Psychology
Psychology. So extensively researched. So meticulously cataloged. Reflected upon. Like the full moon.
Psychology. So frowned upon. Incomprehensible to people. Dark. Gloomy. Like the new moon.
Imagination
Imagine you are at home. In a chair. On a sofa. An armchair.
Thoughts: dark. Gloomy. Screaming inside you. At the same time, you are tired. Infinitely tired.
You probably aren’t even sitting on one of those options. More likely, you are lying down.
With an elephant on your chest, keeping you from getting up.
You need help. You think.
But you feel like you don’t deserve it.
The feeling of not being taken seriously is burned into your synapses.
Long waiting lists. Longer response times. Often no response at all.
Maybe you are already in therapy. One year. Two years. Maybe three.
And yet, nothing moves.
Maybe the wrong therapist. Maybe the wrong therapy method.
Maybe the blocks are too large.
Many maybes. But no hope.
You know you are different.
You always have been.
As a child.
The Apotheosis
You are not yet able to recognize what is going wrong.
With other children. Adults. In your own family.
You are talked down to.
Everything you do is somehow wrong.
Recognition? Only from teachers, because you try hard.
Classmates? Hate you.
Sycophant. Nerd.
Your things disappear. Reappear.
Sometimes dirty. Other times destroyed.
You withdraw.
And the light inside you forms a dark crescent.
You are proud. Of your grades.
But others are not.
Good grades? Your schoolbag is trash.
You cannot keep order.
No matter what you do. It remains messy.
Punishments follow.
Bad grades … in “order.”
Slaps. At home.
House arrest. Stricter supervision.
For years.
The same game. The same problems.
And your parents’ solution:
“Behave normally.”
But you feel normal.
Because it is normal for you.
And then a wrong decision.
Not yours.
Not your teachers’.
Maybe the teachers’.
Those who do not want to see.
The First Shadow
A move.
Into a hotspot.
Everything new. Away from everything you know.
From everything that gives you stability.
You get no chance to say goodbye.
To anyone.
You have no choice.
Never.Never.
Others decide for you.
And everything gets worse.
New school. New perpetrators.
Rougher. Harder. Louder.
Teachers become distant.
Materials are lower quality.
Things break faster.
Not because of you. At least not always.
By others. By perpetrators. By assholes.
One year. Just one.
And then you could start anew.
So you endure it.
Every bad grade.
Every blow.
Every harsh word.
Every criticism.
From a grade average of ~B to ~D.
In one year.
No chances at education.
Not for you. Not anymore.
No gymnasium. No doctor. Nothing.
But that is not the worst.
No.
The worst is your self-hatred.
Because you are different. In the eyes of others.
Because you are annoying. In the eyes of your family.
Because you are worthless. In your own eyes.
The Beginning of Withdrawal
Your light is being eaten.
The shadow grows larger.
You shrink.
And yet you hope.
“Things will be better at the next school.”
False hope.
It gets worse.
But you want to be different.
More approachable. Cooler.
You even start smoking to belong.
Yet it stays the same:
Endure.
But it’s more than that.
The burden grows heavier.
Bullying.
Rumors.
Destroyed books.
You must take responsibility.
It becomes more persistent.
The bullying.
The destructive rage.
You have no one.
No one knows you.
But everyone knows each other.
You are the new one.
The other.
Not cool enough.
Wrong clothes. Wrong posture.
Wrong … everything.
Other new kids succeed.
Cool clothes. Big mouth.
And you know: they have no brains.
You do.
But they succeed. Socially.
You have no idea what else is coming.
What has happened so far is only a drop in the bucket.
The Half-Heart
You begin to die inside.
It feels literal.
Nothing is visible on the outside.
You sit at the doctor’s.
Black eye.
Bruises on thigh and hip.
Concussion.
And the scene keeps replaying in your head.
You are lured.
To the bus stop.
By someone who is usually never mean to you.
You think:
Wow.
“Wow. Someone might like me.”
You stand there.
Talking.
Hearing steps.
You turn around.
Then it goes black.
Pain in your eye.
You stagger backward.
Into the bus shelter.
Glass in your back.
You go down on your knees.
Crouch.
Hands protecting your face.
Around you:
Screams.
Cheering.
Laughter.
Insults.
Ridicule.
Steps.
New pain.
Back of the head. A fist.
Back.
A kick.
Another. On the thigh.
No sense of time.
Ten minutes? An hour?
The laughter grows louder.
You risk a glance.
One second.
You see a girl.
She looks sad.
Quickly you hide again.
You hear cars. Mixed with cheering.
You want to leave.
At any cost.
You stand up, with all the strength left.
Push through the crowd.
Run. Onto the street.
Your thoughts: dark.
“PLEASE RUN OVER ME.”
Tires squeal.
Laughter behind you.
You run.
And run.
And run.
Home. Collapse.
“I never want to go to school again. Ever.”
Your mother comes. She looks at you.
You go to the doctor.
The Narrow Half
It gets better. At least physically.
Due to reporting.
But you are broken.
Too broken.
Darkness everywhere.
It leads you. Into a nature reserve.
A power pole.
First step. First rung.
Second step. Second rung.
It continues.
Until you reach the top.
Despite fear of heights.
One step.
Just one.
Freedom.
Within reach.
But then:
The face of the person who matters most.
In your head.
You can’t.
No.
You cannot leave her alone.
Never.Never.
Time passes.
First partners come. Go.
For reasons.
Cheating.
Emotional crippledom. Yours. Not theirs.
Misunderstanding.
From others.
Because you fear your family.
And hide what makes you, you.
Something new again.
Something you may not express.
Never.Never.
And yet you must.
Eventually.
Why?
A joke. From school.
A question: “Are you gay or what?”
An answer: “And if I were?”
Ice-cold.
A follow-up:
“Should I go with you to a psychiatrist?”
As an adult, you think:
“Yes. But not because of that.”
Forced to end relationships.
Contacts.
You throw yourself into bed.
Want to die again.
Press the pillow to your face.
Can’t breathe.
You can’t manage.
Not even that.
Contempt.
Towards yourself.
And you endure.
Still.
The Almost Crescent
You realize what you have given up.
Hunger?
You sell your stuff.
Others should have taken care of you.
You sell your stuff.
Out of fear of hunger again.
You have to remind the person who should care for you.
About food.
In front of a slot machine.
Bills.
DIN-A4.
Four digits.
The person who should give you a good start in life falls for it:
“GUESS THIS WORD: S_NNE AND WIN 500 EURO!”
Furniture.
Ordered in your name.
Unpaid.
You run away.
At the first opportunity.
You love.
Selfish people.
Lazy.
Irresponsible.
You sink deeper into darkness.
“Unable.”
“Stupid.”
“Worthless.”
“DIE.”
You think.
To yourself.
And it continues.
The Last Tear
One point.
Your life falls apart.
It went.
For a few years.
Well.
Better.
And then …
Your innermost self.
Of glass.
Shattered.
Shards.
Dust.
A new beginning threatens.
As it has so often.
But it doesn’t threaten.
It is here.
Upheaval.
But you are brave.
New place.
At the other end of the country.
You find help.
Psychological.
Inhumane.
“You don’t look like anything is wrong.”
And yet you stay.
No alternatives.
Long waits again.
No space.
No.
One year. Two years.
No improvement.
Thoughts grow darker.
While cooking: “Knife in the stomach?”
Breakfast: “Cut the fat off?”
Walking: “Jump into the lake?”
Walking: “Jump into the lake?”
Balcony: “Dive?”
Fear grows.
Of the end.
Of what comes after.
If anything comes.
Few people hold you.
Because they love you.
Or at least like you.
Because you love them.
Because you like them.
For others: a stable rope.
For you: a thread.
Always breakable.
Fear of that?
Enormous.
Every small deviation of others triggers fear of loss.
Every time.
Stronger.
More intense.
Darker.
You don’t want this anymore.
You seek help.
You meet conditions.
Waiting lists.
Endless.
No clear guidance.
You sit at the computer.
Write this text.
And you know exactly what is needed to get immediate help.
The Silence
Razor blades. On the bathtub edge.
A glass of wine. Long drink. Whatever would taste good.
Candlelight. Music. The will to end it.
You could use them.
The blades. On your wrist.
Until the boiling, sad blood flows out.
Maybe hard. Maybe deep.
Maybe it solves the puzzle.
You will call the ambulance.
They will pick you up.
Bind you. Take you away.
Psychiatric emergency room.
Maybe you get help.
Bleeding.
Help that would otherwise be denied.
Help denied to many.
Only those who physically hurt themselves.
Only those who bleed.
Only those who still feel the pulse in the blade.
Only they get help.
Only then.
When the new moon has swallowed you.
Into its deepest darkness.
Then. Maybe.
Then you will feel help.
Or only be taken underground.
But you would finally be free.
1 shine on „Tristitia #2 – Neumond“
*stellt hier eine Kerze auf, für Alle, die gegangen sind, für Alle, die darüber nachdenken, und für Alle, wie Mich, die es überlebten*