Finding and keeping my voice

I grew up with depression, but it wasn’t mine. Honestly, I think the main reason why I started talking to my witch on this blog was that I never had people around that could give me a bearable perspective of life in this world, so I needed to rip dimensions apart.

My mother never got over her marriage not lasting. I don’t even think it was actually about missing my father, but about the fact that she suddenly wasn’t a wife anymore. Suddenly it all got difficult, having me was difficult, relatvies asked difficult questions and eyed especially me super critical, expecting the crisis child to misbehave – and boy! I did! I had to. I grew up with a mother sulking, crying, chain smoking, unable to keep up with the world around. She still starts to scream and hyperventilate when something has to be done online, because she stopped coping with developments in this world a long time ago. She told me that men only like skinny women with soft voices and long hair, while she cut my hair short and put me in a baggy jeans. I thought I was going to die alone with my body only being found when the smell was noticed.

My father always made me think I was stupid. He told me that I would fail math, and that I would never graduate good enough to attend university. He was wrong in all his predictions. I was on top of my classes, and I qualified for university. Still, whenever I accomplished something, I heard his voice again, and I feared that I would fail in the final steps. It caused panic attacks whenever I took important exams. Even as a child, I grew fearful, and both my parents then complained about me being difficult.

I was a rebellious child making music, dreaming of writing novels, living on stage. Even as an early teenager, all my relatives constantly reminded me of the fact that I would never be able to make a living, because I had no useful skills. When I played my violin, sang songs I wrote on small stages in our area, or sat down to write on one of my stories, I was confronted with this kind of pressure. When in response to that I did not cave, but told everyone that I’d rather be a homeless musician than work in a bank, I was told that I would never be able to be an artist, because I was not nice to look at. Women need pretty faces and skinny arms, and I apparently was the opposite of that.

At some point, I became terribly quiet and invisible. I only did the things I could do without being noticed. Music was too loud, but writing and reading worked out well. At least until I had an exam, because that was when people noticed me again. At some point, I was so broken, I could not even order a coffee without biting my tongue. That’s when my witch came to me. That’s when the plague locked me in with myself and I finally felt all my losses. And all the things that I’ve accomplished ever since were possible only because with my witch I do art. I write a novel, I have a blog that is read, I have poetry videos that are being watched, and I am making music again. I even went back on stage ones already. I found my voice.

I am writing this, because I have to present my master thesis topic next week in front of people I respect very much, and I need to keep my voice.