| A
Never-ending Pain
Between fear and depression, I was in the middle of uncontrollable flashbacks. With no help available and my very limited English, I had to deal with my early childhood and later psychological wounds myself. The only way I knew
to cope was writing down each experience I was able to tell. Three months
later I finished writing about the damaging psychological episodes of
my childhood. Then I stopped writing. Not because of lack of memory.
The bitter shame, guilt and feeling of worthlessness, the stigma of
being a criminal was still present and did not allow me to address the
time of my youth when I was in the institution in The 14 years of my childhood were my private holocaust, marked with fear by the almost daily beatings, sexual abuse, oppression, and being sold into slavery by my mother. In spite of the imprint of childhood abuse, I never lost the sense of right and wrong. Even as a little child I instinctively stood up against what I believed was hurtful to myself or others. But what I had to learn to bear in the institution was beyond endurance. The reason for my disobedience in the institution was similar to my decision to leave home, in search of more humanity and help. The abuse and mistreatment I received in the institution left a never erasable imprint of indescribable pain and permanent psychological consequences. As a 14 year-old,
I decided to end the daily endurance of terror in my parent’s house
and for the first time, I ran away from home: I did not get very far.
The police caught me and the child protection agency sent me back into
the hell of my home. After having run away six times, I said to these
cold-hearted bureaucrats that I would steal or commit murder if they
sent me back home again. I believed, at the time, that a prison was
a safer place than my parental home. The youth authorities gave in and
I was sent instead to a home for teenage girls in During my stay in
the Hedwigheim, The Lutheran nuns
made us work and we worked, prayed and cleaned until all floors were
shiny before breakfast. Absolute silence was mandatory and instantly
punished if we broke the silence. The cold and the silence even during
work hours (sewing aprons) became unbearable. Together with three other
girls I escaped. We knotted bed sheets together and went over the second
floor balcony. I hitch-hiked for
a while through An institution in
Fuerth/Bayern was a temporary holding place for runaways. My journey
continued about 14 days later when I was picked up and transported to
my final destiny, a holy hell, for three years. The new girls' home was called the Haus Weiher, a part of Rummelsberger Anstalten an outpost of the Christian German Diakonie. The house father was brother Buchta, a member of the Lutheran Brothers of Altdorf a house full off middle-aged, vicious people who continuously prayed and praised their self-righteousness. They called themselves "the ones without sin." It was at this place I became acquainted with other frightening cruelties, oppressions and dehumanizing humiliations. This was a new kind of abuse to me, a "black pedagogic" that uses the Christian religion as an excuse and method of abuse. I learned quickly that I was valued there even less than in my parental home. Punishment and hard labor, it was explained, was for the betterment of my character and it was necessary that I become free of sin and worthy of God's grace. I resented the shift to the Haus Weiher and expressed my thoughts by comparing this kind of operation with the oppression of the Nazi methods that held young people hostage. My defensive remarks were instantly answered with a week’s isolation. I had to work but eat alone at a table reserved for all who needed to be punished. The first effect
of the incarceration was that all personal belongings, such as jewelry,
makeup and personal letters for instance, were all confiscated. My clothes
were taken and replaced with house-clothing, a terrible, smelly shabby
cloth. My long hair had to be gathered to a pony-tail. As Ms. Klose,
the second in command told me, “nobody in this house can look like a
whore.” The second day in
the Haus Weiher was a long walk to the doctor in the town of For the first 4 weeks my duty before breakfast was cleaning toilets. After, came brushing and shining the wooden parquet floors on my knees. This was the time I complained of headaches: “I can’t bend over,” I complained, “and I get very bad headaches.” My complaints were answered with more scrubbing or additional cleaning duties. Much of the time, Ms. Klose stood next to me, lecturing and criticizing every move, while I was on my knees scrubbing. Forty-five years later, I was finally properly diagnosed and understood why I could never bend over without being in pain[1]. Breakfast from The 8, 6 or 4 small
bedrooms were sparsely furnished: An iron bed frame with a thin, smelly
mattress, a nightstand and iron bars on the windows. The lights were
turned off at At one time my assignment was cleaning the wooden floors in the upper level hallway. I was finished and I knocked on the bedroom door of Ms. Krause, one of the other “wardens” for her to unlock the door down to the first floor. My knock was not answered and I opened the door. Puzzled for a moment, I did not understand what I saw: Ms. Krause with no blouse on, fondling the small breasts of a girl by the name Elke, who looked like a boy. I was quickly pushed back out in the hallway and told not to speak about it. What I had just seen was a lesson in how to put on a bra, I was told. From this moment on, I had another enemy. Whenever she had a chance to, she harassed me and assigned extra dirty work for me. Later, Elke tried to molest me on several occasions. She was moved into the same bedroom after a bed became available. I rebelled against this move and told Ms. Krause I would tell Ms. Klose what I saw if Elke remains. It was not Elke that was moved. I ended up in a room with 7 other girls. Any rebellious attitude
against the inappropriate treatment, or running away, was punished by
wearing the "bad girl" uniform, which was a blue-white checkered
cotton blouse and a blue-white checkered skirt, the mark of the trouble-makers.
The black book listed all disobedience. If you were listed there, all
privileges were taken away. The white book, (book for good deeds) listed
all obedient girls. Normally, our own
clothes were locked in a room to which none of us girls had access.
Underwear was handed out once a week by our righteous, moral guardians.
A blouse was worn for 14 days; a skirt for four weeks. Pants were not
allowed. My plea to wear pants, to hide the psoriasis on my legs, was
ignored. The daily routine, morning and evening washing with cold water in a cold washroom, was supervised by the same frustrated spinsters on duty. The eight girls who stood naked in a cold washroom were watched to make certain that they would wash every part of their body. The sexual leers of the spinsters as they watched every move of the washcloth was the first of many daily embarrassments and humiliations we suffered. Sometimes their fingers would stroke down our back in an uncomfortable way, saying, "You forgot to wash some parts." Strictly controlled were warm water showers and only permitted every 4 weeks and only for three minutes at a time. After the tree minutes we have to stand under cold water for at least 30 seconds. Washing our hair was only permitted every 6 weeks. I did wash my hair fully aware of the punishment it would bring. The reason I had to wash was I needed release from an itching, thick layer of untreated psoriasis scales on my scalp. Everything was controlled, even how often we could use the bathroom. We had to ask for toilet paper and return the rest of the roll. Other female needs, such as the use of sanitary napkins for our monthly period was allowed only once a day, and for no longer than 4 days. If one's period lasted longer, one had to use toilet paper, or the house brand cotton type, who were washed and reused by everyone in need off. We never saw news on television or heard radio news. If the radio was turned on then we listened to Christian music. No magazines were allowed at all. Neither could we read true, educational books. Sometimes we were allowed to watch a movie or had a dance evening. I recall three dance evening in 3 years. We were grateful for everything that interrupted the routine boredom. However, these privileges were quickly erased by the slightest disobedience. The only thing in
abundance were prayers, which we said morning, The way to the church was too long for me and I asked to stay at home, since I don’t believe in god anyway and don’t like to spend a part of my monthly 5 DM pocket money. It was tradition that every Sunday 5 Pfennig out of every girls account was taken to donate to the church. This request and that I did not want to donate my money, was used against me and I was forced to go, as a lesson to learn obedience. We were allowed to write letters only to parents and close relatives. The letters however were censored. If the contents did not correspond with the house-rules or we complained about the conditions in Haus Weiher, the letter simply vanished without our knowledge. At the time, I asked myself why no one was writing to me. As a 50 year-old, I learned for the first time that my cousin had written many letters to me, letters I never received. After about six months
(my memory is not clear on the timing) of my arrival in Weiher, I was
“allowed” to begin a three-year tailoring apprenticeship. We, as tailoring students, received pocket money of, 9 and later 11 DM per month (about $7.00). With this money we had to buy our soap and toothpaste and sanitary napkins. What was left had to be saved for the fabric we needed at the end of the three years, to buy fabric and notions for the final exam, where we had to make a dress as the requirement for our final bachelor's degree. The education, after I became a tailor apprentice, was fitting a middle-school level. Self-education, by reading books was not permitted. Without television news or radio, we were intentionally cut off from the outside world. If we had the privilege to watch TV or hear radio, then it was only with religious contents or typical German country movies. The meals were sometimes inedible with little nourishment. All of our food was either steamed or boiled. We rarely had meat. Potatoes, in many forms, were on the daily menu. Breakfast was the same every day. It consisted of one slice of stale bread with a teaspoon of marmalade. The mold on the bread was cut away before they served it. The food for the administrators of the house was different and better. When, at one Sunday lunch, maggots were crawling out of our waffles in the dessert, I finally reached the end of my endurance. I took the plate with the maggots to the table where all staff were sitting. “Here,” I said, “you eat this.” As a punishment for being ungrateful and rebellious, I was ordered to the stand next to the table of the staff at every meal for one week, and eat later when everybody was finished. At the same time,
my psoriasis became worse and I had headaches nearly every day. On top
of it all, I became depressed. The town doctor experimented with different
remedies such as Zignolin and tar-ointment for the psoriasis. My worsening
headache was ignored. Aggressive behavior was the town doctor’s diagnosis and little blue pills were ordered to calm me down. Every morning after breakfast I had to appear, before work, at the office. Mrs. Klose handed me the little blue pill with a glass of water. She watched me carefully and made me open my mouth for her to see if the pill was not hidden under the tongue. I took the pill for a few weeks. One Sunday on the way to church, Gerda my friend pointed at a dead deer on at the roadside. When I reacted with total indifference, Gerda said: "Since you take the pills you have changed and you have no more feelings." I was emotionally numb, but I heard my friend. I no longer swallowed the little blue pills. I hid them in my upper cheeks and spat it either into the toilet or into the grass. When one of the nuns in civilian clothes discovered my disobedience I was posted in the kitchen, peeling potatoes. All other privileges, such as free time or watching a movie was suspended for 4 weeks. The tar baths for the psoriasis, prescribed by the physician, were declared as unnecessary because extra time too much water was needed for me. Mid-term my 2nd year
exam of my apprenticeship was over, I made my second “A”, and my psoriasis
was getting worse. I had to be hospitalized. The Nuernberger Klinikum
had a dermatology department with Prof. Weber in charge. Prof. Weber’s
specialty was psoriasis. I was more than glad to leave this place for
a while and free to walk the hospital campus and smoke offered cigarettes.
I had no pocket money. After 8 days in the hospital, the doctors decided
my tonsils have to be removed, even though there was no obvious reason.
Professor Weber believed the tonsils contribute to the worsening of
the psoriasis. Six weeks later I
was back in Weiher. The work load at the tailor shop has building up.
All clothes had to be ready for Tuesday. Tuesday was fitting day in
Nuernberg for all paying customers. 14 girls worked every Monday sometimes
until My constant headaches, the late-night work and the fact that house-father Buchta hit me triggered a plan. He caught me smoking in the attic and demanded that I tell who else was with me. When I didn’t give him the names, Buchta hit me so hard that I fell back and hit my head on the backrest of chair. I’d had enough. I explained my plan, to escape and tell the youth authority about the humiliating treatment, to some other girls. Three more agreed and we left Hause Weiher shortly before dark by jumping over a balcony. As intended, we separated
hitchhiking to each city where we originally came from, to meet with
the youth authority. I explained in detail about the mistreatment, the
long working hours, the bad food and the humiliation. I was promised
a change. The only change was being sent back, my long hair cut short
and I was dressed in the usual punishment clothing, a blue-white checkered,
thin cotton skirt with blue-white checkered blouse. I also received
a severe beating from the director, Ms. Klose. But there was more to
come. After two weeks in isolation I began to suffer from depression and thoughts of suicide. In the third week I felt the closeness of insanity, a mental death, the growing gap between my logic and the emotional brain. To occupy myself I began to measure the room by setting one foot in front of the other and counting the steps or counting the wooden boards of the floor. My second entertainment was cleaning the wall with my fingers. After there where no more unclean spots I began with moistening the wall plaster with my spit. When the plaster was soft enough I closed the hair splits in the wall with my fingers. Sleeping became a problem. Either I woke up in fear, visualizing a person in my room talking to me, or I could not fall asleep with out rocking my upper body. After these horrifying four weeks I had developed an irrational fear of people and could barely adjust to the group again. For another eight weeks I had to wear the checkered punishment clothing as a reminder of my disobedience. After this time of isolation I noticed a drastic change. I no longer could tolerate people. I was easily aggravated by noise and could barely concentrate. My listlessness was declared a laziness. Out of the woodwork came the offer the end my bachelor degree six month earlier. I thought I was privileged because of my regular ‘A” in the mid-term. Today, I know, the Lutheran nuns were in a hurry to get rid of me. I finished my bachelor's certificate as a tailor and left Weiher as a 19 year-old. My future mother-in law picked me up. A paperback with some of my belongings and a suitcase filled with the wardrobe I had made in the 2 ½ years were with me. However my jewelry and my watch was missing. A taxi brought us to the train station in Herbruck where my mother-in law told me that she has to pay 60 Deutschmark because I had debts and would not have been released if she had not paid. Instantly, she offered me to sew her some skirts and clean the house to pay off the amount. I was not aware that I had debts after all these years of working like a slave: Three years hard labor without receiving payment. Three years enduring psychological and physical pain; I was nearly broken. The trail of insults
continued after the institution. I was an emotionally
mutilated person with a destroyed identity and feelings of worthlessness,
who now had to prove that I was a valuable and fully functioning member
of society. In my four years in the Haus Weiher near Hersbruck An early retirement
was denied me. The diagnosis, PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder)
is not recognized in A still present phobia,
the result of being locked up for 4 weeks, limits my actions until today.
Small or closed rooms, places without windows, or not enough sunlight,
awakens panic. Aggressive behavior or verbal attacks displayed by people,
trigger flashbacks and lead ultimately into depression. Because of lingering
anxiety I am not fit to work for a long time in public (more than 2
people), and my concentration in public is reduced. A night fear still
handicaps late activities, such as entertainment (concerts etc). Extensive
background noise level impairs concentration and limits progressive
work. My youth, like my
childhood, was an inhuman exposure to childhood trauma that could result
only in resentment and fury against every abusive and dominating person.
The choice a child has against abuse is null. It’s either the frying pan or hell. A child is powerless, the adult is in charge. Later, as an adult, we continue our life in the same pattern, if no psychological healing is possible . As we learned early on not to rebel against injustice, we will repeat the pattern as adults and remain silent and blind when abuse is executed somewhere else. The same way we were imprinted to endure our abuse as children, we now accept depression, anxiety, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, (PTSD) and the lifelong flashbacks as our destiny. The planted guilt, shame and blame blinds us just enough, so we will not be able to see the door that leads to mental freedom and healing. Now, we even deny to ourselves our need for wholeness, just as we were denied to develop into a healthy child. We have a long way to go until we understand the fundamental meaning of human rights.
Appendix:
in this story, some details of other experienced torture are missing.
As soon as I find confirmation to my constant present memories, I will
add in the missing episodes. updated:
© Sieglinde W. Alexander
2010 - 2015 No part of this article can be used for publication without
the written permission of the author.
|
| www.aaacworld.org | print
this page
| up
|