Tipps von einer Überlebenskünstlerin

This text is for you if you are young, in love—or think you are—and if something in your relationship feels wrong, even though you can’t quite put it into words. I was in a toxic relationship for years. Not because I was stupid. Not because I wanted violence. But because I was emotionally dependent. I thought I was nothing without him. I thought love had to hurt. I thought that if I just tried hard enough, he would change. He didn’t. I stayed even though I was hit. I stayed even though I was used—emotionally and mentally. I stayed even though I was cheated on. More than once. Why? Because toxic relationships slowly pull you away from yourself. They don’t start with violence on day one. They start with attention, with promises, with the feeling of finally being “seen.” And at some point, you are so far away from your own self-worth that you believe you deserve all of it. I excused his behavior. I made myself smaller. I felt ashamed—and I stayed silent. In the e...

Dieser Text richtet sich an dich, wenn du jung bist, verliebt bist – oder glaubst, es zu sein – und wenn sich etwas in deiner Beziehung falsch anfühlt, du es aber nicht benennen kannst. Ich war jahrelang in einer toxischen Beziehung. Nicht, weil ich dumm war. Nicht, weil ich Gewalt wollte. Sondern weil ich emotional abhängig war. Ich dachte, ohne ihn nichts wert zu sein. Ich dachte, Liebe müsse weh tun. Ich dachte, wenn ich mich nur genug anstrenge, wird er sich ändern. Das tat er nicht. Ich blieb, obwohl ich geschlagen wurde. Ich blieb, obwohl ich ausgenutzt wurde – emotional und seelisch. Ich blieb, obwohl ich betrogen wurde. Mehr als einmal. Warum? Weil toxische Beziehungen dich langsam von dir selbst entfernen. Sie kommen nicht mit Gewalt am ersten Tag. Sie kommen mit Aufmerksamkeit, mit Versprechen, mit dem Gefühl, „endlich gesehen“ zu werden. Und irgendwann bist du so weit weg von deinem eigenen Wert, dass du glaubst, das alles verdient zu haben. Ich entschuldigte s...

  Trigger Warning: Violence, Alcohol Addiction There are stories you keep to yourself for a long time. Not because they are unimportant — but because they hurt. I grew up in a home I was afraid of. My stepfather was addicted to alcohol and repeatedly became violent toward me. I never knew what awaited me when I came home. Sometimes the walk to the front door was harder than anything else that day. I stayed silent for a long time. Out of fear. Out of shame. And because I thought I had to endure it somehow. But eventually there came a moment when I realized: This is not how home is supposed to feel. I gathered all my courage and talked to someone about it. For the first time, I said out loud what was happening to me. And for the first time, I understood: I am not too sensitive. I am not imagining things. And it is not my fault. With the help of that person, I moved out at sixteen. I had no furniture. No plans. I only took a few pieces of clothing with me. ...