One day I was stopped on the street by a simple woman, a sanitation worker. Because I had 15 minutes to spare, I stopped and talked to her. Leaning on her broom, she told me about her life with an aggressive man, diagnosed with anxiety and depression, who does not work and who beats her frequently. She told me that in her life there is a well-mannered man, with money and a house, who asks her to come to him, with him she would have a quiet and prosperous life. From her story I understood that not love does keep her with the aggressive man. “Sweetie, why don’t I leave this bastard? Why don’t I go to the other one?”. “Because that’s how you were taught. That’s what you saw in your childhood home, around you, that’s what you know. ” She looked at me with wide eyes, said, “You are so right” and she picked up her dumpster and left. I went on my way and after a few steps I noticed a Frenchie, a French bulldog, who, with bulging eyes, was desperately pulling his leash to come to me. I went to him so he wouldn’t break his neck with the leash. “Sorry, he likes to be petted.” I caressed the spoiled brat, he went into a trance of pleasure, then I went on my way again. I remembered the words of a homeless woman I spoke to another day, who, after reciting a few poems by Eminescu on the tram, with clear, strong intonation and voice, told me about “the other world”, a world in which you can only get if you do a lot of good deeds, then she took some headphones out of her pocket, put them in her ears, and told an imaginary friend about me: “I’m talking to a lady with golden hair. She will be the golden queen on the other world”. I find it good to be blonde, people take you seriously.
Sometimes we do incomprehensible things, even for ourselves. Franz Ruppert and Harald Banzhaf, in their book “My Body, My Trauma, My Self,” say that as a result of trauma suffered in very early childhood or even in the womb, in times that we do not remember consciously, we “break” into 3 parts: the healthy part, in which we function normally, the traumatized part, well hidden in the subconscious, and the surviving part, which acts in such a way as to keep the traumatized part as hidden as possible. This surviving part of us makes us seem seemingly illogical at times, have vices and addictions, get into toxic relationships, sabotage ourselves, because the pain of these deeds of ours cover the pain much greater, unbearable, of the initial traumas. And the surviving part also triggers new illnesses, due to the enormous energy consumption in order to keep the appearance of “normal” functioning and to repress the memory of trauma. Sometimes you remember excerpts, or someone in your family tells you something, or you even have a trauma continued over time, but your conscious mind, the surviving part of it, trivializes everything: “so what if my mother wanted to abort me, she failed, look, I’m alive, I have a relationship, a job, everything is going well for me. So what if she then took me to my grandparents and came to see me once a month, I loved my grandparents, I grew up well with them”. Your mother, the first attachment person in anyone’s life, wanted to kill you, took you away from her, didn’t love you, didn’t caress you, she wasn’t by your side when you needed her most. It means that you don’t deserve to be loved, you don’t deserve to be held, maybe you don’t even deserve to live, that’s how your subconscious perceives. “Sweetie, why don’t I leave this bastard who beats me and spends my money?”. Maybe your mother beat you through all your childhood, or your father beat you, maybe your father systematically beats your mother, you left home to escape that hell, but you had nowhere to learn harmony in a family, you don’t know how it is otherwise, you are addicted to the adrenaline of scandals and beatings. A man who treats you nicely, brings you flowers and wakes you up in the morning with the smell of hot coffee scares you, it’s something unknown. And you don’t deserve kindness, because your mother rejected you and yelled at you that you were useless when you broke a cup. And your father ignored you, he was always drunk and provocative. These were your childhood raw models. That’s what you know. And no one will be able to save you from yourself, no prince on a white horse. “Sweetie, why don’t I leave this bastard?” Because the French Bulldog was caressed when he was little, and you were beaten.