Wrecked. Charlotte Roche

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СКАЧАТЬ A lot of the things you’re supposed to do seem illogical. I’d really like to have everything explained in detail sometime, so I’d know how I—and how we—should act at home going forward. I definitely don’t want to be one of those people who does nothing just because nobody else is doing anything. And I don’t want to fool myself, either. There’s a tendency to convince yourself of all the things you’re doing for the environment when in reality—with the things that count—you’re making things worse. This thought is unbearable. For the most part, ways to help the environment are about limiting yourself, sacrificing—you just stop doing things that other people don’t think for a minute about doing. The point is not to take yourself or your luxurious lifestyle so seriously; instead you live more simply in some areas. But making these sacrifices takes an iron will, because nobody checks up on you. Unfortunately there’s no such thing as an environmental inspector who can come into your apartment and take the dryer away because it’s both pointless and terrible for the environment. Nope. Our dryer is sitting right there. We just can’t use it. Laundry has to be hung to dry or else we are wasting energy.

      The dishwasher is loaded. After each item was placed in the dishwasher, Liza said, “Okay, finished.”

      And we said, “No, you’re not finished. There’s this still, and that . . .”

      With kids, there’s somehow never one big task that needs to be taken care of. Any big task is divided into lots of small tasks, and after each small task is accomplished they’re ready to call it quits. Parents have to keep pushing children so that later in life, when they have their own place, they won’t live like pigs.

      My parents didn’t manage to make it stick with me. My own parents fucked up royally when it came to the most important things parents need to instill in their kids—understanding money and maintaining a clean home. I wonder how they would justify that now. I doubt they’d ever accept the blame for it. Of course, I can’t ask them at this point because I’ve cut them out of my life. I’ve decided my parents don’t deserve to have children. I’m thirty-three now, and I said good-bye to them at twenty-nine. I don’t mean literally. I never said, “Good-bye, I’m cutting you out of my life now.” I just broke off contact. Forever. That means I don’t go to see them on their birthdays, I don’t send cards. I won’t be at their funerals and I won’t visit if one of them gets testicular cancer. (I think my mother has balls, too.) I won’t visit their graves. I simply no longer have parents.

      Even to me it seems like something of a taboo. I’m constantly plagued by feelings of guilt. We’re all brought up in a society where even hard-core atheists are taught that you should honor your parents and so on and so forth. But why should you honor your parents when everything they did to you was bad? I constantly try to convince myself that life without my parents is better and that they don’t deserve me as a daughter. At Christmas it’s just unbearable. Even as anti-Christian as I am, I get painfully sentimental and feel in my bones how bad it is to celebrate Christmas as though I have no larger family unit—that is, without the older generation. It seems so wrong that I often break into tears, but it’s still no reason to change anything. My decision is final: I will live without my parents. It’s my right. Anyone is allowed to leave anyone else if they find out that person is bad for them. I have to keep telling myself that to calm myself down. I learned it from my therapist. Otherwise I sit around thinking what I’m doing is monstrous. Especially when I think further and imagine the same thing happening between my daughter and me. Awful.

      Frau Drescher has convinced me, however, that I can’t take my daughter’s grandparents away. Despite the fact that I’ve decided they were bad parents to me, they could still be good grandparents to her. I doubt it, but fine, if she says so. Family! I have only one, so I’m by no means an expert. So I listen to her. Against my will, I arrange meetings between my daughter and her grandparents, my ex-parents. Other people have to help with the exchange, because in my pigheadedness I’ve decided I never want to see them again until they die. And not even then.

      They pick my daughter up at her father’s place. I won’t take her to her grandparents. Yeah, yeah, Frau Drescher. I get it. Life is tough.

      At Christmastime I have to hide from my little family the fact that I really miss my parents. Not necessarily those parents, but parents in general. The parents of one of my friends always say to her, “Whoa, you got fat!” when she comes home for Christmas. I told her just to stop going, but she still heads home for her annual dose of humiliation. I can’t understand it. But it’s possible that in her case it has something to do with an inheritance. If my husband hadn’t popped into my life and made any inheritance unnecessary, I’d probably still see my parents regularly, too. I definitely think money keeps a lot of screwed-up families together, forcing children to humiliate themselves.

      I was heavily indebted to my previous husband. The first thing my new husband did was pay off all my debts, and I’ve never been able to completely cast off the feeling that he bought me from my ex-husband like an old camel. I think it’s true, I let myself be bought—because I badly needed security. I was such a mess mentally from my trauma that I couldn’t have dealt with a life weighed down by debt. Georg was able not only to fill the financial role of the father but to fill the mental role of both parents. Naturally Frau Drescher thinks this is too much pressure to put on my new husband, and she’s probably right again. But I’m still working through that with her.

      I get my daughter ready for bed. For seven years it’s been the same routine, like in prison: bathe, brush your teeth, go to the bathroom. For me, brushing your teeth is a matter of life and death. I think that only low-class scumbags ever have kids with bad teeth. Especially bad baby teeth. That’s just not acceptable. You have to drastically reduce their intake of sweets. And you have to make sure they brush their teeth at least once a day. For a good long time. I’ve developed some nasty tricks to ensure proper oral hygiene despite the natural opposition of my daughter. I use the same trick that people typically use to impose moral behavior—they invent a god and say that he sees everything, so you’d better be good.

      When she was still little, I talked to my daughter constantly about the tooth trolls named Cavity and Bacteria. They are children’s book characters invented by the German government or something in order to get kids to stick to a good oral hygiene regimen. It’s pure scare tactics. The book explains that the tooth trolls feed on bits of food left in your mouth and that their excretions burn holes in your teeth. I told Liza over and over, “If you don’t brush, Cavity and Bacteria will come with their hammer and sickle and bludgeon holes in your teeth—and those holes will hurt, which will mean you’ll have to go to the dentist, who will have to drill into your teeth before he can fill in the holes.”

      The comparison to God is not so apt, though, since Cavity and Bacteria are real, basically, and there are real consequences if you don’t brush. With God there are never any consequences. God doesn’t see everything or punish anything—because there is no such thing as God. Liza has so thoroughly internalized the importance of brushing her teeth that sometimes, when it’s really late and I am inclined to lay her sleeping body in bed fully clothed, she wakes with a start and goes to brush her teeth because in her paranoia she thinks she’ll wake up with loads of holes in her teeth. All the better. She’ll thank me one day—or probably not. When friends of ours with kids the same age tell us that their children have cavities, I act as if it’s totally normal. But in reality I’m thinking, Oh, God, what a terrible mother she is! I get off on the fact that my child has no cavities. All because of me and me alone! Ha!

      Then we go into her room and I lie down next to her and read. Right now we’re reading Gulliver’s Travels.

      She asks, “Mama, why are you whispering?”

      No idea. I have to think about it myself. Why indeed? “Um, to make it more suspenseful?”

      “Stop it.”

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