Maria, 1963
I hear everything that they whisper about me. No one wanted me from the beginning, no one wants me. Why should I fight and get well? Medicines are not enough to cure so much damage. Small colourful poisonous beads – I have gathered a whole pile of them, in all shapes and colours. The white ones are for sleep, the orange to not cry too much, the yellow to not laugh too much, the brown to calm me down, the pink to give me some energy and not be in bed all the time, the green to not move my hands around like crazy. Every colour corresponds to a treatment. Will either one of them manage to repair my cracked life? Pills are not gypsum and cement to close your cracks. I feel empty, nonexistent and so alone. I have no courage or willingness to help myself. The only thing that drugs a
