, wrapped a kitchen towel around his neck, forced his mouth open by pressing her fingers into his cheeks, and pushed the food into his mouth with a fork.

I remember standing there.

Completely helpless.

I couldn’t help him.

I couldn’t say a word.

I was too afraid of what would happen to me if I tried.

So I just stood there.

Silent.

With tears streaming down my face.

In front of me, my brother was crying as he struggled to pull away.

And I just stood there.

Still.

Helpless.

To be continued…