I Know Who I Am

I know who I am. Whatever someone else thinks of me, whatever they say about or to me—no matter how or what—it doesn't matter anymore. I know who I am. I am rooted in Love and grace. I know the truth, and it is beautiful, good, and pure. I no longer have to let myself be shaken up, or worse: torn apart like a piece of wet cardboard. I stand, and I just am. And that... that used to be very different.

When I was first admitted to the psychiatric ward in December 2019, I was completely lost. I had ab-so-lute-ly no idea who I was anymore. Back then, I compared myself to an empty cardboard box that someone had once scribbled NATHALIE on. If it hadn’t been written on there, I wouldn’t even have known it was me. But that box, no matter how big it might have been, had no content. All those years, I had tried so hard to be loved by other people, and I acted accordingly. You’d accept me if I went out to the bar with you every week? Then I’d go to the bar. You’d think I was cooler if I listened to heavy metal? Well, then I’d listen to it, convincing myself that I thought it was amazing music. You thought I should be softer, sweeter, and more compliant, so I did it. Did you think I needed to toughen up instead? Then I did that too. You wanted me to say 'A,' I said 'A.' But you preferred 'B'? Then I said 'B.' And after living like that for years and years and years, I eventually didn’t know up from down anymore. "Who am I?" was the big question on my lips. Or rather, that was the question on the therapists' lips. My question wasn't a question, but a cry for help: JUST-LEAVE-ME-THE-HELL-ALONE. Let me sleep, rest, find myself. Just let me be. All of your opinions and preferences broke me, so please keep them to yourselves and just leave me alone!

I finally got that peace. Not during that first admission (on the contrary, all those yoga, music, craft, and family system therapy sessions were much more than I could handle), but during the next admission three months later. Because that one coincided exactly with the start of the pandemic. WHAT.A.GIFT. The hospital went into lockdown, all double rooms suddenly became single rooms, and nobody was allowed to leave their room anymore. For six weeks, I didn’t wear shoes, just stayed indoors, and saw no one other than the hospital staff. That is something that would drive me absolutely crazy today, but back then, it was exactly what I needed. Let the world spin on without me; I’ll just be sitting here in my super safe little cocoon. I didn’t want to hear it anymore—how everyone thought I should behave. "Do this, think that, act this way." I could no longer stomach the accusatory tone, the toxicity, the manipulation. What I was screaming on the inside but never dared to say out loud is exactly what Chandler was able to say in this scene from Friends: "Shut up, shut up, shut uuuuuuup!!"

During that lockdown admission, I found peace. Less contact with the outside world. Thank God. And after being allowed to recover for the first two weeks, the therapist gave me an assignment. When she handed it to me, I looked at her as if she were asking me to write an essay in Korean about the digestive system of goats or something. What.is.this.woman.talking.about?!
Her assignment was: for a whole week, write down five things you like every single day.
Seriously.
Seriously!
Impossible.
I wouldn't have been able to write down five things I liked in total, let alone 35! Crazy lady. I was an empty box, and suddenly I had to go digging around in it looking for 35 long-lost items. Could there be a false bottom in this box?

The first day, I sat chewing on my pen for half an hour just to find five things. I only remember two of them: the warmth of the sun and walking barefoot through the grass. Those thoughts were glimmers (though I didn’t know the word for them back then)—things that calm the nervous system and are the exact opposite of triggers.
After a week, it turned out that my box did indeed have a false bottom because, by some miracle, I had somehow managed to pull 35 things out of my hat that I liked. No one else had to tell me who I was, what I felt, or how I should behave. No, for the very first time, I gained the awareness that I had my own preferences and desires, and that I was even allowed to put them on paper and express them to another human being in total safety. No one told me it had to be different, that I was wrong, or that it wasn't good enough. It was right, because it was mine. Wow, what an experience!

Does it sound like that was the start of the great "I-discovered-who-I-am-and-I’ll-never-let-anyone-boss-me-around-again" journey? No such luck. That didn’t happen. But it was the start of realizing that I have my own preferences, my own opinions, and even my own voice. And in later therapy, I learned to connect with my gut feeling and to always realign myself with the Love inside me, keeping myself deeply grounded from there.

Today, I know who I am much better than I did back then. I know what I’m good at, what I enjoy, and who accepts and loves me just the way I am. I am supported and loved by many people, and judged by others. And that’s exactly the thing: not everyone accepts me for who I truly am. Or you, for that matter. Because it’s simply impossible. We can't be liked by everyone. We're not pizza.

People make crazy decisions sometimes. A cornered animal does desperate things. And those animals aren't afraid to lash out. Claws can be sharp and leave deep cuts, and a bite like that can really sting. But no matter how much it hurts, my box isn’t empty anymore. It is completely full because now I know who I am. I know my vulnerabilities, my strengths, my talents, and my flaws. But at least I know myself. No matter what people say or how they choose to say it. I won't let myself be blown over anymore. I am standing strong, and you can't break me anymore. Period.

PERIOD.