Das Buch, das noch geschrieben werden muß - geht weiter! / The book that still has to be written - continues!
english below...
Es ist schwer zu beschreiben, was damals in mir vorging. Es liegt nicht nur am zeitlichen Abstand. Auch zeitnäher hätte ich es nicht erklären können: ich kannte nur ein Leben, das in sich keinen Sinn ergab, das nicht natürlich und normal war. Ich hatte keine Ahnung über mich selbst, weil es mich praktisch nicht gab. Ich war ja zunächst einige Jahre lang, wer immer ich sein sollte. Später wollte ich das nicht mehr, hatte aber keine alternative, eigene Persönlichkeit.
Heutzutage weiß ich, daß es Fachbegriffe dafür gibt. Psychologen werden speziell für den Umgang mit solchen Problemen geschult: die haben dann mit Patienten zu tun, die z.B. zu oft als V-Leute und verdeckte Ermittler eingesetzt wurden. Oder mit Entführungsopfern. Oder mit intrinsich multipolaren Menschen. All jene haben mit mir gemeinsam, daß sie nicht wissen, wer sie wirklich sind.
Etwa eine Woche später hatten meine Eltern eine Abendveranstaltung und ich blieb allein zu Haus. Eine ganze Stunde nahm ich mir Zeit für meinen Abschiedsbrief. Der war nüchtern und sachlich und brachte auf den Punkt, daß ich mein Leben nicht bereits war in andere Hände zu legen als meine eigenen.
Ich zog meine besten Sachen an und ließ angenehm warmes Wasser in die Badewanne. Für den tödlichen elektrischen Schlag hatte ich mir den Rasierapparat meines Vaters ausgesucht und sicherheitshalber noch ein Massagegerät in Reichweite in die Steckdose gesteckt.
Irgendwie war mir, als ob ich mein Ableben noch etwas mehr zelebrieren müßte und nahm mir ein Glas Rotwein. Bei Kerzenlicht stieg ich voll bekleidet in die Wanne, schloß die Augen und sah noch einmal ganz kurz in meiner Seele nach, ob ich es wirklich so und nicht anders haben wollte. Die Antwort fiel eindeutig aus und ich leerte das Glas in einem Zug.
Der Rasierer fühlte sich harmlos an, als er anfing zu surren. Ich warf ihn ins Wasser und er ging aus. Fasziniert beobachtete ich die kleine bläuliche Flamme, die auf der Wasseroberfläche hin und her tanzte. Leider passierte ansonsten nichts. Froh über meine Voraussicht stieß ich das Massagegerät hinterher. Die Flamme schien diesmal eher gelblich. Darüber hinaus war wieder nichts. Wir hatten noch ein Radio über der Wanne zu hängen und einen Fön auf einer Ablage. Ich schaltete beides ein und versenkte die Sachen. Keine Flammen mehr, nur noch kaputte Geräte.
Wir hatten noch keinen FI-Schutzschalter in der Wohnung. Es hätte funktionieren müssen.
Statt dessen stieg ich triefend aus der Wanne, beräumte schnellstmöglich die Kerzen und versteckte meine nassen Kleider. Die Geräte habe ich notdürftig abgetrocknet und in ihre Schachteln gepackt. Als meine Eltern heimkamen, war außer dem Dunst auf dem Spiegel nichts mehr zu sehen. Meinen Abschiedsbrief hatte ich in der Toilette hinuntergespült. Ich wurde nie auf die defekten Geräte angesprochen…
Weitere vier Wochen später nahm mein Vater mich und zwei gepackte Koffer mit auf eine kurze Autofahrt. Als wir ausstiegen, befanden wir uns in einer Kaserne der NVA (Nationale Volksarmee), wo ich die nächsten drei Jahre verbringen würde. Meine Laufbahn als Offiziersschülerin nahm in diesem Moment ihren Anfang und die Beziehung zu meiner Familie endete. Ich bin nie zurück nach Hause gegangen und bis auf eine spätere Begegnung mit meinem Vater vor Gericht sah ich niemanden wieder.
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Photo by Bernhard Kilian, alienated by me with little artifical help ;-))
english version:
It's hard to describe what was going on inside me at the time. It's not just because of the time gap. I couldn't have explained it closer in time either: I only knew a life that didn't make sense, that wasn't natural and normal. I had no idea about myself because I practically didn't exist. At first, for a few years, I was whoever I was supposed to be. Later, I no longer wanted that, but I had no alternative personality of my own.
Nowadays I know that there are technical terms for it. Psychologists are specially trained to deal with such problems: they have to deal with patients who, for example, have been used too often as informers and undercover agents. Or with kidnap victims. Or with intrinsically multipolar people. What all these people have in common with me is that they don't know who they really are.
About a week later, my parents had an evening event and I stayed at home alone. I took a whole hour to write my farewell letter. It was sober and matter-of-fact and got to the point that I was not ready to put my life in anyone's hands but my own.
I put on my best clothes and ran pleasantly warm water in the bathtub. I had chosen my father's razor for the fatal electric shock and, just to be on the safe side, had plugged a massager into the socket within easy reach.
Somehow I felt as if I needed to celebrate my demise a little more and took a glass of red wine. By candlelight, I got into the bath fully clothed, closed my eyes and took another quick look inside my soul to see if I really wanted it this way and no other. The answer was clear and I emptied the glass in one go.
The razor felt harmless when it started to buzz. I threw it into the water and it went out. Fascinated, I watched the small bluish flame dancing back and forth on the surface of the water. Unfortunately, nothing else happened. Glad of my foresight, I pushed the massager after it. This time the flame seemed more of a yellowish colour. Beyond that, there was nothing again. We still had a radio hanging above the bath and a hairdryer on a shelf. I switched both on and sank them in. No more flames, just broken appliances.
We didn't have an RCD in the flat yet. It should have worked.
Instead, I got out of the bath dripping, cleared the candles as quickly as possible and hid my wet clothes. I dried the appliances in a makeshift manner and packed them in their boxes. When my parents came home, there was nothing left but the haze on the mirror. I had flushed my farewell letter down the toilet. I was never asked about the faulty appliances...
Another four weeks later, my father took me and two packed suitcases on a short car journey. When we got out of the car, we found ourselves in a barracks of the NVA (National People's Army), where I would spend the next three years. My career as a cadet officer began at that moment and my relationship with my family ended. I never went back home and apart from a later encounter with my father in court, I never saw anyone again.
I think this is the most shocking of today's part of the story. Not the above incident. It is too personal, too sad and too hopeful all at the same time to comment on.
Some people are just not capable of being parents. Actually, a lot of people. They are not capable of feeling love, of caring emotionally for someone. But everyone rushes to have children no matter what. On that note, I'm surprised that you have children yourself, that you decided to do it, despite what you've been through. It requires awareness and great strength, an extraordinary ability to love, so as not to repeat the stereotypes embedded in the family.
True words! It was incredibly important to me to keep our emotional level stable. We also had our arguments at home, but we always went to bed in peace.
Reading this made me feel...
I'm short of words really.
What if the electric appliances didn't just leave a flame, bluish or yellow. What if something happened...
Would the parents feel responsible?
Of would they chalk it up-to some disturbed child. Who was just cursed. Who was destined for this mishap...
You made me re-think my role as a parent. How suitable or equipped I am. What if I had to deal with something like this. Would I be able to understand, still love unconditionally?
After all it's the parents' duty to love their kids, no matter what!
I don't know, I'm short of words...
I have seen children testing their parents to their limits. (I'm not talking about you here). The parents are also human beings at the end of the day. I have seen a demise in my close family. Apparently the kid got into habit of substance use. His mother, well, she did everything she coluld. She loved her... But in the end she lost it. She maybe lost the strength to deal with the chaos that child would bring everyday. It was beyond her capacity....
She visits his grave almost everyday. She is not the same person anymore. She is broken, she is ill, she is only alive, she is just no more....
I don't know if you have to love someone no matter what. Parents are responsible for their children up to a certain point, but as soon as they are able to make their own decisions, this responsibility shifts to a kind of legal construct.
What my parents would have felt if I had been successful, I can only guess. My father's assessment of them would have been that I was simply a weak person. My mum would probably have said: finally it's all come to an end... You know, she was over 40 when I was born. Back then, it was considered absolutely late childbearing and highly risky. A woman would never have done that to herself voluntarily...
You only really love yourself unconditionally, if at all...
Diese "Aktion" kommt für mich total überraschend, damit hatte ich überhaupt nicht gerechnet.
Für mich nicht ;-)) Soll heißen: es war keine Kurzschlußreaktion. Ich war so überlegt, wie ich mich kenne.
Thank God, u didn’t end your life…
But your mum, where is she in the picture?? Doesn’t she try to intervene when your dad makes some decisions about you?? Because every mum would try to protect their children from brutal dads..
No. She gave birth to me. That was it. I experienced her as cold and unapproachable and as... disturbed. Today I realise that this perspective was also limited and the big picture was somewhat different. At the time, I didn't have the impression that she played any other role in the family than that of a decoration.
That’s really too bad… who knows if she was also scared of your dad as well… you were much younger, you might not have paid attention to that area.
That's exactly the point: I've got to know this much later.
Krass.
Isso.