fall back. The cheerful laughter from the children all around me on the playground rang hollowly in my ears. I wanted to scream. Tears ran down my cheeks, but I couldn’t make a sound. It wasn’t until a schoolmate of mine came over that I was able to ask her to get the teacher. The girl ran to her, but the teacher sent her back to tell me that I had to come over myself if I wanted something.
I struggled once again to get up, but I hardly had to move for the pain in my arm to return. I remained helplessly lying on the ground. It wasn’t until sometime later that the teacher from another class helped me up. I clenched my teeth and didn’t complain. I didn’t want to be any trouble to anyone. Later my teacher noticed that something was wrong with me. She suspectedthat I was bruised from the fall and permitted me to spend the afternoon in the television room.
That night I lay in my bed in the dormitory, and the pain was so bad I could hardly breathe. Still, I didn’t ask for help. It wasn’t until late the next day when we were visiting the Herberstein zoological park that my teacher realized I had seriously injured myself and took me to the doctor. He immediately sent me to the hospital in Graz. My arm was broken.
My mother came with her boyfriend to pick me up from the hospital. The new man in her life was well known to me – my godfather. I didn’t like him. The ride to Vienna was a hellish ordeal. For three long hours my mother’s boyfriend complained that they had to drive such a long way just because of my clumsiness. My mother tried to lighten the mood, but she couldn’t make him cease his criticisms. I sat in the back seat and cried softly to myself. I was ashamed that I had fallen, and I was ashamed of the trouble I was causing everyone.
Don’t make trouble. Don’t make a scene. Don’t be hysterical. Big girls don’t cry.
These mantras from my childhood, heard a thousand times, had enabled me to bear the pain of my broken arm for a day and a half. Now, as we drove along the motorway, a voice inside my head was repeating them in between the tirades my mother’s boyfriend was letting loose.
My teacher had to face disciplinary proceedings because she had failed to take me to the hospital immediately. It was certainly true that she had neglected her duty to supervise me. But I was myself largely responsible for the neglect. My confidence in my own perceptions was so minimal that not even with a broken arm did I have the feeling that I was allowed to ask for help.
In the meantime, I only saw my father at the weekends or when he took me with him on his delivery routes. He too had fallen in love again after separating from my mother. His girlfriend wasnice, but reserved. Once she mused to me, ‘Now I know why you are so difficult. Your parents don’t love you.’ I protested loudly, but the observation haunted my wounded childish soul. Maybe she was right? After all, she was a grown-up, and grown-ups were always right.
I couldn’t shake the thought for days.
When I was nine I began using food to compensate for my frustrations. I had never been a thin child and had grown up in a family where food played a major role. My mother was the kind of woman who could eat as much as she wanted without gaining a pound. It might have been due to hyperactivity of the thyroid or just her active nature. She ate slices of bread with lard and cake, roast pork with caraway and ham sandwiches. She didn’t gain any weight and never got tired of emphasizing that to others: ‘I can eat whatever I want,’ she piped, holding a slice of bread with a fatty spread on it in her hand. I inherited her lack of moderation with food, but not her ability to burn up all those calories.
On the other hand, my father was so fat that I was embarrassed as a child to be seen with him. His stomach was enormous and the skin stretched as taut as the belly of a woman eight months pregnant. When he lay on the couch, his stomach jutted upwards
I struggled once again to get up, but I hardly had to move for the pain in my arm to return. I remained helplessly lying on the ground. It wasn’t until sometime later that the teacher from another class helped me up. I clenched my teeth and didn’t complain. I didn’t want to be any trouble to anyone. Later my teacher noticed that something was wrong with me. She suspectedthat I was bruised from the fall and permitted me to spend the afternoon in the television room.
That night I lay in my bed in the dormitory, and the pain was so bad I could hardly breathe. Still, I didn’t ask for help. It wasn’t until late the next day when we were visiting the Herberstein zoological park that my teacher realized I had seriously injured myself and took me to the doctor. He immediately sent me to the hospital in Graz. My arm was broken.
My mother came with her boyfriend to pick me up from the hospital. The new man in her life was well known to me – my godfather. I didn’t like him. The ride to Vienna was a hellish ordeal. For three long hours my mother’s boyfriend complained that they had to drive such a long way just because of my clumsiness. My mother tried to lighten the mood, but she couldn’t make him cease his criticisms. I sat in the back seat and cried softly to myself. I was ashamed that I had fallen, and I was ashamed of the trouble I was causing everyone.
Don’t make trouble. Don’t make a scene. Don’t be hysterical. Big girls don’t cry.
These mantras from my childhood, heard a thousand times, had enabled me to bear the pain of my broken arm for a day and a half. Now, as we drove along the motorway, a voice inside my head was repeating them in between the tirades my mother’s boyfriend was letting loose.
My teacher had to face disciplinary proceedings because she had failed to take me to the hospital immediately. It was certainly true that she had neglected her duty to supervise me. But I was myself largely responsible for the neglect. My confidence in my own perceptions was so minimal that not even with a broken arm did I have the feeling that I was allowed to ask for help.
In the meantime, I only saw my father at the weekends or when he took me with him on his delivery routes. He too had fallen in love again after separating from my mother. His girlfriend wasnice, but reserved. Once she mused to me, ‘Now I know why you are so difficult. Your parents don’t love you.’ I protested loudly, but the observation haunted my wounded childish soul. Maybe she was right? After all, she was a grown-up, and grown-ups were always right.
I couldn’t shake the thought for days.
When I was nine I began using food to compensate for my frustrations. I had never been a thin child and had grown up in a family where food played a major role. My mother was the kind of woman who could eat as much as she wanted without gaining a pound. It might have been due to hyperactivity of the thyroid or just her active nature. She ate slices of bread with lard and cake, roast pork with caraway and ham sandwiches. She didn’t gain any weight and never got tired of emphasizing that to others: ‘I can eat whatever I want,’ she piped, holding a slice of bread with a fatty spread on it in her hand. I inherited her lack of moderation with food, but not her ability to burn up all those calories.
On the other hand, my father was so fat that I was embarrassed as a child to be seen with him. His stomach was enormous and the skin stretched as taut as the belly of a woman eight months pregnant. When he lay on the couch, his stomach jutted upwards
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