About Stories... Part I

So, the Spirit is guiding me to write about stories, about “my story.” Perhaps it's your story too. Recently, it feels like a lot has dropped from my mind. A lot of my story is falling away. And what gratitude I have for that! But here's my story: I grew up in Germany. I was born two years before the wall came down. I was born into a small family with an older half-sister, nine years older than me, but I always just considered her my sister. I was kind of the black sheep of the family. Very innocent and oblivious to how life was supposed to work. I didn't clean up my room, I didn't help around the apartment. As a little girl, I loved spending time outside, with my dad. In our garden or in the woods. We would spend hours finding wild mushrooms. I would spend hours looking at the little things; little plants, bugs, bees, bumblebees, frogs, their eggs and tadpoles, newts, snails and their eggs, ants, spiders, lizards. I once tried to catch a bumblebee because I knew it couldn't sting me, but I learned that they can bite! Fiercely! 😉 I remember the first time I heard my inner voice; I was maybe four or five years old. I tried to show my mom, but of course she couldn't hear it. I remember discovering how thin my skin was; how much I could see the veins under my skin. I showed my parents and made my dad laugh out loud. That's the first time I felt embarrassed around my dad. It felt like my innocence was embarrassing. I think things changed a bit after that and I would keep things more to myself. Another devastating memory is being around the same age. My sister and I were out walking and we came upon this little spot where someone was offering rides on small electric cars for children. It looked so fun to me! I chose the car I wanted and started it up, only to realize that my sister hadn't paid yet. Mortified and terrified, I stopped the car immediately and started crying. Nothing my sister said to console me could get me back on that car. I was frozen. And we just left. There was no reason for all this embarrassment. But it was there and would stay with me for years! Throughout school, being in front of the class was my nightmare. Trying to recite poems that I, for the life of me, couldn't memorize. My face would grow bright red, making the embarrassment and discomfort physically visible to everyone in my class. And I would freeze; and nothing could bring me back out. Singing was a little bit less terrible since I knew I could sing, and yet, it was still embarrassing—I didn't want anyone to know I could sing well. Homelife turned into my hide-away from all things that could hurt. I spent hours listening to music and drawing and painting, or playing games, watching TV. I would stay up all hours of the night, being in silence with the darkness, the stars, the moon, the cool air. I would sit on my windowsill on the eighth floor of our apartment building, looking out at the world, wondering what it was all for. Why could I feel all of this spaciousness by myself? And then be a whole different person when I came around people? I remember having a boyfriend when I was maybe 12 and he pointed out something I never realized: "Why do you always look down when we walk together?" Wow, he was right. I was walking through the outside with my head down, looking at my shoes. From that moment on, I started looking up. I came back out a little bit, still unsure, but looking again. But I was so afraid and shy and tight. What if someone saw? Saw what I didn't know. The rest of my school time turned into me riding the wave of being different and pretending I knew how to overcome all difficult things. It also became a time of avoiding embarrassment at all costs. I listened to a lot of heavy metal and took on the persona of someone weird and different. That became me. That was safe. I thought, subconsciously, "If I am not like everyone else, I'm going to make certain everyone knows about it and can see it. I had dreadlocks, I wore baggy clothes, I wore red eyeliner. To my high school graduation party, I wore a short black goth-style dress with straps, knee-high black boots with steel toes, and a black hat in the style Charlie Chaplin used to wear. That was me.

I had a boyfriend who was also into heavy metal music. He was older than me, tall, and had the most beautiful long hair! I thought I'd made it. Hell, I graduated! I didn't even think that was possible (I wasn't really good at school). That was my growing up story. And I carried this story with me into adult years. Let's see what comes in Part II. Thank you for reading. I don't know what this is for yet, but I'm sure I'll be shown soon enough. Love, Jutta