Once upon a time there was a man whom the people in the village gave a wide berth. They called him the curmudgeon. When children ran past his garden fence, they grew quiet, and when someone greeted him on the street, at most a terse grumble came back. His gaze always looked first for what was crooked, what was noisy, or what might break. What nobody in the village knew: the man did not want to be like that at all. ...
To many people, “bipolar” sounds like a mere swing between good and bad moods. On paper, however, my diagnosis reads Bipolar 1 with psychotic symptoms – and when I am in full-blown mania, it has nothing whatsoever to do with “being in a good mood.” It often starts constructively: I have countless ideas, mostly driven by an honest desire to improve things fundamentally. Yet my head shifts into a speed that hardly anyone on the outside can follow anymore. There is no longer any filter between thinking and speaking – almost every thought has to come out the exact second it arises. At the same time, my short-term memory collapses: what I said days ago, or even just a few moments ago, is erased almost in the same instant. Only this hyper-accelerated Now exists. ...
If you like, listen while reading: In a village at the edge of the forest, everyone wore invisible suits of armour made of iron. Whoever wanted to be strong showed no weakness. Only one man did not play along. If you asked him who he was, he grinned: “An idiot and a fool – it even says so on my report card.” Then he laughed, and people quickly walked on. ...
Once upon a time there was a black sheep. It lived in a village full of sheep and carried a bucket with it. A bucket of filth. Everything it had not allowed itself to be, everything the village had not wanted to see, lay in it. It could not put the bucket down. For a time the sheep thought about tipping the bucket out. Over the others. They should turn black too, it thought, then it would no longer be alone. It imagined nights in which it moved through the village spraying colour. The thought warmed and poisoned at the same time. ...
There is a form of self-destruction that feels like protection. It is called: I am the victim, everyone else is to blame. I know this attitude from the inside. For years I was the poor one. When something did not work, it was down to the circumstances or the people around me. Above all to my parents. They were the address for my blame for years, for much that I should have stood up for myself. ...
If you like, listen while reading: The fool is one of the oldest figures in human history. He goes by many names — shaman, dervish, mystic, court jester. What connects them: an inner freedom that outlasts outer circumstances. He sees differently and speaks what others leave unsaid. He cannot be bought. The fool knows the word no — toward himself and toward others. ...
I write this not from theory. I was a victim long enough to know what that feels like from the inside. And I have myself oppressed — made people feel small, relieved myself at their expense, passed on the burden that lay on me. Both belong to me. Neither is to be glossed over. Today I am free. Or more precisely: I am on the way. I am trying to be a warrior of light, in Coelho’s sense — that is, someone who falls, rises again, doubts, keeps going. Not a hero. A practitioner. ...
If you like, listen while reading: Mania and depression. Day and night. Light and shadow. For a long time I fought against one of the poles. I believed one was my enemy. I believed I had to choose. Today I know better. Freedom comes first. It is the first thing we receive — from God, from life, from what carries us. With it I decide every day how I live with both poles. ...
The person wants to be good. The compass sits in the heart. The sensitive person especially. They do not want to hurt — and that is exactly what makes them small. They swallow, they adapt, they wait. And yet the opposite is true: whoever sets no boundaries is not authentic. They are merely polite. Setting boundaries requires the shadow. Whoever knows only their light cannot say no — because the no comes from the dark part, the one that can also fight, that can also protect. Getting to know one’s own shadow and allowing it is not a defeat. It is the precondition for real boundaries. And for real authenticity. ...
A sentence everyone knows. One we heard as children when we fell, when we cried, when we were afraid. Get up. Stop making a fuss. A warrior feels no pain. I cross out the “NO.” Not because I want to destroy the sentence — but because it is the wrong way round. A warrior knows pain. That is exactly what makes them strong. The Wounds Imagine you come back from the hunt. It did not go well. You carry wounds. Real ones, not just metaphorical — though the metaphorical ones hurt just as much. Childhood, loss, loneliness. People who left. People who should have stayed. Things that happened and things that should have happened but did not. Trust that was broken. Dignity that was denied. Grief that never had a place. ...