When inner chaos gets molded into this fur ball of a constant reliving of wordless trauma that the only thing you can do is give way -or bow down to- suffocational word vomit, you find yourself using personal pronouns that would give any psychoanalist with a fetish for linguistics a field day. Because the you is never the other when one talks about things that one doesn’t have the words for oneself. Let them be confused, so I can stand by in recognition, nodding, smiling in gladness that it’s not me. Let them be the ones to utter how they not know what is intrinsically going on, so that I can be safe in silence. Let them have my hell, because what you give away to others, is gone.

We found a letter. It was about a dad, who showed himself to be prudent and circumspect. In words it was like he drew a circle around us, not looking us in the eye, but speaking us in the ear, as if he knew this is the only way to approach a wild a animal, let him know you see him, by letting him know you don’t look. The father said: ‘I am ever contemplating whether I should ask how you are doing, but I think I won’t ask that question aloud.’ As mentioned, he doesn’t look at me, he is staring into space, in a ninety degree angle from me, creating this perfect shade where I can hide in, so that I don’t even have to say I don’t want to talk about it. My dad is a genius with language like that. I take after him. Now both of us have asked and said things that nobody ever heard. Let’s leave it for now. I am not up for longer conversations.

In another letter we read how anger always protected us. It made damn sure that we couldn’t get hurt, couldn’t get approached, couldn’t get held and squeezed to death. We were the ones having control over the distance between us and others. We threatened, cussed, and clothed ourselves in this robe of fire, that made damn sure nobody dared come closer. People walked away, turned their hearts, shut their mouths, left us. We burned them to the ground. Others reacted in fear, or reacted to our anger. Nobody ever looked behind what we showed them. No contact was possible. Don’t touch me, I’ll cut your head off. I am going to find out where you live and you will always be looking over your shoulder. The I is a we, or a one, or a you. Make sure the reader is confused so you don’t have to be.

My robe was taken from me, or it fell off. I don’t know how, but part of the robe is really gone, as if it was torn into patchwork, or threads, leaving parts still hanging on me to hide in. But when that happens, I am a bystander at the same time, shaking my head, hoping that words will fall out of MY mouth, saying: don’t mind her, please look past what she is presenting, nothing personal. All she is left with is a heavy body, consisting of tears only, molecularly being held together by horizontal gravity.


Where I used to be a word master, producing the most impressive complexe sentences, decorated masterfully by perfectly placed cuss words, as if each sentence was an arrow, dipped in curare (yes, a word), and shot right into everyone’s heart but mine – aim to kill – I am now silent as fuck, so loud, as if with every breath forward in time, a brake is being pulled that regresses me back in emotion, and I find myself in this hole without an edge. There are no words for what I feel, how I feel, I fully and only consist of raw sadness and fear. And my words don’t find their echo back to me, because the walls are gone.

And then this truth stepped in, over the rubble of my life, his boots let me know he was stronger than the crushed pebbles that I mistook for walls, and talked to me, saying: Alongside of these two modes of being, you will discover a God-given desire, or perhaps you can compare it to them stirring something up inside of you, remember John 5, the pool of Bethesda.. this is your wall falling, Pota (I know your real name). Sadness has a desire to be comforted. Fear has a desire to be soothed. Both desires can only be gratified in a relationship. Anger always made you do life on your own, locked up like the whore Rahab.

At the same time he talked to me, I was filled to the brim (remember John 2, where the water jars were filled on Jesus’ command) with a ghastly screaming, being utterly powerless. Hold me. Comfort me. Fill my unending void (be my eternal security), sooth me.. but I notice that the more I let that desire ‘be’, the bigger I see her become. She seems to swallow me whole, as the monster she is, and not only does she rob me from my words, but also my breath, and my sleep. Where is my robe of fire? Did I burn it? Have I grown too much into an adult already for calling myself out on pretend play?

A third letter came. It was short. It read that love is a choice, that with every breath you take connects you to the other. How can I trust that someone will keep choosing? Breathe out.