I have not experienced racism because I am ”lucky” enough to be a white Northern European. But I know what discrimination and suffering mean and I don’t want anyone else to have to experience something similar. Consideration is not a one-way street. Consideration is a big crossroad with many ways and endless possibilities. Nevertheless, or mostly because of that, I want to share my story with you. If it touches even a person, shakes a soul awake, makes them think – or even better, if a person understands, I have achieved more than I ever hoped for. (And to some extent it serves to better understand myself).
Today I am 30 years old and it took me a long time to reflect on myself. I still wonder when it started and I decided that our story doesn’t necessarily start with our birth. My great-grandma fled Poland shortly after World War II – as many other Germans. I don’t know the full story because the subject is kept secret in our family. But I know how much she mourned the time before the flight when the veil of dementia had put its coat around her. I am aware that many of her upbringing methods came about because of the flight. (I’m not trying to blame anyone, I just want to understand)
She beat up her children and she gave up her children so that they grew up with their grandmother. This trend continues like a thread in our family. I also lived with my grandparents for the first few years. Without a mother, without a father. My mother didn’t want to… My mother couldn’t … I dont know. I don’t know my father.
There are days when I’m incredibly angry. There are days when an overwhelming sadness overwhelms me and there are days when I am ashamed of my very existence. But I know that my own story would have been different if my great-grandmother – even the women before her – had experienced positive things or simply had the courage to break out of the corset.
I am writing to you because it is important for me to show the world how far-reaching decisions are and that very few have a temporary impact on our own lives. I still find it difficult to put what happened into words. Words are not always enough to tame emotions in a representative way on paper. But I try.
I remember violence within the family. My drunk grandpa beat up my grandma, my grandma beat up her children and she beat me up when I lived with her. When I finally moved to my mother when I was nine years old, nothing changed for me. But it was normal.
In the end, I know that they never knew it any other way and I only feel pity instead of anger. The foundation stone for my chronic depression and the complex post-traumatic stress disorder was laid in these years and the shadow of my past around me every day like a sword of Damocles. My soul and body have scars that will never fade. But I lean far out of the window when I say the following: I know that a lot could have been prevented if the women in my family had had courage. I can’t speak for them – but I can for myself and future generations. My voice should be heard: why weren’t you brave?
I shouldn’t have felt any violence. I shouldn’t have suffered sexual abuse as a child. I shouldn’t have experienced neglect. (…) I am brave! I cannot change my past, but it should not become the future of my children and their children. Change starts now. Change begins with me – with you – with all of us. I’m Linda. I am a mother. I am a partner. I’m bisexual. I am depressed. I am brave. I am a fighter.