09 Adopted Guilt

Still lost in memory, I wandered alone up the hill in Harburg, leaving Alex and Maus behind without a word. My heart was heavy, and the recent memories of the guinea pig and Alex hitting Shiva surged through me. I couldn’t hold back the tears. The past had returned in full force, collapsing time and space. Everything I felt back then was just as raw, just as real now. I asked myself, How did I survive all those years? How did I carry so much pain? The questions had no answers—not then, not now.

Even church, which was supposed to provide comfort, had only deepened my confusion as a child. I sometimes attended confirmation classes led by the pastor’s wife, hoping to find guidance. But the more I learned about the catechism, the more guilt I carried. I feared God would never welcome someone like me into heaven. I had broken too many commandments—some not by choice. I tried to be good, I really did. But there were commandments I simply couldn’t live up to.

“Honor thy mother and father,” for instance. How could I honor parents who abused and neglected me? That commandment, I believed, must have been written for children who were actually loved. Then there was “Thou shalt not steal.” I questioned if it still applied when your parents made you do it. Nigg and I had been forced to steal—driving without licenses, sneaking out in the middle of the night to take firewood. Our mother orchestrated everything, even telling us which friend to manipulate to get access to his father’s van. We did it, afraid not to.

I once told Nigg what I had learned in confirmation class about stealing. He got quiet. “If there’s a God who sees everything,” he said, “then He knows we don’t want to steal.”

But that didn’t ease my guilt. Nigg didn’t understand the fear or the spiritual weight I carried. “Do you have a better way to heat the stove?” he added.

I gave up hope that our parents would ever change. And with time, the stealing got easier. It even made our father calmer. Nigg once said, “Maybe we won’t have to steal much longer. I heard them talking about an import-export business with a Turkish man. Now they’re just trying to find a thousand marks to invest.”

As my confirmation approached, I focused on the one bright spot—I had designed my own dress. My sewing teacher, who liked me and said I had talent, had agreed to help. It was to be burgundy velvet, with little pearl buttons down the front. All the girls in class talked excitedly about their dresses and shoes. Heidi had two pairs—red patent leather for the introduction day, and black velvet ones for confirmation. Her red shoes were a dream. I wanted a pair just like them.

Confirmation is the most important milestone in a Lutheran child’s life—a final year of school and the formal passage into adulthood. From that day on, we could wear high heels, be called “Miss,” and even have boyfriends. But in order to be confirmed, we had to attend church at least twice a month, which for me meant fighting for permission every time.

One Sunday, I got lucky. My parents were away for a few days. It felt like a holiday. I went to church and met up with Heidi.

“I’m seeing my boyfriend after church,” she said, “and I want you to come meet his brother.”

I knew she needed an alibi—and someone to distract the brother. “Only if I can wear your red shoes,” I bargained.

She hesitated. I knew those shoes were meant for her special day. But eventually, she snuck into her house and brought them to me. I paired them with a tight, short, red pleated skirt I had altered and a black sweater. Heidi looked me up and down.

“Wow,” she said. “You look stunning. He’s going to fall in love with you.”

We strolled slowly through the town square, pretending to admire the movie posters while secretly enjoying the whistles and glances from the older boys. It felt good—for a moment, I felt seen. Pretty. Worth something.

Heidi’s boyfriend’s brother, Werner, had beautiful blue eyes and kind manners, unlike most of the boys in town. He told me about his dream of becoming an architect and building bridges. It was love at first sight. I didn’t want the afternoon to end. When Heidi said it was time to go, Werner and I agreed to meet again.

But even that hope was soon overshadowed. A week before confirmation, I still had no dress. When my godmother took me for a haircut, I told her not to bother—I wasn’t going. “Yes, you are,” she said. “Your mother got Margit’s dress for you.”

Margit’s confirmation had been six years earlier. When I saw the dress, my worst fear came true. It was old-fashioned, shapeless, and embarrassing. I wanted to run away.

On Saturday, during the confirmation exam in front of the congregation, I wore a school dress while the other girls wore new, beautiful outfits. On Sunday, confirmation day, I felt even worse. The church was packed, and I stood in a borrowed black velvet suit with an ankle-length skirt that swayed awkwardly with every step. My godmother tried to encourage me. “You look like a real lady,” she said gently. But I felt like a fraud.

My shoes were a size too big—stuffed with cotton. The skirt was pinned to fit, but I feared it would fall off. The girls behind me whispered, asking why my parents weren’t there. Another chimed in, “They’re at the Catholic church with the youngest. Trying to get to heaven both ways.” Then, with a smirk, “But they won’t make it. Especially not the mother.”

My face burned with shame. I should have run away. It would have spared me the pitying looks, the whispers, and the humiliation.

Outside in the church garden, people gathered for pictures. Heidi asked if I’d made the dress. There was irony in her voice. “Let’s stand together for the photo,” she added. I refused. “I don’t want my picture taken in this dress,” I said. I stayed in the back row, wishing the day would end.

Everywhere around me, families gathered—talking, laughing, celebrating. Mothers had spent days preparing special meals. Fathers beamed with pride. Even the poorest families came together for this rite of passage. I stood at the side entrance, watching. Alone.

When I finally walked down the hill, the streets were empty. Tears filled my eyes, but I kept my head down. I am not worthy of anything special, I told myself. I have no right to ask for anything.

No one noticed when I got home. I sat in my room until my mother came in and barked, “Take off that dress. We can’t afford to have it dry cleaned before we return it. Then go peel potatoes.”

I received three gifts. A towel set from my godmother—my father took them and said they were his. I got some money, but my mother never told me how much or from whom. She used it for something else. I found out a week later someone had sent a satin tablecloth. She returned it to the store.

The next Sunday, Nigg and I were sent out again—to collect money. This time, we had to go to the town where Grandpa now lived with his cousin. We decided to skip the humiliation of begging and visit him instead.

“Did your mother send you?” Grandpa asked. He seemed surprised, but happy to see us. We told him she didn’t know we were coming.

“She only shows up when she needs money,” he muttered.

His cousin made us a warm lunch. Later, Grandpa asked about my confirmation. I told him about the dress. His face fell.

“What happened to the money I gave your mother for you?” he asked.

He had given her 1,000 marks as a gift, plus 500 marks for a dress, shoes, and a proper meal to celebrate. “I told her not to touch it—that it was for you.”

He stood up, pacing. “That’s it. I’m changing my will. She won’t get another penny. I’ll make sure you and Nigg have something when you turn 21.”

Before we left, he gave us each ten marks. “Spend it only on yourselves,” he said.

Back home, my mother grew bitter toward anyone who wouldn’t give her money. When Grandpa sold the house and cut her off, she turned on him too. One by one, people distanced themselves. Townsfolk whispered that she had ruined her own father’s good name.

Evaluation:
The narrative presents a compelling case of complex developmental trauma, shaped by chronic emotional neglect, parentification, and psychological invalidation within a dysfunctional family system. The subject exhibits clear signs of early moral conflict, rooted in exposure to coercive parental behaviors that contradicted both societal norms and internalized religious teachings. The forced participation in theft, absence of parental attunement, and punitive reactions to emotional expression created significant cognitive dissonance and internalized guilt. These factors likely contributed to the development of maladaptive core beliefs related to unworthiness, shame, and helplessness.

The subject’s formative experiences during critical rites of passage—such as confirmation—highlight severe disruptions in identity formation and emotional regulation. The lack of parental presence, emotional support, or acknowledgment during key milestones further reinforced feelings of abandonment and invisibility. The psychological impact is compounded by the denial of basic developmental needs: affirmation, safety, autonomy, and consistent caregiving. Additionally, the narrative demonstrates evidence of suppressed affect, learned helplessness, and a hyperawareness of social comparison, consistent with individuals who have experienced sustained emotional invalidation during childhood.

There are also indications of emerging resilience and insight. The subject’s critical reflection on her experiences and the moral awareness demonstrated in early adolescence suggest an intact cognitive and ethical framework, which may serve as a protective factor in later therapeutic processing. The interaction with the grandfather represents a corrective emotional experience, offering brief validation and emotional containment, though insufficient to reverse the broader developmental deficits. Overall, the subject’s early environment contributed to complex trauma, with likely long-term implications including distorted self-concept, impaired trust in relationships, and heightened vulnerability to retraumatization.