The One with the irreversible Cut

On Tuesday, November 4, 2024, the day before the election, I already feel jittery. I try to follow my usual self-care routine. I play Satie on the piano to fill my ears with calming tunes. I draw animals to reconnect with my people. I practice yoga to center myself. But nothing calms me down.

Published, Nov 2024 as a story by the Wellcome collection:

https://wellcomecollection.org/stories/the-stuck-tampon

Words by Dorothée King artwork by Tracy Satchwill average reading time 7 minutes 20 November 2024

In my head I did this moving game a zillion time. I know rent and real estate prices everywhere. I know the names of all the schools. I know if they have dog parks. I know about gluten-free cafes. I am tired. Moving in my head is exhausting.

I'm an avid podcast listener. I immerse myself (with sometimes guilty pleasure) in shows centered around self-improvement, meditation, life coaching, and psychotherapy. My goal is to gain a deeper understanding of both: me and the world, ultimately aiming for a sense of well-being. Most often, I indulge in these podcasts during my daily bike commute to work, using them to uplift my mood and boost my work ethic.

However, after years of this podcast-cycling routine, the city has transformed into an internal acoustic nightmare. At every intersection, a persistent podcast audio reminder looms, refusing to dissipate.

Es fällt mir auf beim Schreiben dieser Gedanken, dass ich auf Deutsch schreibe. Zum ersten Mal seit Langem. Ich denke an die Schriften von Hannah Arendt. Ich erinnere mich an ihre Vorstellungen von schwimmenden Wurzeln und dem Heimatfinden in der eigenen Sprache. Wo treiben mich meine schwimmenden Wurzeln hin? Wo finde ich ein Heim ohne weh? In meiner Nase? Reicht das?

The "Badi," as it is called in Basel, or also known as the "Gartenbad," the public swimming pool, is a revelation for me every summer: Civilisation is possible. Living in the present is possible. For a small entrance fee, there is egalitarian and appreciative observing togetherness. There is a coexistence of people who would never voluntarily form a community elsewhere. I feel a meditative state of bliss

My first memories of visits by ghosts go back to me being around three or four years old. They came at night when my sister Selma and I were lying down in our shared room. Selma always slept at the top of the bunk bed. Selma was fast asleep. I was staring into the darkness. I remember seeing spread-out toys and clothes in the grey light. Then one night, this Egyptian boy was suddenly sitting on my rocking horse in the middle of our untidy room.

I am 32 years old. I stand in our art deco Berlin apartment in the kids’ room. My son, age 3.5, is sleeping. My daughter, age 2, is screaming. I get the baby carrier. I put my daughter in the carrier and on my front body. She is heavy. My groins hurt from carrying two babies inside and outside my belly for the last couple of years. I start the soothing routine. I bend and straighten my knees. I turn to the left. I turn to the right.

Now, I finally get it. Being at home means being at home in the present moment. Coming home means being totally settled in this split second, with whom and wherever I am.

Today, I have to teach for three hours, the sensuality of feminism. Also, I have to get back to the female student who sued us because of her “good” instead of “very good” grade for her MA thesis. Another female student wants to get extra credit for extracurricular work. And, I still do not know how to reimburse the female secretary for her continuing education costs. I remember that today is Tuesday. I have to be back home at noon to make lunch for my daughter before she has to hop on the train to be on time for her horseback riding lessons. That is the Swiss way. The mom is at home when the kid gets home from school. And also today, I should not bring my dog to work, because, she is in heat.

At the church of Corbusier in Grandchamp the colors shine in and out of the building. The building looks like a UFO and a goddess at the same time. There are no glass paintings in the traditional sense. There are art brut flowers and writings. We do not have to see a picture of Mary. It is enough to read her written name and imagine her. Marie – brilliante comme le soleil is more than enough to create your own images and feelings within yourself.

It all starts with not sleeping for a year. The sleep comes again. Then I establish my 5 am yoga routine. I do not want to take away anyone's time. To sleep well, I go for runs with my dog in the evening. My blood pressure is so low that I cannot sleep without moving anyways. 89 to 54.

It is my turn for the swap. “Mouth or nose?” asks the assistance. “Mouth,” I answer. “5 seconds,” he says. “Great!” I answer.

"The One With the Headhunter", May 2021 issue, The Sock Drawer, thesockdrawer.net

On my never-ending search to find an instant solution for internal happiness and a blissful life, I began to research options for micro-dosing psilocybin retreats. The business model is brilliant…

We sit on the train from Germany to Switzerland. It is 33 Celsius degrees outside. It is 35 degrees Celsius inside. It is Covid19 era. We wear face masks. The only seats left are right opposite the rest room. I have a hard time to breathe. I ask my daughter to move away from me a bit. It is too hot. “My head itches,” she says. I look at her. I see 4 crawling lice on her head. I move her hair a bit. I see more lice. “We have lice,” I say.

I am around nine years old. Usually, I and my friends take our bikes together to school. One day I have to stay longer at school than my friends. My parents think that the extra-curricular school orchestra is good for me. I play the second violin. The noises make me nervous. I remember the white t-shirt with a big yellow smiley print, which I wear under my white orchestra blouse.

I sleep. I dream. I am in a team meeting. In underwear. I am supposed to present something. I feel the flip chart paper on the skin of my tummy and my thighs. The flip chart paper doesn’t turn the way I want it to turn. I wake up. It is dark outside.

I have a vision board. Around thirty images stick to the wall next to my bed. The images are attached to the wall with round stickers in various colors. I decide that the Damien Hirstiness has to come to an end. I no longer want the colorful dots. I decide to reorganize my vision board. I remove the stickers. I take down all the images, affirmations, and postcards. The wall is almost bare. There is one last sign that reads: “3 Million Dollars.” I do not know what to do with it

I am on my yoga mat. I am in a headstand. Colin walks by. “Are you doing the magic ten?” he asks. “No, I am doing a program against fear,” I answer. “Okay,” he says, “I’m doing the laundry.”