16/07/2026

From *

Sub *


RIP MY BUSH. I KIND OF DONATED IT TO THE HOSPITAL.
I FOUND MYSELF IN A CONSTANT SUBSTANCE INDUCED SELFIE DELIRIUM(OPIOID GLARE).
I am not available between screen time, sleeping and taking one of many pills.

humming humming machine singing for ... my vitals. our vitals.
C A R E ?

they broke my hip in 3 places, and decided to turn me into a cyborg.
i can feel the invasive titan under my skin, each movement of my bones,
the screws are dancing unter the skin, visible from outside,
like an alien, like a worm crawling and eating its way through my flesh.
It disgusts me.

hows the pain today on a scale from 1 to 10, 5 is a state not being able to concentrate?

in movement i feel my bones cracking, i feel the scratching of broken ends on each other.
i feel them touching, talking, communicating, remembering.
my skin crawls over my neck to my ears, whispering about what i am missing.

i know its gonna help in the long run, but they forgot to tell me i would grow.
i am a cripple. they made me a cripple, talking about how the height difference would only be as little as itll be after my 6 months healing journey


When i deciced for this surgery, i thought i would have won a lottery ticket to never being in pain again,
they praised their skills, the operation being the only option,
i should do it as soon as possible, so i wont have

i do mourn my old self.
i mourn my flexible self.
my stretchy skin and the feeling of freedom stretching and moving every inch of my body in the morning,
i miss being able to stand straightened,
to dance through my kitchen, to fuckin being able to make myself coffee and to enjoy the fuckin cup in my bed.

i hate how they deciced i am in so much pain, not being able to find a resting position,
i hate how they deciced, just because of my appearance to assume i had an opioid abusus history,
and i feel mocked every time i think about taking the goddamn pills, just because my stubborness hates it to be read as an opioid junkie.


there is a particular obscenity to the fact that other people have seen the inside of me.
D I S G U S T
i cannot reconcile the intimacy of that knowledge with the indifference of its circumstances.

they saw me where i have never seen myself.

they knew the colour, the texture, the particular arrangements of our bones hidden beneath the skin,
the exact places in which i ceased to be an image of a body and became body itself
perhaps this is what disturbs me most: not that they entered me, but that they have seen more than i ever will and also how less they had to pay for that.

no ceremony.

no intimacy returned.

no corresponding revelation.

only access.

a body is opened, the work is performed, the body is closed again,
and the people who have been closest to me in the most literal possible sense become strangers before the wound has even begun to close.

they did not even care as much as checking in with their work after the procedure, as if it would ne absolutely umimportant how the outcome would be.

a production line.
that is the phrase that keeps coming back to me.
not because it is accurate enough, but because nothing seems accurate enough.

how can something be profoundly intimate and utterly impersonal at the same time?

how can a person possess knowledge of your interior without possessing even the smallest fragment of knowledge of you?
they have seen what i will never see.
they have touched what i cannot reach.
they have altered structures whose existence i only ever knew through sensation,
and somewhere in their memory there may be an image of my exposed body that i will never be able to retrieve, while to me they remain almost faceless.

there is a grotesque asymmetry in this.
they told me about healing as though healing were the natural continuation of the operation,
but perhaps healing is also the period in which the body slowly becomes aware of what has been done to it.
not disgust at the wound itself, but at the knowledge that there was a wound large enough to permit them entry.
the treated me like i was flesh. they were my metzger.

only flesh.
being a person who has a body,
i thought they were repairing me.

sometimes it feels as though i betrayed my own body, not in the ordinary sense of having neglected it or failed it,
but in the much more intimate sense of having made a decision on its behalf and then rendered it incapable of objecting,
having put it to sleep precisely when it might have understood what was being done to it,
as though i had taken the one thing that could have protested
— its sensation
and quietly took it away.

the nerve block still feels sinister to me in that way.
not because it was wrong.
because it worked.
because i made my body incapable of telling me no.
i let them numb it.
i let them enter.
i let them break and rearrange and fasten and close, while the part of me that might have screamed was chemically absent,
and afterwards i accepted the strange little rituals of pain management as though the absence of sensation were evidence that everything had gone according to plan.


and sometimes i think: what did i know when i said yes?
what did i know about what yes would mean to the thing that had to live through it?
i understood pain as a problem.
i understood surgery as a solution.
i understood afterwards as something almost inevitable, almost innocent, a cleaner future waiting on the other side of a difficult morning.
but my body did not receive an afterwards.

my body received an incision.

my body received hands.
my body received metal.
my body received foreignness.
my body received the violence in full, even while i was unconscious enough to believe that i was the one making the decision.
there is something unbearable about having been the accomplice to your own violation.
because nobody forced me.
i walked toward it.
i signed things.
i agreed.
i trusted.
and then, when the moment came in which my body might have objected, i helped make it quiet. as though i had tricked the oldest and most loyal part of myself. as though i had whispered: don't worry, go to sleep, this is for us. and then let them in. sometimes i imagine my body waking up afterwards and finding the room empty, the people gone, the wound closed, the metal already inside,
and having to understand from the evidence what i had agreed to while it was unconscious. perhaps that is where the betrayal lives.
not in having chosen the operation.
but in having believed that i could choose for both of us.
i thought i was saving my body from pain.
i did not understand that my body might experience the saving itself as the catastrophe.
sometimes i want to apologise to it.
not because i know the decision was wrong.
that would almost be easier.
but because i finally understand that the body does not know the language of afterwards.
it only knows what happened.
it was cut.
it was opened.
it was altered.
it woke up different.
and somehow i am the one who has to tell it that this was supposed to be love.

there is something unbearable about having put something inside a body that has spent its entire life belonging to me,
something that was never supposed to be there, something cold and permanent and indifferent now threaded through the places that used to be entirely its own,
and perhaps what disturbs me is not even the metal itself but the fact that i consented to its arrival while my body could do nothing but follow.

i keep thinking of the body as the one thing that never left me.

through every embarrassment, every illness, every ugly morning, every betrayal that came from somewhere else,
it remained there without asking for an explanation, carrying me with a loyalty so complete that i never had to think of it as loyalty at all.

and then i turned it against itself.

or allowed someone else to.
i offered it up as material.

let them enter.

let them remove.

let them break.

let them insert something foreign and call it repair.

there is a particular cruelty in the fact that the thing which has always been mine to inhabit became,
for a few hours, something other people were entitled to open, manipulate, measure, rearrange, and return,
while i lay somewhere beyond the reach of my own sensation, chemically absent from the negotiations taking place inside me.

evidence of the moment in which i stopped protecting MY body that had always protected ME.
as though i had taken the most loyal creature i know, persuaded it to lie still, covered its eyes,
and handed it over to strangers because they promised me it would be better afterwards.
and perhaps that is what makes the metal alien so difficult to look at.

something that does not belong to the original language of me, and every movement reads the sentence again.

there.

there.

there.




sometimes i think my body must resent me.




"you gave me away."
"you let them in."
"you put something in me that IS not mine."

and i don't know how to answer that without admitting that i believed the FUTURE more than i believed the body that had carried me this far.
i believed them when they said afterwards.
i believed them when they said necessary.
i believed them when they said better.

and somewhere between those words i forgot that my body was not a problem waiting to be solved,
not a thing that would automatically understand the logic of its own destruction because i had signed my name beneath as fuckin contract.

it was the only thing in the room that could not leave.
and still i left my body there.
asleep.
trusting me.
i made my body incapable of telling me no.

tilidin.
novamin.
codein.
paracetamol.
metamizol.
morphin.
ibuprofen.
etoricoxib.

eight times a day, the body negotiated away from itself.





there is something unbearable about having been the accomplice to your own violation.
because nobody forced me.





why i let strangers open our skin.
why i let them change our proportions.
why i let them leave pieces of themselves behind.
why i put us to sleep so you could not tell me what you thought.
sometimes i want to apologise to you.



i offered it up as material.

the humiliating, infantile helplessness of being unable to simply get up and leave,
unable to make my own body behave,
unable to decide what medication was inside me or when it would be changed,
unable even to know whether my own perception of danger was trustworthy because everything i felt was already being translated through drugs,
exhaustion, pain, sleep deprivation.

i had to wait for other people to decide whether what was happening to me mattered.
four days.
four days in which my body kept saying something and the people around me seemed to hear only the inconvenience of being asked to listen.
and perhaps neglect feels so strange when you are already this dependent because there is no dramatic moment in which someone refuses you care.
four days until the medication was adjusted.
four days in which i learned, against my will, how little authority i had over my own body once it had been handed into other people's care.

bedarf.
as though needing something were already suspicious.
as though there were a moral dimension to the amount of pain my body was permitted to have.
i could feel the judgement before i could feel the relief of BEDARFSMEDIKAMENT,
could feel myself rehearsing the request internally, trying to make it sound reasonable enough,
sick enough trying to occupy that impossible middle ground between not asking too often and not suffering too quietly,
between demonstrating that i was in pain and demonstrating that i was not the kind of person who wanted too much, that i was not in fact a JUNKIE.
there is something degrading about having to prove that you deserve relief while already lying there in pain.

the body becomes evidence.
the face becomes evidence.
the tone of your voice becomes evidence.
even the way you ask becomes evidence.

and perhaps this is what remains most sharply from those days:
not the pain itself, but the humiliation of having no private authority over it,
of having to place something as intimate and uncontrollable as pain into the hands of people
who could decide whether it was real enough, serious enough, deserving enough.

“macht dich das high?”
“hier kommt die happy pill.”
"rein vom Äußerlichen könnte man darauf schließen, dass es Vorgeschichte mit Opioiden gab"


there is something almost unbearable about the intimacy of being cared for when you are incapable of caring for yourself,
because it does not resemble ordinary intimacy at all,
there is no reciprocity in it,
no gradual movement toward another person,

only the naked fact of needing and the other person being there.

and when the same hands that bring you medication also clean the parts of you you would normally protect from everyone,
some primitive association begins to form.

they become landmarks.
a face.
they saw me when i could not hold myself together.
they saw me when i could not get up.
they saw me when i cried..
and then they shouted at me.
and so he entered my dreams.
again and again.
not because i wanted him there,
but because for those days he had become part of the architecture of being alive,
and apparently the delirious mind does not understand that a person can be both
-- a source of care and a source of fear,
that one can be grateful for someone's hands and still recoil from them,
that someone can know the most humiliating details of your body and remain, in every meaningful sense, a stranger.

perhaps this is what i mean when i say i felt emotionally exposed.
not seen.
exposed.
there is a difference.
to be seen is to be known.

to be exposed is to have been witnessed without being held.
and they witnessed so much.


ich fühle mich mir selbst so fremd.