I was born into a typical working-class family where matters of life were not discussed, but instead everyone simply worked. My father was always out working. Beside his full-time job he had several side jobs to be able to pay back the bank loan for the house. My mother did mostly nightshifts and had little time for us kids.

The older we got, the more my siblings and I were assigned to contribute to the household.

During the week we delivered newspapers in the early morning hours, and on Saturdays we cleaned hallways or helped other people with moving furniture. Having a good time with my parents was not a concept in our family, we never went out to enjoy ourselves together.

I had a particularly close relationship with my eldest sister. She was much older than me and the one taking care of me when I was very young because my mother couldn’t. I needed the closeness so I was very attached to her.

My sister married early and emigrated to a different continent when I was still a little boy. Her disappearance hurt me badly. It felt like losing a mother. Whenever she called I was so excited that I was all choked up. I could not talk to anybody about my sadness and how much I missed her. No one paid attention and I also didn’t know how to express my feelings or troubles, because I had not learnt or seen it done in my family.

This loss was the first deep cut in my life. The second followed years later when I was a teenager.

To bridge the time until I would start an apprenticeship after my final school year, I was sent to stay with my sister. I had a fabulous time with her and her husband and they pampered me to a degree that I had never experienced before.

When I came back home six months later, my father was suddenly gone. When I asked about him they said that he didn’t live with us anymore, nothing else. No one had mentioned anything to me while I was gone so this news hit me totally unexpectedly and nobody spoke about it.

Of course, I knew that the relationship between my parents had not been harmonious, but the separation was still a complete shock.

My father moving out was a final statement – that it just didn’t work out anymore. It was a horrible feeling. All of a sudden my family had fallen apart. This was a bitter blow and a big turning point in my life.

Afterwards everything changed.

My mother wanted to establish a good life for us, but instead the exact opposite happened. To maintain our living standard and pay for the house she searched for quick cash and started a business that went down the tube. She soon was deeply in debt and was unable to pay the bills. At some point the power was cut off and bankruptcy proceedings were opened against her.

Eventually, my mother left everything behind and moved in with her boyfriend who lived in a tiny apartment. She assumed that we would go and live with our father, but one of my brothers and I stayed back in our house.

It was winter, the house was freezing cold, there was no heating, no electricity, and no warm water.

In the evenings we had only candles for some light. At night, and sometimes during the day, we stayed in bed with our winter coats on. We also had no food supplies. I remember looking around for any food left behind and eating dry bread. We earned a bit of money to buy some food but we often went to bed hungry. The house was a mess. We were young and simply had no clue about anything.

My father called on us several times to come and stay with him. My brother moved at some point because he was too cold, but I stayed on as long as I could. I didn’t want to leave. This was my home where I grew up, I knew every noise and every corner. The house gave me some security. I was not afraid on my own but I felt very lonely.

When I finally could not handle it anymore, I also joined my father, and with time things became more stable again.

It’s been a long time since then. I thought about all this a lot over the years and tried to get more clarity about how it all happened. Clearly, it was crazy for us boys to live in a non-functioning house on our own during winter, I don’t wish this to anyone.

Generally, I remember my earlier years only in bits and pieces.

The only exception is the six months that I spend with my sister abroad. Of that time, I remember the films we watched in the cinema, what conversations I had with her husband, how I played with my nephew, and even how embarrassed I was after my sister gave me a bad haircut. Christmas we celebrated with my brother in law’s whole family. It was a real festivity with presents and a lavish dinner, all those things that didn’t exist in my family.

Back home we could not even afford a Christmas tree and instead used an indoor palm. As kids we didn’t know that this was a sad situation. It was normal for us and we condoned it with humor, but I don’t think it was good to experience such things.

Overall, I remember mostly unpleasant experiences.

I was a sandwich kid, the second last, and I didn’t get much attention. I often felt like I was not seen at all. There were many times that my siblings would get something such as birthday presents but I would not, just because I was forgotten. It made me wonder if I was simply not worth it.

My mother did care for us and made sure that we were fine, but she had to allocate her energy among all her children, plus she had problems with my father and financial worries. My father was never home. I cannot remember that he ever praised me, rather the opposite. He always made me feel like I had just made it, like I was the last person arriving at the gate.

I needed much more than they could give. That fact can’t be denied, that’s why I say it openly. I am not angry with them and I don’t hold it against them. But as a side effect I got left behind and I have had to deal with it.

I am pretty sure that this was the cause of my low self-esteem.

I never trusted my own capabilities and didn’t have much confidence in my achievements. Because of my low self-esteem I left school early and worked instead, and I didn’t succeed in many other things. In my head I admired other guys for being sporty, and yet, when they didn’t manage to do something that came totally natural to me, I only wondered why, but never made the opposite conclusion to believe in myself more.

With a low self-esteem you are always the fool.

Either you make sure you are the fool yourself or someone else will. It was a long struggle for me to change that. Many hard-earned steps – my achievements at work and night school, my college degree and my successful career – all helped me to gain trust and security in my own capabilities and to increase my self-worth.

Bad experiences can help you if you allow them to, that’s why I think my life was good the way it was, but I would like to spare my own children this path. I want them to have a healthy self-esteem because that’s extremely important in life.

For a long time, I teared up every time I thought about all the chunks of the past I can remember because it was all too heavy.

But now I have come to terms with the past. I am much more stable and I have started to talk about it with my family members.

I feel that my siblings still have a weak communication today. They are lacking the words or the awareness that they should speak more about what they feel and think. I made up for my shortcomings only since I met my wife. For many years she was the only one who I told my story and thoughts to. In the beginning it was not much, something here and there, but with time our talks helped me to go deeper into the subject. She still gives me inputs that support me to think further.

Also my children helped me a lot to explore my own topics and to move beyond them. On the one hand I see myself in my children and understand what I would have needed, and on the other hand I try to give them what they need.

Stability and attention are at the top of my list.

I never want my children to feel that I am not properly listening to them, I am leaving one of them behind or I’m forgetting them in any area of life. That’s very important for me. My experiences should not be repeated with my own children, that’s why I want them to always have a home with us.

A broken home for my children is unthinkable for me.

As a kid I often sang aloud or shouted, I listened to blasting music, and I taught myself how to snap my fingers loudly. The louder the better. When I was noisy I got reactions, even if it was only a “Stop it!” and “Be quiet!” I wanted them to see that I was also there. Today, when one of my children acts like me back then, I immediately know what’s going on.

Whenever I asked my mother to play with me, she said no. My children also asked me to play and I often said no. When I realized that they had stopped asking, I started pushing myself to get up from the computer desk, and to spend time with my children, to listen to them, to help them if I am needed, or to play together. Now I regularly ask them if they want to play with me.


Also published on Medium.

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