The Girl That Walked Away

Can you introduce yourself?

I mean, are you really the person you are introducing me to?

I still find it hard to introduce myself. I can, of course, say my name, but what’s next?

I grew up rootless in a culture that never felt like home, with a trillion questions about belonging, identity and why difference so often divides. Those questions became the glow that kept me flowing along the way.

My real identity was morning dew that disappeared before I came to school. I was then given a new identity that seemed a logical consequence but actually had nothing to do with me and made me not fit my “own” image, so I matched neither what others inferred from my appearance nor what my name conveyed — or rather, failed to convey.

The name had no meaning but told a long story wrong and never helped anyone to identify me. We were not connected, my name and I, neither me with him nor he with me. I had heard about him, yes, but did I know him? No. So when I mentioned the name, it was as if I had accepted it, had taken responsibility for it or the story that came with it, as if it was my reward, my fault, or even my duty, part of my identity - which it actually wasn’t!

Indeed, as an adult, I was forced to start every conversation with what felt like a lie and quickly turned into a complicated, private story I never wanted to tell them. I felt I never had a chance to introduce myself, n.o.w.h.e.r.e, and also was perceived as complicated and weird before I even said a word. But that was only the name! People usually expect you to say your name to “introduce yourself” when you meet them for the first time and that’s where a million real conversations ended for me; so they never happened.

I requested a name change more than once and was rejected each time. I felt like an undercover agent doomed to live a lie. Why?

When I was young, I looked like a girl that many liked, had big curls and curves in all the “right places” for that time. My cautious, confused self lived inside that girl, was looking for answers and connection, but nobody ever really listened nor cared about me or my thoughts and visions which got wiped away too often for being too complicated.

Some were interested in my appearance, the girl they saw. I was not just the pretty thing they thought I was, the pretty thing they wanted to adorn themselves with. I wasn’t even aware of her existence; I only looked like that. Maybe I was even more of a boy than a girl. What I was seeking was meaning, ethics and aesthetics.

My name also contributed to the fact that I learned early on what it means to be rejected for a reason: because of your origin. Time and again I have seen what it is like to simply not belong. Because of the name, or because you are a completely different species. Because you look different, ”are different“. Nobody ever really knew how to ”handle“ me - and what a silly question: I am not a door.

Since I didn’t belong anywhere or to anything, I had a lot of time to think about everything, including myself. I lived happily on what I called Wasteland, a peaceful, timeless bubble, a flying island with no noise, and I was perfectly fine up there: stress-free, sunny, and optimistic. Also, I was misunderstood and criticized so much that I nearly suffocated under the weight of my “own” story, or rather the story they had invented about me.

That wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to live, laugh. Go my way.

I had to leave.

And so I left.

The Walking Way part 2 below - Home Is Where You Are

© MVPABIZ | Sugar and Spice – Nice city, Nice view: Nice, Côte d’Azur, France.

Home Is Where You Are

The first thing to do is to reflect and to focus on what really motivates you. Imagine everything was possible. Who or where would you be then? The answer leads the way. Only those with a destination can find their way and the power to eventually free themselves from senseless and wasteful ideas, things, habits, people or circumstances. It is not enough to just get up and walk away. But change can start by walking away.

If you don’t know where you want to go, don’t be surprised if you get somewhere else. – Mark Twain

…. and that was perfectly fine with me: Destination Seaside was all I knew - after all, aren’t plans just made to be adjusted along the way, anyway?

DO – Dignity & Opportunity

New places are always wonderful since every beginning has its own magic (as said Hermann Hesse).

My decision to leave the place where I grew up was made as a single mother of two toddlers with no family to rely on. The life I knew had gotten so completely out of hand that I even gave away my music collection, which was, just like a nose, an important part of me and meant home. Yet I couldn’t breathe; I couldn’t speak and couldn’t stand what I kept hearing.

Life on the Riviera was good and a bit like living on Wasteland: everything was possible, and no one was around to talk about impossibilities or offer their invasive opinions. Life happened outside, never too early, never too late - an eternal celebration of colors and scents. The light? Pure balm for my stressed-out soul and slowly I found my way back to the rhythm.

Life Is Good

People often say that I am too complicated (and also that I am right) when I insist that the real story is longer and needs to be heard. Most of them float on the surface, not caring about what is underneath or why, while I still hesitate whether or not I envy them.

Wasteland was a safe place where no one judged. No noise, just sound. Rhtyhm. Flow. The only disadvantage was that it was not connected to the others‘ world, so it became complicated whenever I had to leave Wasteland and reengage with society. Btw, ever wondered why it’s said “safe&sound” instead of “safe&noise”?

I believed my different, more detailed or comprehensive perception came from the confused story of origin. Adopted, orphaned, living under strange circumstances no one wanted to talk about but everybody everywhere did - that was back then in the German suburb where I grew up. People gossiped because I didn’t take after my mother and was the only “exotic” child in their circle at that time. I also had serious difficulties at school, especially in math, even though my mother was a senior math teacher. My favourite class was Ethics - the only one that made sense to me.

I felt like a fallen star. No brain, no voice, wrong place. Just glitter, sparkle, an illusion. Some tried to claim me, some stayed away afraid of getting burned or of the unknown, some wanted to change me, and some admired me without reason. None of it pleased me.

I never would have guessed that high sensitivity could cause awkwardness and bad luck, but intense research suggested it might. Highly sensitive, me? Interesting. People used to call me too bold. Early on I learned to stand up for myself, even if I stood all alone. Then I read about highly sensitive people (HSP) and things finally made sense. I read some of Elaine Aron’s work long before the world became obsessed with diagnostics and conditions like ADHD, dyslexia, and autism.

Neurodiversity is widely discussed now, but I speak about it because of the injustice that comes with it. We should recognize different ways of perceiving the world as an asset and work to make this world safer and supportive for people who are seen as “weird”, weak or vulnerable, rather than breaking and forcing them into molds that don’t fit. That’s what I work toward and hope for.

Thank you very much for your attention.

MVPA - Storytelling Arts & Crafts

MVPA is about personal development, perception and expression. We deliver tools for the overwhelmed that help get organised, and send messages to those growing.

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Projects I am working on

Destination Seaside (Text, Image, Video)
Un Truc de Fée (Français)
A Book For Kids (Deutsch)
A novel (Deutsch)
Ein Malbuch

Remarks, anyone?

sahra@mvpabiz.com