I never thought that I fit into the norms of beauty. I never really minded much being a little bit chubby or a little bit small. I was strong. I was able to lift up my dad when I was a child, to carry heavy things at construction sides to push cars when the engine broke down and I had a lot of fun arm-wrestling. I was strong and sturdy. That was my thing.
Being (more or less) capable of building things, lifting weights like coals or wood, to running if somebody might bust you, walking for miles on a demonstration or resisting the pushing and punching of cops, is part of life in our houseproject and in our streets. And it is often fun!
A few years ago I had an accident where I crashed into the rear window of a car with my head and my cervical spine got damaged. In a state of shock – and I guess in the believe that nothing could ever damage me – I released myself from the hospital after a few hours. I went to the plenum back home, where I told that I damaged a car with my head and needed some life-check-ups during night time. Housemates did this for nights: checking if I was still alive, if I was still able to talk.
Since then my view on my body radically changed. I often get sick, I feel weak and from time to time (like right now) the situation even worsens. This time my physiotherapist said it might be that my cervical spine is once again dislocated because I had a cough. Really?! Because of a tiny cough.
When I usually talk only about the house or the dog, now all I talk about is my spine. Again. Everything hurts, my arms are tingling as if they have fallen asleep and the pain pulls into my head. Each time I wonder, if I can stand this again. Stand the pain and the weakness and kind of the loss of myself. Wonder if I will ever again do x / y / z without fear. Wondering, if I can bear being that fragile again. Constantly the thought, that I am not strong enough to be so weak again.
If people build or carry or run, now I sit next to them watching. When cops are stressing like on the 8th of March at Dorfplatz, I often stand still, with trembling knees. What happens, if I get pushed badly? What happens, if they hurt me and it gets worse? I want to get away. I don’t want to get away. I want to shout out my anger that a bunch of mostly cis-dude cops showing off in front of our house as if they owned the city. I would like to be strong and brave and tough. I wonder what this means. Strong. Brave. Tough.
Then I get angry, because nobody can see how I feel like. However, I am lucky and get support. People, who carry up coals in the winter or my laundry if it is too heavy on some days. People, who listen and who tell me that it will be better at some point. And people who forget about all this to remind me that there are other important and funny things, like the house – or how wonderful the dog was today again.
