Frau Mutter Renate

I was born in Poland. In Gdańsk.

Yeah, I know. It’s actually Germany. 😉

I was born as an unwanted child.

At three months old, my parents had already forgotten about me.

My aunt found out that I had been lying alone in the crib for ten, twelve hours.

No mother, no one to hear my screaming.

I was beaten. I’ve lost count of how many wooden broomsticks were broken on me. When you consider that, in just one year, my mother bought either aluminum or new wooden handles every other day. She gave me a name for official documents, but… wait, that wasn’t her. That was my father. At home, she gave me a different name: Fucking whore

Fucking scum. Filthy rag.

(That’s what she called me.)

( The men on Garsoniera or other platform ?

They’re no different.

Just because they call you something else — diva, petitka — doesn’t make it any more dignified.

It’s the same mouth. The same spit. Just a different name. )

I was cut. I was put into the bathtub with a bleeding head, still wearing the clothes I had on that day.

She unscrewed the shower head and poured freezing water straight into my face using the hose.

She often held me down under the icy water, fully submerged, until I stopped struggling.

The faster I stopped moving, the shorter I had to stay underwater.

And no — of course I’m not afraid of water now. Obviosly. ;)

It just… doesn’t make me happy to be in it.

Honestly, I prefer the shower.

Most of the time — alone.

I was forced to eat what my mother had cooked, spat in, or tasted with the same teaspoon, or what I had already vomited back up.

I was blamed for every misfortune in my mother’s life.

And he just stood there and didn’t react.

Then, when I was six, I almost died.

I was already in that place where there is light and warmth and holy peace rules the rhythm of the day.

But she didn’t like me.

But she didn’t let me go.

Not because she loved me – but because she was afraid she wouldn’t survive in prison as a child murderer.

She said to me,

“If your stepfather throws us out, you’ll regret it.”

And I did regret it – as if it were my fault.

She hit harder, more intensely, and she got even more aggressive.

I couldn’t stop her.

When I was a small child, about eight years old, I was sent from the children’s home to my mother for Christmas on what was called a “Przepostka” to her home. At that time, she lived with an old man. She said he was a mariner.Then she went for a walk with her two dogs for two hours. While she was gone, he asked me if I could help set the table.

I said yes. Let’s make him happy. Then he came close to me and put his hand under my T-shirt.

He asked so innocently, almost with a childlike voice, “What do you have under your T-shirt?” while touching my chest.

My mother forbade me from talking about it at the children’s home. Still, I did, although I didn’t say much because I was told not to. But I asked if it was normal for men to touch you on your bare chest under your T-shirt when the other adults weren’t around. I was punished by my mother because the children’s home had forbidden her from taking me back for the weekend. So she came to the meeting, took me to the gym that was part of the children’s home, and hit me several times. Not enough to leave bruises on my face, but there were bruises on my back, chest, and stomach.

( Today, I cannot even tell the story, not even to ChatGPT, because I get punished with red text saying I’m violating guidelines.) 

Then I ended up in a children’s home for the second time.

I was locked in the isolation room 90% of the time, just because I cried when someone screamed at me.

And you made the rule:

If the child cries, it must be guilty.

So when other girls stole something, they blamed it on me.

And I was locked up.

So I learned:

Being alone is better than being with someone.

Because otherwise, you’ll be declared guilty anyway.

I stopped defending myself.

Then I ended up back with my mother.

And again – hell against the current.

You all just watched in silence.

One man, just one of you, stood up and said to my mother:

“Hey, stop. If you keep going like this, you’ll create an enemy in her. And I truly hope she’ll be too busy to pay you back – because you have no idea what you’re doing to this child.”

My mother laughed at him.

And you just watched.

I was unwanted – by Jehovah’s Witnesses, by Judaism, by Christianity, by Russian Orthodoxy.

When I was 13, 14 – no, even at 13 – I tried to take my own life.

You just watched.

You did nothing.

I was bullied in school, pushed down the stairs, until school became hell and all I could do was run away.

So I took every pill my mother had.

And do you believe me when I say this?

They were psychotropics.

I didn’t listen to her – and I told her that.

And my mother proudly said:

“If you’re gonna die, then die quicker. What else should I say to you?”

As if I were nothing but worthless flesh.

At 15, I was manipulated into a hallway moment.

“Prove to me that you love me – otherwise I can’t protect you,”

said a 24-year-old man to a teenager.

So I gave him what he wanted.

Because I thought, okay, this isn’t love, and I’m not ready – but yeah, he wanted it.

I saw that my mother was afraid of him.

I just didn’t know then that she was right to be – and that I should be afraid too.

I didn’t want to be hit.

I wanted to be cuddled.

To be seen.

I wanted to create my own family – already at 15 – just so someone would love me.

And then I walked right into the trap.

So the next sin is:

I was naïve.

Naïve enough to believe that when an old man in his 50s offers you a place to sleep, it really means you can take a shower and sleep there.

This old man screamed at me.

Humiliated me.

Accused me of needing poetry – as if it were a crime for a man to recite a poem before trying to get in your pants.

I endured it.

Until I turned 18 – then all hell broke loose.

I was beaten for everything.

For things that are completely normal for a woman – like vaginal discharge.

Every one of us has it, especially during fertile days.

But I was beaten, because my ex thought it was proof that I was cheating.

I wasn’t.

Until he beat me constantly –

I was almost killed.

All to help his father financially, as if we were conspiring against him.

I protected his father.

At 39 kilos, I stood against a 27-year-old man who should’ve known better.

But he didn’t.

In children’s homes I learned:

I was the problem.

They would lock me up in juvie if I kept running away.

So I ran again – and got pregnant at 17.

I couldn’t keep my child.

I gave her away.

And that became my downfall.

I protected her by keeping her far from me.

And still everyone says:

“You left her because you wanted to be a prostitute.”

As if anyone would ever want to sell their body – willingly.

I experienced six rapes.

I was used by my mother to have sex with her men –

So she could get presents.

I was beaten during the fourth month of pregnancy –

Pushed down the stairs, dragged by my hair, six floors down.

Because he regretted putting his dick in my pussy.

He didn’t want me or the bastard.

So now he has neither.

He just stood there and watched.

After my second-to-last rape, I went to court.

The judge said:

“Well, it’s your own fault. You were wearing leggings and went to that party.”

And you know what?

That broke me more than the act itself.

Later, I had a good friend.

He said to me:

“Lea, you live too much in the past.”

I looked at him.

And he said:

“Well, what did you expect from the judge? That he’d do something? You’re Polish. He’s Polish. You’re both prostitutes. Of course he won’t do much.”

I didn’t expect the judge to do anything.

Just not to say what he said.

Especially not in front of the person who raped me.

Yes – words can kill you faster than any atomic bomb ever could.

And now – here I stand.

After all those so-called transformations that brought nothing.

After the search for God and protection in Judaism – that abandoned me.

After your rage at Garsoniera and other platforms that have cut deeper than most knives ever will.

I’m still alive – in body.

Not in soul.

And the greatest sin I ever committed –
I was born a woman.

And the last sin I’ll commit:

I will kill everything in me that is Polish. Forever and ever.

And I will never let it surface again.

Leah Aniela mortua est, sicut omnia quae in ea vivebant.

Omne Polonicum in ea iam extinctum est.

Mortua est in agro ubi viri leges fecerunt,

ubi pueritia eius fuga facta est,

ubi diploma pluris aestimatum est quam vita.

⸻

Perdóneme, padre, porque he pecado.

No fui yo quien me hizo así.

Fue la fiebre, fue la sangre, fue la salud que nunca vino.