The fictional reality of being a witch

„As witches, we are too fictional for them“, Layla giggles into my ear as we order the third Vanilla Latte of this rainy summer afternoon, all while wearing a white dress that now that we‘re among other people more and more feels unfitting.
„I‘m wearing a night dress“, I complain. „Or, a hospital gone.“
„How is that not fitting?“, my witch keeps on giggling.

So, who exactly are we too fictional for?
While sipping our coffee in a white dress, or night dress, or hospital gone … or whatever. How are goans in hospices called, by the way?
Are these tears even real? Tears that run down these cheeks every other Wednesday at around noon?
If they were, then why was no one taking notice?
Not the tattooed teddy bear behind the counter serving us Vanilla Latte.
Not the woman reading in the corner and looking enough like Patti Smith for us wanting to fly off to Paris with her?

„They just don‘t want to be rude“, Layla giggled.
„So, can I take off my jacket now?“
„Sure.
Always wearing long sleeves was tough.

I loved coffee places where a troubled girl in a hospital could cry into her Vanilla Latte in peace.

„I fell in love with a paranoid boy“, I whisper into my cup. „So I became a fictional character.“
Me and my witch laughed.
„So, crazy guy can bond with you, people here let you cry in peace – where is the problem?“

Yes, what was my problem with being fictional?
Was I not getting my happy ever after, because people loved tragedies?
Was I a novel with a messed up cover and a typo in my heart?

„I wasn‘t even real for my therapist“, I sob.

Oh, there we have something.

First of all, the girl crying into her Vanilla Latte in her hospital gown is not on the run! She did not escape a ward or whatever, becausen – well, to end up there, people must take her seriously and non-fictional in the fist place and that had not happened!

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„He does not think my struggle deserves a word“, I keep on crying. „Because my tears or not real. My skin is not real. My scars are fictional.“
This really hurt.

And this is a very real thing which I have been thinking and feeling and mourning in so many tales within my messed up head. I guess it just really hurts when feeling like doing the right thing and getting into more and more trouble for it, and that‘s where I am right now. With a history of panic attacks and anxiety, the pandemic really gave me the rest and I at some point began my journey through doctor‘s appointments and whatever to find some help – and ended with such a „nice guy“ who refused to diagnose me with anything, since a diangosis has consequences in Germany, where I live. If you‘re not completely healthy, certain jobs are not allowed to hire you, for instance. Being ill in Germany sucks!
„But still“, I told my witch. „I had made the decision to go anyways and take the consequences. And he talked away my symptoms for endless months and picked me apart!“

Because, yes. That‘s what it felt like to trust the Oh!-so-nice-guy with my chaotic life story and emotions. Being naked, picked apart and then send away as if nothing happened. Every emotion had to fit a diagram. No symptom was bad enough. „You could have Borderline personality disorder as a response to childhood trauma, but let‘s not be dramatic.“
It‘s not easy to not be dramatic when you could be easily diagnosed with being a drama queen and don‘t get treated for it.
„Just keep on doing as always.“
Yea, that‘s when I hurt myself and others and throw cups when I‘m stressed, and I‘m not exaggerating here!

„Why do little witches tend to trust a nice guy and get into so much more trouble“, my witch giggles and my fury eases a little bit.

Because some things that turn you into a witch are so fucking painful, they cannot be real, not even for your own brain. And definitely not for a nice brain.

Where does this leave me?
I don‘t know, but I try to not feel to fictional.