Un (Be) Longing Part 1

Photo by Savannah B., CC BY-NC 2.0 DEED

Trigger warning: Both physical and emotional violence are discussed in the following text; neglect, bullying, depression and alcohol addiction are explicitly and implicitly mentioned.

Un Be

Longing

Text by Luisa Brühne (Freie Universität Berlin)

Prologue

The ringing of a telephone. Anxiety. The phone is picked up. Fear. Trembling. The exchange of information. Panicked search for a place of refuge. The phone is hung up. Too late. Footsteps approaching. Panic. Seeing the expression on the face. Safety distance. Stumbling backwards. Wall. Dangerously quiet voice. Panic. Voice gets loud. Whimpering. Safety distance becomes smaller. Trapped. Small on the floor in the corner. Hands above her head. Everything too loud. Too much. Voice gets even louder. Uncontrollable body movements. Fear. Raised hand. Held tight. Look in the eyes. Inner struggle. No control. Fear.

Trembling all over. Mum?

***

Alone. Silence. Relaxed voices in the next room. Racing heart. Anxiety. Alone. Isolated.

Shame.

***

A forest. Rotten roots. A child lies in the soft moss. Hidden. A tremor shakes the ground. The child is startled. The first trees fall. It runs off. Out of the forest. She sees it in the meadow. A crack begins to run through the entire landscape at breakneck speed. Straight towards her. Everything shatters. She runs. The crack is hot on her heels. The green meadows give way to a parched expanse. She has to save herself. Everything shatters behind her. The crack is right beneath her. She has no chance. The ground breaks away beneath her feet. A chasm opens up beneath her and splits the landscape in two. The chasm pulls her apart. Time is running out. She has to make a decision. She can't live in both landscapes at the same time. She doesn't want to leave herself here. But there is no other way to survive. She musters the last of her energy. And jumps.

Part I: Estrangement

She lies on the sofa and stares at the ceiling. It was the same every year. The same conversations, the same food, the same faces. The same emptiness. Even the order in which the songs came out of the stereo was the same. She used to love Christmas. She doesn't know why. Maybe because of the presents. Or the romantic promise of the ‘feast of love’. At some point, she had realized that it wasn't. At least not here.

She imagined the doorbell ringing and someone picking her up for a walk. They would have exciting, in-depth conversations. Not the kind of trivial banter that is called "small talk" in modern jargon. She wanted hard talk, deep talk. But none of the people in the room seemed to be able or willing to go deep enough with her. Then the song she's been dreading all evening comes on. Every time she hears it, something tightens inside her. Not because she doesn't like it, but because she is convinced that it is one of the most beautiful love songs.

But every time Holly Johnson's delicate, vulnerable voice sings Love is danger Love is pleasure, Love is the only treasure, she realizes that she doesn't have this treasure. And will probably never find it in this family. At least not in the form she longs for it. She doesn't even know what it looks like. She longs for something, she doesn't know what it is. Every time she hears this song, she realizes it. But she knows she has it inside her, in a way. Even if she can't live it out, she has love inside her. Love is like an energy, rushing inside of me

But is this love good? Is it healthy? Or has it been poisoned? Does it need love that is similar to hers, or something completely different? What is love? What is it made of? She can't remember anyone ever telling her that he, she or they loves her. It has always just been Ich hab dich lieb. But did anyone in this world love her?

She lets her eyes wander around the room. People are talking about politics. People complain that they, as taxpayers, have to pay for bad politics. Because some "social parasites" are living at their expense. Of course, these "social parasites" had a better life than everyone at this table. She rolls her eyes inwardly. She could now explain to them in detail how the capitalist system and rich billionaires are to blame for their being exploited. But she doesn't want to. It wouldn't change anything anyway. The men would interrupt her and not listen to her properly, as they always did. She is so tired. From everything. The last notes of the song play. I'll protect you from the hooded claw, keep the vampires from your door. And like every time, she asks herself; who had protected her from the clawed monster and kept the vampires from her door?

It was the same every year.

***

Her parents were never part of her world. It was as if they were cut off from each other. She was forced to live in their world for many years. To survive. It was not a world that was good for her. She felt like a plant that had been planted in the wrong soil and her parents now seemed overwhelmed by caring for it because they didn't know what the plant needed. All attempts to communicate their needs to them failed, they didn't understand them. It was as if they were speaking a different language. It died. Not overnight, it was a gradual process. In order to survive, the plant adapted its own little ecosystem to the given circumstances. But in the long run, this did it more harm than good. She didn't blame her parents for not knowing how to properly care for her because when she looked around, she saw that everything her parents had cultivated was so much different from her. How were they supposed to know what she needed when they were so different? When, to them, she was strange?

***

She felt like a stranger. As if she didn't belong there. As if a better life was waiting for her somewhere. But it seemed to be just out of reach. At least for the time being. It feels the strangest when you should feel the most familiar. The strange in the familiar. She knew she was at home when everything felt familiarly strange. The sofa that radiated functionality instead of coziness. The kitchen, which always had to be tidy. In general, everything always had to be very tidy. Everything had its place. And the purchase price of an object determined its value.

That's why it was only allowed to eat with those ugly plastic plates on the dining table. She hated those plates so much. The house was lined up next to the other houses, just like everything in this house was lined up. ‘It looks like a furniture store in your house,’ Leon always said. Nice to look at, but without soul. Trapped and cramped, the house lined up next to the other houses like the stubbornness of the people living there. She was glad to know that she would be able to escape from this confinement at some point. It was only a matter of time. But her parents seemed doomed to be stuck there forever. Hidden behind the dream of owning a home, which was very popular among the aspiring middle class at the time, and the underlying desire for freedom and independence, a burden of lifelong imprisonment emerged. At least that's how she saw it. She was happiest when she was away from home.

Elementary school was a puzzling place for her. She loved learning. And she read an incredible amount. She liked school because she liked learning and was good at it. But the people there weren't particularly nice. Especially the adults. The other children knew that her teacher didn't like her and shamelessly took advantage of this. She got into a lot of fights. Often unintentionally. She can't remember them that clearly. She had to write or draw many letters of apology. It didn't bother her much, she liked drawing and writing after all. When she was moved from third to fourth grade, she was told by her teacher: ‘If I could, I would give you lower marks, but unfortunately you are too clever. That's why I can only give you a D in social behavior’ and was handed a certificate that only consisted of As and Bs. Her teacher told her parents that they would have problems with her at junior high school because her social behavior was so bad. She was a typical problem child.

With the transition to junior high school, many of her problems miraculously disappeared. But even here she felt strange at times. It wasn't the content that was taught in class, but rather the way the children and young people interacted with each other. It was the questions about vacations during the vacations; while many of her classmates flew to faraway places, she was happy when she could go to the Baltic Sea for two weeks in the summer. It was the demeanor of the other classmates that differed from hers; while the others naturally took up space and seemed to know how everything worked, she felt like a stranger. It was the conversations about her parents and their professions. When asked what their parents did for a living, many of the other classmates would proudly tell them, as if it was their own merit, that their parents were judges, doctors or engineers. These questions stressed her out because she didn't really know what her parents actually did for a living and was ashamed of it. Perhaps even for them.

It's pleasantly warm for a day in March. I go for a walk in the woods with my father and the dog. ‘Your knowledge already exceeds mine. You'll be dealing with subjects that your mother and I have never heard of before, let alone have any idea about.’ I know that my father is right, even if I don't like to agree with him in most cases. I realize that I will be alone. Alone with my knowledge. Alone with the paradoxical feeling of belonging in a place that is foreign to me. What a strange feeling; not really fitting in anywhere, not even at home. As if I am on a hopeless search for a place that suits me.

I feel like a stranger, but that's nothing new.

***

I am so incredibly tired. Tired of having to be strong. I want to find a place where I no longer have to be strong. Where I can be soft and vulnerable without having to fear danger. I am so incredibly tired of having no energy.

***

A suitcase full of books and a backpack with the essentials. So that was it. That was all I was going to take with me. My gaze wanders around my room, which will no longer be mine from tomorrow. But had it ever been? For me, it was more a room with furniture that I tried to breathe my style into. But the attempt failed, because the room seemed to have been so taken over by the rest of the house that it didn't seem possible to give it a new identity. The stubbornness, the order, the lack of warmth eats through every pore of the house and I realize how it is now also attacking my room. All I can do is flee before I too am swallowed up by the house.

I am surprised by how easy it is to leave. I had expected my impulsiveness to get the better of me and I would start tearing everything off the walls. But everything inside me is calm. Maybe I know that the answers aren't behind the wallpaper. Maybe they weren't here to begin with. My cell phone vibrates. A new message from Leon: I can drive you to the station tomorrow, my parents don't need the car, so you won't have to take the bus. I smile sadly. My parents hadn't asked me if they could help me move out, let alone offered to take me to the station. For Leon, it was a matter of course. I go downstairs to the living room to say goodbye to my parents. ‘I've finished packing and I'm going to bed,’ I say, looking expectantly at my parents, who are lying on the sofa watching TV. Just like every night. ‘Then take care. Write to us when you've arrived.’ They make no move to get up from the sofa. I go to sleep in my crib one last time. It feels too small, but that's nothing new.

The next morning, Leon picks me up as promised and we drive to the station. We drive along the long road that I used to cycle to school on almost every day. I look out of the window. And at that moment, it seems as if the few beautiful moments that I associate with coming home are rushing past me again. I look thoughtfully at the sky and let my gaze wander through the familiar streets. As so often, I am overcome by a constricting feeling that takes my breath away. As if this city, this life here, is too small, too narrow for me. As if a huge hand were wrapped around me and squeezing the air out of me. When we arrive at the station, I want to walk to the train alone, but you insist on coming with me to the platform. I hate goodbyes and don't like to drag them out unnecessarily. I get on the S-Bahn, you stay outside. I can't remember exactly what we said. As the doors slide in front of your face, I am overcome by a deep shudder and a sob that I didn't expect. The train pulls out of the station and my old life disappears into the distance, becoming smaller and smaller. I have managed to leave this place, at least for now. I know I will have to return at some point. I sit down and look out of the window. At that moment, I realize that my cheeks are wet. In a strange way, I feel happy about it. Isn't it a good sign if it's not as easy to say goodbye as I first thought?Isn't it a form of love?

The essay continues in part 2, coming soon.