1942: Grief.

Today it’s morning when I write, but it feels like a dark and cold night anyway. I meditated last night and unexpected emotions began to surface. Well, I was perfectly aware November is a tough month, but it had been alright so far. However, as soon as I started to concentrate, I felt my heart sinking, I felt the sadness coming out of nowhere... nowhere in my present life. Soon I started to see the church I used to visit in France, an impressive church, could have been a cathedral. The environment is grey, gloomy, cold. I am standing in front of a white statue, I don’t see it clearly but it looks like a Virgin holding a baby Jesus in her arms. I know I’m not wearing my medal with the Virgin anymore, I’m looking at her wondering why she didn’t answer my prayers, wondering how many more candles I should have lighted up for her to listen to me, wondering why my grandmother taught me to put my faith in someone who wouldn’t do anything for me, for Johann.

I feel so empty. I got some glimpses of a funeral (new memories here). I’m getting ready for it, I’m putting on my brown nurse uniform, including a tie. I still have a plaster on my neck, where the IV for the sedation was, I don’t know if I remove it or if I leave it there, half-covered by my shirt collar. I know when I last saw his corpse, I asked for them to let me see him one last time after I woke up, and they did. Now I know there is only a poor coffin and it looks like I’m not up to show my grief anymore, or maybe it’s only I have no strength left, not even to cry. So I feel rigid, tense, serious as another statue. I’m not sure where the funeral takes place, but I wouldn’t say it’s in the church, it looks more like an improvised military ceremony somewhere in our headquarters.

I’ve always doubted what came first, the sexual abuse or Johann’s death. Now I think I know. First came the sexual abuse. My intention was to tell him. He was the only person I could trust after all. But when we talked on the phone my words always got stuck in my throat and I could only say I was doing fine. What else could I say? He was doing his duty, in the border, in the front or wherever, he had something to fight for (not like me), so how could I be the one to worry him? And of course I was also terrified I could be overheard. And I didn’t want to get him into trouble either. So I wrote some letters to him, hidden in a corner when there was no one around, not with the intention of sending them out (what if someone opens and reads them?), but to show them to him when we were together again. I was a bit afraid of what his reaction would be, and least of all I hoped he could do something about it, no more than holding me and comfort me. That would have been enough. Only, that moment never arrived.

So, I gathered up the little strength I had left and told the doctor, though it seems this was more an impulse to explain my problems at work than wanting to accuse a superior of anything. Whatever the case, it was a big, big mistake. I don’t blame him for not helping me. I blame myself for being so, so foolish, believing he could or would risk his life doing it. Then the officer found out, and he threatened me in a way I prefer not to describe.

At this point these words from a Marillion song always come to me: “You’d starve before you’d let him get his hands on you again”.

I think that was the main reason I decided to kill myself.