Frau Mutter Renate

𝗠𝝠𝗗𝗘 𝗙𝗥𝝝𝗠 𝝠 𝗛𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗗-𝗬𝗘𝝠𝗥-𝝝𝗟𝗗 𝝝𝝠𝗞,

𝗙𝗥𝝝𝗠 𝝠𝗡 𝝝𝝠𝗞 𝗣𝗟𝝠𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗧𝝝𝗠𝝝𝗥𝗥𝝝𝗪.

For some people, meditation means sitting like a carved stone figure, trying to observe their thoughts. For others, it means jogging. For me, it’s cleaning. I think this is something I cultivate every Sunday—not only because of cheaper electricity, which is a factor, but also because the whole of humanity sleeps off its Saturday hangover. While I was cleaning the dishwasher, it struck me how similar it is to friendships. Many of us today have a dishwasher—my best friend, in whose flat I’m currently staying, included. But not everyone knows how to use it properly. Even fewer know that the machine will break quickly if it isn’t cared for. What I mean is taking the time to unscrew and clean the filter, to add dishwasher salt or rinse aid. Friendships are like that too. Sometimes we have friends with whom we don’t quite know what to do. In my case, that’s Jalle—or, as you know her, Aisha. In Karol’s case, probably me. Why? Because I’ve too rarely allowed myself the time to “clean” myself, to unscrew the filter or add new tablets or salt. I expected myself always to function, as many of us do. I’ve learned that a new detergent is too much for me if there aren’t enough tablets in the capsule. I’ve learned that even the cheapest salt will do, if someone adds it for me, because I earn less now, because I’m older, less equipped, or stuck in my routines. And standing there at someone else’s place, while they explain, “Yes, I have a friend, but she doesn’t function properly, she can’t do this or that,” I wonder: how often have you done something to help me function better? How often have you genuinely asked whether everything is okay? With Karol, it’s simple: you just need to explain that he’s not putting the right tablets, or the capsules, into the dishwasher. Sometimes it’s enough to ask him to do small things, like put the glasses he drank from into the dishwasher instead of leaving them lying around. Small gestures, and it’s enough.

With Jalle, though, it’s more complicated.

My biggest problem with her is that I care about her deeply, even though she is extremely toxic to me. She has often wished me dead. She has even said that she regrets my mother didn’t kill me (my mother was violent). She has said that the earth should be ashamed to have me on it. She repeatedly tried to place herself above me, solely because I gave my daughter up for adoption—or rather, because my child was taken from me when I was eighteen. I also lost my second child for health-related reasons, but that is another story. Still, whenever she is angry with me, she tends to assert her superiority by saying: at least I have my child with me. Here is the thing. While she boasts about everything she has supposedly achieved on her own, she lives in a twenty-square-metre flat in Berlin, survives on welfare, and supplements her income through transactional sex with older men. Perhaps, if you believe her, she even manages to save a little money that way. She believes she has impeccable taste and that she gives her daughter everything. But if I am honest, I watch all of this as a spectator and find myself wondering: if she gives her child so much, why has she still not managed to enrol her daughter in music lessons, as she told me she would two years ago? Why does her child not attend ballet, which she desperately wants to do? Why has she not even managed to sign her up for a sports club? Let me be clear about one thing. I was only this critical because, for a long time, I believed she was right. Her repeated wishes for my death became my inner voice. Her replacement sentence—you will never manage to live on your own—still echoes today in every stressful situation involving money. And here is the twist. She has not the slightest idea how much damage her words have caused. I am the one who carries it forward—because I allowed her to harm me. I internalised those words unconsciously, during a time when another friend constantly criticised me for buying a new dress or wanting anything at all. At the same time, Dirk projected his own fears onto me, telling me I had no right to buy a ten‑euro winter dress unless I had five thousand euros saved in my bank account; that I was irresponsible with money; that I had no idea what was good for me. Her words fitted perfectly into that narrative. And what is one supposed to do when two people apply such intense criticism at the same time? You begin to internalise it, quietly, without noticing.

I tried to defend myself. I tried to explain that things were not as simple as they imagined. You have your mother. You have Gertie. I did not. When I had my daughter, I had no mother. I had no one. The father of my child was violent towards me and was in prison at the time. I was eighteen, without education, alone, with a baby. I had no idea where to go. I did not even know my own daughter. At every sound she made, my neighbour was immediately at my door, taking the child from me. I never had the chance to bond with her. And if I had not worked, we would not even have had food to eat. While Dirk and Jalle relentlessly insisted that I was irresponsible, that I would never achieve anything, I slipped back into old patterns. Patterns from childhood, when adults constantly said about me: she is talented, but lazy. Nothing will ever come of her. She lacks discipline. She will never follow through. While other children were allowed to dream—today a princess, tomorrow a nun—I was labelled talented but lazy, gifted but demoralised. I was turned into a problem at a very young age. Meanwhile, Jalle ran around telling stories about her single mother being “difficult”, then wondering why her mother did not always greet her with warmth and celebration. She says, my mother hit me once in the shower, I am traumatised. And I remember thinking: if my mother had only hit me once, I would have been the happiest child on earth. I was the child who tried to do well at school. I was quiet. Invisible. I was the child who understood more than she was allowed to admit. My vocabulary was above average. I clung to poetry, to restraint, to silence. And yet, I was still the problem child. Today, I am the adult who looks at someone like Jalle and hears herself say: I envy you.

I do not envy her because of her drugs career , or because she has sex with Gerard, or because another client pays her so he can tell everyone that Kaira is his daughter. I envy her because of how carelessly her tongue flaps, because she believes so strongly that she is God’s gift to the world, that she is the best thing humanity has to offer, that she doesn’t even see her own problems. She boasts, proudly, that she is a narcissist. And when I ask her simple questions, she feels attacked—though all I am trying to do is understand.

I envy Dirk for a different reason. He lives so entirely in his bubble of perfection and fear that he does not even notice the chaos around him. He doesn’t see that statistics show more and more women are dying simply because of femicide—that the femicide rate is rising. For him, the five-thousand-euro minimum—often much more than that—is the benchmark of a happy life. As long as he can demonstrate his Polka, Masurka, or, worst of all, the little Krakowiak, he feels content. While he showed me what the little Krakowiak is, I thought to myself: I was never proud of my heritage. But boy, you have completely screwed this up. There is no “little Krakowiak.” And what you dance looks like a seizure. Eventually, I told him this, showing multiple videos to explain how the Krakowiak is actually danced. Why? Because I could no longer hold back. His conviction that only his truth is correct triggered in me the need to explain. With Jalle, I stay silent and let her attacks pass. With Dirk, I eventually could not.

𝗜 𝗪𝗜𝗟𝗟 n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ … 𝗙𝝝𝗥𝗚𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗠𝗬𝗦𝗘𝗟𝗙 ❣︎

As time goes on, we grow older, carry more negativity within ourselves, and meet new people. This year, for me, it meant encountering a rapist and a narcissistic partner. When faced with such people, there are two options: break, or ask the right questions. I didn’t have the strength to break; I withdrew. I began to analyse everything, until I realised something crucial: I am more responsible for what I carry than my mother, than the men we discussed in the previous article, than the nation I view critically, or even Jalle and Dirk. It is not their fault that their actions left a mark within me. Let me be clear: I was able to forgive my mother, and the process began in 2016. That was when I felt a deep need to understand my genealogical roots and, simultaneously, when I desperately wanted a child of my own. I needed to know which genes I would pass on and, more importantly, what had happened to make my mother the person she became. I wanted to understand her. By 2019, I made the decision to visit the children’s home and review the records. It was there, for the first time, that I forgave myself and understood that what the adults had said and what they had written were often two very different things. While they claimed I was the problem, in reality, the records revealed that my mother had not made contact. She was untraceable. For the first time, I forgave myself for being a “difficult” child—even though I was never difficult, just different from the average child. I had other needs as a neurodivergent person. I began to speak to my mother internally, as “Frau Mutter,” and promised myself that my children would never call me “alone Mother.” Why? Because this distance allows you to see the other person as they truly are—imperfect, with their own wounds. You would never approach a stranger and ask, “Why did you hit me?” You accept it. Yes, I was hit by someone else, and when you view your own parents in this way, you begin to see them as separate human beings, with their own fears and struggles. I was able to forgive myself for being a difficult child, for not having the education I wished for. I forgave the adults of that time because I understood that they simply did not know how to handle someone like me. But now I was an adult, and my adult life had largely consisted of male violence and a best friend who was not much different from the men. And while the Qur’an teaches us to be mindful of what we say, to avoid hurting others with our words, my friend did the exact opposite. As it says in Surah Al‑Hujurat (49:12):

“O you who believe! Avoid much [negative] assumption, for some assumption is sin.

And do not spy, nor backbite one another.

Would any of you like to eat the flesh of his dead brother?

You would loathe that!

And fear Allah; indeed Allah is Accepting of Repentance and Merciful.”

These words remind us that speaking ill of others, mocking them, or spreading negativity is not just careless—it is a moral violation. Hurtful words stick with the one who hears them, just as they stick with the one who gives them. I carried those words long after they were spoken, and I had to learn, slowly, that the responsibility for what remains with me is ultimately my own.

But what if you aren’t Muslim – what if you are Christian, Jewish, or simply someone who doesn’t subscribe to any religion at all? Can words still hurt? Yes, they can. Words aren’t abstract. They leave impressions. They can wound just as sharply as any physical injury.

In Christianity, the Bible teaches something fundamental about the power of speech. Ephesians tells us not to let “any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs” (Ephesians 4:29). Proverbs reminds us that “sin is not ended by multiplying words, but the prudent hold their tongues” (Proverbs 10:19). Psalm 141 says: “Set a guard over my mouth, Lord; keep watch over the door of my lips.”

And in Jewish tradition, the Torah commands:

“You shall not go around as a gossipmonger among your people.” — Leviticus 19:16

This is the foundation of the law against lashon hara — harmful speech that damages reputation, dignity, or spirit.

So whether you are Christian, Jewish, or none of these, there is a clear moral thread running through the great ethical traditions: words matter. They shape reality, identity, and self‑worth.

What many people don’t see — including some of the ones closest to me — is that the person who hears the words is already often going through their own inner hell. Maybe they are exhausted, overwhelmed, struggling with emotional regulation, or living with a nervous system that processes criticism differently.

Research shows that adults with ADHD, for example, report that criticism has a uniquely negative effect on their sense of self‑worth and wellbeing because behaviours linked to ADHD are more likely to be criticised repeatedly, not always fairly. (pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov) In addition, something called Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD) occurs frequently in people with ADHD. RSD is an intense emotional response to perceived rejection or criticism — real or imagined — and can hit far harder than it would for someone without it. (verywellhealth.com)

These aren’t just theories — they are lived realities backed by research and clinical experience. Neurodivergent individuals, whether they identify with ADHD, ASD, or related profiles, often carry a deeper emotional imprint from criticism, because their nervous systems and experiences make criticism feel like threat, not just feedback. (open.edu)

So when someone tells you you’ll never manage on your own, mocks you for how you speak, or elevates their own achievements by putting you down, it isn’t simply words on air. Those words land. They settle inside you. They shape how you see yourself.

And when that happens over and over, it doesn’t matter whether the critic meant to hurt you or not — your nervous system learns to expect pain when it hears certain tones.

British English – diary-style, reflective, accounting tone

While Jale throws her death wishes at the world and sends contradictory signals — swinging between emotional coldness and hypersensitivity, taking everything I say deadly seriously while casually wishing fear upon me — I sometimes feel like a child who is told by their parents not to eat ice cream because it is unhealthy, only to watch them binge on it themselves.

And me? I have already left the room.

After two years in Poland, I should not be hearing their voices anymore. I should not be carrying their fears as if they were mine. And yet — somehow — I still do.

Let me take a recent, almost banal example. Yesterday, I went shopping with my best friend. We were laughing, relaxed, enjoying ourselves — until I tried to take a photo and my phone said no. Lately, my phone has been saying no quite often, especially when it comes to using the camera. Instead of functioning, it gives me black‑green screens and refusal.

I panicked.

Not because I don’t have the money for a new phone — I do. But because I realised that sooner or later, I will have to buy one. And the first thing I heard was Dirk’s voice in my head, perfectly disguised as my own:

You are incapable of saving. You will waste everything you have.

Immediately after that, I heard Jale screaming, as if she were standing next to me with a megaphone:

You are incapable of living on your own. Not without Karol. Not without Dirk. Not like me. I manage everything alone.

And although — as we already know from the beginning of this story — she manages far less than I do, their words still govern my behaviour and consumption more than my own reason does.

I fell into a full panic attack. A real one. Because it felt as if I had done something morally wrong simply by thinking: My camera doesn’t work anymore. I need a new phone. Urgently.

I tried to suppress the thought. And at the same time, I knew that sooner or later I would have to make that purchase anyway.

It is the same with clothes. I am afraid to buy anything that costs more than 100 złoty. Afraid that someone will criticise me. Afraid that I will be judged. Because after eight years of friendship with Dirk, and even longer entanglements with people like Jale, I have slowly forgotten who I am.

I forgot that I am not a broken dishwasher — but a functioning device that works well when it is properly maintained.

Instead, I learned fear. I learned guilt.

I would buy something I genuinely needed and used daily — and then punish myself for days afterwards. Because the money came from my savings. Because I “had not earned it recently”. Because I was told, over and over again, that I am irresponsible.

Meanwhile, my narcissistic ex dictated the conditions under which I was allowed to retrieve my own belongings:

1. He had to be present.

2. He had to accompany me.

3. He decided what I was allowed to take.

I lost furniture. Expensive dishes. Printing machines. Sewing machines. Large amounts of clothing. All of my dog’s toys. New dog beds. Almost everything.

And when I chose not to play his power games and resigned from retrieving my things, Dirk scolded me again — for being wasteful.

Standing there yesterday, I asked myself: How much power am I still willing to give to Dirk, Jale, and others over my life?

I thought about the girl I was at eighteen or nineteen. The girl who got on a train with a small suitcase and moved to Germany without speaking the language, without higher education, without safety nets. There were hard times — yes — but my inner compass worked. Until a certain point. Until I met men who abused me, raped me, until courts and violence entered my life.

But before that?

That girl was strong. Independent. Unadapted. And I miss her.

And this time, I had to admit something painful:

It wasn’t only the people around me who made her disappear.

It was me.

Jale knows her tongue is cruel — and still celebrates herself every time she wounds someone. Dirk will never allow another opinion to threaten his self‑image or his sense of intellectual superiority. And yes, people will say: he is a narcissist.

But here is the uncomfortable truth:

They will always believe that I am the problem.

And they will keep pushing me into the same role — the naive one, the incapable one, the woman who never quite manages.

None of them will acknowledge that I hesitate because of them.

They are not standing in front of me with a machete. No.

They only used words — repeatedly, consistently, over time.

Dirk with his obsession about money and his constant jabs:

I’m not as rich as you. I can’t afford new headphones.

Jale with her dismissals:

Everyone has problems. In Berlin, everyone has something. And yet they keep living.

At least I have my daughter. I manage everything alone.

That is the lie. Not that she has a daughter — that is true.

The lie is that she manages alone.

And then there is me — crying quietly — while Karol tells me that he likes me. That he enjoys spending time with me. And I ask him whether he really means it. Because it feels foreign.

As a teenager, I never questioned whether people liked me. I knew they did. As I was.

Now, the older I get, the more negative words I hear, the more I doubt my own worth. My intellect. My right to take up space. I am afraid to travel. Afraid not to live “correctly”. Afraid I need a different flat, a car, a nine‑to‑five job I would hate and that would physically destroy me — simply because this is the only feedback I have received for years.

And yesterday, after talking to Karol, something became painfully clear:

The problem is not Tarek. Not Dirk. Not Can.

It is me. Because I allowed others to have more influence over my thoughts and my freedom than they were ever entitled to. Because I lowered my standards in order to be liked. Because I killed the girl I once was just to fit someone else’s idea of normality.

And because I adopted Dirk’s fear of life — mistaking it for safety.

When in truth, it was nothing but fear of loss.

What breaks the connection is not a lack of topics.

It is a lack of depth.

With Džale, the conversation stays where it is. Design labels. Gucci. Chanel. Aesthetic consumption without curiosity. No movement forward.

With Dirk, it is mechanics and routines.

Solar panels. Heat pumps — air pulled from outside, converted into warmth, endlessly explained as if repetition were meaning.

The imaginary small Krakowiak.

The endless list of women he dances with.

His irritation that his girlfriend is depressed and, in his words, “has no goal in life”.

As if dancing with students in his late fifties were a vision.

As if movement without direction were purpose.

As if avoidance were happiness.

And me?

I want to talk about other things.

About why people stay the same.

About responsibility that is not performative.

About violence that hides behind charm.

About how words shape identity.

About why emotional labour is outsourced to women and then resented.

About growth — real growth — and the fear it produces in those who refuse it.

And this is where the fracture happens.

Because they do not want to go there.

And I cannot stay where they are.

What I could never understand — with Darek most of all — was this:

How a grown man could behave like a child and call it authenticity.

Why I was made responsible for regulating his emotions.

Why my irritation was framed as cruelty, while his inability to self-correct was protected as sensitivity.

Why no one ever said anything — except me.

And why, in the end, I was the one left doubting myself. Here is the reality that keeps being ignored:

I have taken care of my dog for four years. Properly. Consistently. Responsibly.

She is healthy. She is cared for. She is safe.

I organise my life. I pay my bills. I survive. I manage.

And still, I am told I do not understand responsibility.

This is not an observation.

It is projection. I will continue writing this blog — but with intention. I see the numbers. I see that many men read silently, like, consume, but do not engage. No dialogue. No accountability. No exposure.

I wanted to create a space where women feel safe.

Somehow, I created a space where men feel comfortable.

That was never the strategy.

Just as it was never the plan to end up with narcissistic partners.

Or to live through repeated sexual violence.

Or to constantly explain my own humanity.

The direction changes here.

The coming texts will focus on women’s lives.

On rebuilding after thirty.

On health. On boundaries. On self-trust.

Less explanation. More clarity.

As I said at the beginning of December: this month is about my health.

And one of the healthiest decisions I can make is to stop insisting that I am the problem — while everyone around me refuses to look at themselves.

And yes, there is Karol.

He says he likes me.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Simply.

And it feels unreal.

Because when self-doubt has been rehearsed for years, acceptance feels suspicious.

But suspicion is not truth.

It is conditioning.

This is where I stop confusing the two.

Let’s raise a glass to a new chapter.

Not because everything is healed.

But because I am done explaining myself to people who never wanted to understand. From here on, this space will change. The language will mostly be German.bThe focus will shift – towards women, towards life after thirty, towards rebuilding health, boundaries and self-trust. English texts will still exist, but less frequently. Once or twice a month here. Short weekly pieces on LinkedIn – for those who need them.

December is the month I chose my health. And one of the healthiest decisions I can make is this:

I stop calling myself the problem while everyone around me keeps spinning.

This is not an ending.

This is a repositioning.