Totally cherry-picked doc-level MT output vs. sent-level MT output translated from https://www.zeit.de/gesellschaft/zeitgeschehen/2018-11/chronische-schmerzen-borreliose-diagnose-ungeklaert with a long-sequence translation system vs. normal sentence-level translation system.

nele.doc-level.txt

Chronic Pain: Nele Has Pain
Ever since Nele was seven, her legs and joints have been aching.
Every single day.
To this day, doctors don't quite understand why.
Some believe it's simulated.
Someone hits Nele's knee with a hammer, with full force, over and over again.
"It's a dull pain," she says, not knowing if "dull" is a good word.
She's known this feeling for 26 years.
Every hour, every minute, it's there.
On bad days, it feels as if a backhoe is driving over Nele's legs.
Sometimes, as if someone is stabbing her knee with a knife.
And sometimes, as if someone is burning out her joints with a flamethrower.
These are the pictures Nele has taken to explain to doctors what's wrong with her.
It was the summer of 1992, and outside there was the smell of sunscreen and raspberry bushes.
Nele was seven, and as is often the case on these holidays, she and her friends set out to climb in the woods.
There was this one rock, with roots sticking out from between the rocks like bristly hairs that you could hang onto.
The boulder measured less than four feet, but to make it to the top, you had to be adept and have stamina.
Nele was one of the best.
When the petite girl perched on the top and watched the others climb, her blonde ponytail bobbed happily in the wind.
Almost every day, she came home with ticks, often 10 or 15 of them.
Her mother pulled them with tweezers, and she had practice with them, so much so that even the men in the neighborhood rang when they caught a parasite.
But after that day, she couldn't pull another tick.
She couldn't.
It started with a headache, then came a fever.
The family doctor sent the girl home.
"It's just a pediatric flu," he said, wrinkling his forehead.
But the headache got worse, and the fever got higher.
The family doctor's wrinkles deepened into furrows.
Nele didn't cry.
She wanted to be a brave girl, and that's what she'd learned in her extended family with her floppy cousins.
But when symptoms of paralysis came, her mother took her to a clinic.
There, they had no experience with symptoms like Nele's, so they sent her to specialists in the U.S. who diagnosed her with borreliosis.
The odds of contracting borreliosis are not so low.
According to the Robert Koch Institute (RKI), up to 30 percent of ticks in Germany carry the pathogens that cause the infectious disease, depending on the region.
As of early summer, they multiply mainly in the south and southwest, where they prefer to live in tall grasses at the edge of the woods.
Studies show that between 80,000 and 200,000 people are infected each year with the borreliosis bacteria, which can attack different organ systems, usually the skin, nerves or joints.
You get tired, muscles and joints ache, lymph nodes swell - it feels as if a violent flu is on the way.
But unlike the flu, there is no vaccine for borreliosis, and sometimes no cure.
The discomfort could manifest itself, in rare cases leading to paralysis and arthritic pain that spread to other parts of the body and persist for years to come.
Today, the condition is more often treated successfully, but in 1992 it was not.
Nele's parents created a folder for their child's medical records, but one did not stay.
In the hospital, the seven-year-old was treated with antibiotics.
The therapy seemed to work, but a few weeks later came the pain that would not go away: It throbbed, the legs became stiff.
Then the feeling crept up to the hip, fast, overpowering and frightening, like flames on a wall of a room.
The burning, hammering and stabbing, as Nele puts it, were so intense that she became nauseous.
When she squatted, she could not get up without help, because Nele could barely walk.
The Borrelia bacteria were still there; this time they had not attacked the nervous system, but the joints.
The bacteria were treated again with antibiotics, and the blood counts normalized.
On paper, Nele was healthy, but the pain remained.
Like mites in a mattress, it had lodged itself in her limbs.
The doctors were at a loss.
Nele's father drove her across Germany.
There were no Navis yet, so the daughter had to learn to read maps.
In the car's glove compartment was a thick, blue street atlas; it became a constant companion.
Later, Nele knew some areas by heart on the map.
When she was in the hospital, her grandmother sent her letters, naming the old-fashioned, leafy postcards from prewar times that depicted wandering goats or sled-driving children.
"Hopefully, when you receive this letter, your pain will be less," the grandmother wrote in the mid-1990s.
"I pray that you will come home soon and get well."
Nele loved the maps.
She has kept some to this day, even if the prayers did not help her then.
In the years that followed, Nele was treated with antibiotics, with cortisone, with opiates, with her own blood.
On some days, the doctors could no longer find veins to take her blood or to place an infusion, so maltreated were her arms.
Her parents tried every conceivable therapy that conventional medicine had to offer, when it was of no use, every conceivable alternative therapy.
One homeopath wanted to pull Nele's teeth.
She was to chew her food to separate good apples from bad apples.
She was given insoles for her shoes.
A self-proclaimed healer laid hands on her, and a healer did the same.
The next recommended a vegan diet for her: "Then it will be all over again," he said, acting as if he had to convince himself.
Even the famous Doctor Müller-Wohlfahrt, a team doctor at Bayern Munich, sent her home.
Finally, there was no finding.
Many doctor's visits, Nele says, she still remembers clearly; other experiences are blurry.
Then she began to make notes on scrapbooks, on homework books.
She collected some of the sheets in a leather folder.
On one, big words are written next to each other.
Pain.
Fear.
Emptiness.
Powerlessness.
Disappointment.
Helplessness.
And, further back, "I'm cold."
But on the sheets, she also captured other moments of her childhood.
Saturday nights, for example, when Nele's mother went to church with her grandmother, her father turned up the music so loud that you could still feel the bass on the street.
For an hour, he twirled his two daughters around the living room to the throbbing beats of Chuck Berry, Bill Haley, and Jerry Lee Lewis, until they were dizzy with happiness.
Or Monday afternoons.
Fast food was actually frowned upon in the family; sugar, too.
Juice was only available as a syrup, and there had to be seeds in the salad.
But after weekly doctor's visits in town, Nele's mother would take her to McDonald's, and she was allowed to eat right through the menu.
On bad days, though, it meant: Physical education class - drops out.
Hanging out with friends - drops out.
Later: Party - drops out. driving lesson - drops out.
In puberty, Nele made up an arsenal of excuses.
"I can't, I've got homework to do," she told friends who wanted to go to the lake after school.
A bike ride on May 1.
On May 1, she moderated "Walking is uncool," and in swimming class, she had her period for three weeks in a row.
Nele felt ashamed.
She didn't want to admit to herself that she was limited in her day-to-day activities.
Even less did she want to admit to herself the nakedness in front of her circle of friends, because with each year and each unsuccessful visit to the hospital, she felt less taken seriously.
With each year, she was less able to explain what was going on with her.
Once at school, Nele would make copies at the secretarial office, and because she couldn't climb the stairs, it took her longer than the five minutes at recess, and she'd rather miss a class book entry than admit that she was in pain.
Having nothing to show for it, even performance, was Nele's interpretation of attitude.
To make it work, she put on an invisible mask that couldn't get cracks.
She didn't let anyone touch her - not in the family, not in friendships, and later not in love relationships.
Others, she felt, considered her arrogant.
On one of her sheets, Nele must have been about 15 years old, she wrote: "I know that I could probably help myself by reaching out to others and talking about everything.
I've been there so many times before, but there's an invisible wall, and with each passing day, it grows a little bigger."
If she had a push, and the pain rolled over her like a steamroller, no one was allowed to touch her, let alone hold her in their arms.
Then it didn't hurt so much - in her head and in her legs, that's what Nele talked herself into.
Hiding the pain was exhausting.
At home, the strength wasn't even enough to cover the table, which her parents couldn't understand.
They reacted more and more with head-shaking and overwhelm; after all, even the doctors couldn't explain the pain.
Was her daughter exaggerating?
Was she being lazy?
Maybe she was just imagining everything?
Or did she just want attention?
Actually, Nele isn't alone.
There are people with chronic back pain, people with osteoporosis, people with tumor pain, migraines, cluster headaches, endometriosis or rheumatism, people with arthritis, people with phantom pain.
The German Pain Society (DGSS) estimates that more than eight million people in Germany suffer from recurrent or perpetual pain.
That would be one in ten Germans - 2.5 million more than those who voted for the AfD in the 2017 Bundestag election.
But here's the crucial problem: Pain patients may not be alone, but they are still isolated.
Pain sensation is subjective, and chronic pain is often invisible.
Very few pain patients wear crutches or bandages.
It's especially difficult when no physical cause is found.
According to the DGSS, it's not uncommon for the environment to react to such unexplainable pain with incomprehension.
Those affected would be quickly marginalized.
In order to emancipate themselves, pain patients would have to find each other in order to develop a unifying language, a vocabulary for the pain.
What's the name of that pain that suddenly intrudes on the body with the force of a jackhammer?
And what's the name of that other, grueling, quiet, slow pain that pulls the spirits of life out of you over the course of months and years?
Simple, understandable words for the pain - Nele lacked that, too, and so did the people around her.
In her youth, she retreated and found her own recipe: She threw herself into anything that dampened the blows of knives and hammers.
She started martial arts and worked the punching bags until her ankles bled and her shoulder joints became inflamed.
Nele gave herself injections, got into the ring, and carried on.
She ate pizza until she had to give herself over, then stuffed tons of ice into herself - and vomited again.
She drank alcohol, took drugs and pills.
Too much of anything.
Too much.
Nele wanted to be like everyone else: without the pain.
But because she wasn't like everyone else, the fear of rejection grew in her.
If she whined, she punished herself for it.
She exercised even harder, ate and vomited even more, drank even more alcohol, took even more pills.
She didn't want to let the pain dictate what her body could and couldn't handle.
She tried to function.
Her wordlessness hardened until the pain was taboo.
But on a piece of paper, she wrote, "I so wish I could tell everyone how I'm doing.
That every fucking ass understands me and feels with me.
That everyone takes me in their arms and tells me everything will be fine."
One date, Nele was 17 years old, she remembers well: witch's night.
She had a blast, and there was this party at the youth club she really wanted to go to.
Her friends were there, the trendy people in the area, her swarm, just everyone.
But Nele's legs wouldn't cooperate.
She couldn't even get her pants on.
Out of frustration, she laid down in the bathtub, drank whiskey, martinis, sparkling wine - everything she could find.
Then she rinsed her pills down until there were none left.
After a few hours, Nele thought she was feeling better, grabbed her clothes, and headed out.
She came across a street.
Guys found her in a ditch.
A little later, Nele wrote, "I want to live, I have so much going on, and I fucking want to get away with this shit again!
Oh, please help me!"
Then she started fighting.
This time, not against punching bags, not against herself, but for herself.
She got smart, got herself admitted to a pain clinic, and started psychotherapy.
Three more therapies followed.
The pain stayed.
Not just the physical, but also what was tormenting the soul.
But slowly, Nele learned to take seriously the signals she was sending to herself.
She learned to build trust and let people share in her emotional life.
She started talking to family and close friends and girlfriends, intensely, for hours.
She stopped blaming herself for her situation.
She adopted daily routines and activities that she could realistically handle.
She got out of bed, stopped feeling sluggish all the time, and stopped feeling depressed.
Nele got used to enduring the pain, and her family got used to not being able to take it away from her.
"That saved my life," she says.
Now, at 33, Nele knows what's good for her and what's not.
Physical exertion isn't good.
Stress, cold, and being overweight aren't good.
Lots of sleep and relaxation, on the other hand, are good.
Exercise is good, sneakers are good.
And talking is good; it keeps Nele from retreating.
It all sounds trite, but if she's having a bad day today, she knows, "There will be better days to come."
She still sometimes eats pizza until she's feeling bad, and drinks alcohol when the pain is unbearable.
But she doesn't take pills or drugs anymore.
Sometimes she walks around the park, but only on stretches where she doesn't know anyone in case her legs fail.
Because there's still no new evidence of her pain, Nele has visualized it in her own way: Her body is covered in tattoos, flames, knives, hammers.
She doesn't know if there are new approaches to fighting pain now.
Her father suggested a few years ago that she try neural therapy to affect pain memory.
But she refused.
She doesn't see doctors anymore.
She can't remember what it's like to be without pain.
She's spent almost her entire life fighting pain, repressing it, finally assigning it a place.
Now it's hers.
To live without pain would be a change, maybe a loss.
And to change again, to feel that powerlessness again, she doesn't want to do that.
She can't.
Nele has probably never spoken so openly about her pain.
But in a better world, she wouldn't have done it anonymously.
Because those affected would be understood and treated accordingly; because Nele would never have been ashamed of her pain in this world.
Unfortunately, the real world is the one where Nele didn't want to give her name.
No one should know that she's in pain.
But that's the end of it.
I don't want to live in this world.
I'm tired of being silent.
I'm tired of hiding.
I realized this as I was writing.
It's time to stand up.
Nele is just a pseudonym.
Nele, that's me.
Look at me.
I'm the girl with the ponytail.
I'm the teenager silently screaming for help.
Many have discouraged me from mentioning my name.
There will be consequences, they said.
Of course there will.
Googling my name from today onwards will always include "borreliosis," "alcohol," "tablets," maybe "unsustainable."
I have no idea how many jobs I won't get because of this.
I don't know how my co-workers will handle this, whether they'll reach out to me or pretend they don't know.
But I can't help it.
Even if there are successful therapies now, I can't waste energy fighting something that is me.
The pain is mine.
Who would I be without it?
I don't want to know.
The pain will stay.
So you, too, who I used to hide it from, must learn to deal with it.
Maybe that's too much for some. But just talking helps.
Talk to me.
Give me compassion, not pity.
Don't be nannying, trust me with strength, but be understanding when I show weakness.
Don't spare me, but give me time-outs.
Don't always ask me how I'm doing. Just once in a while.
And when you ask, don't expect a new answer.
And even all of this won't always work.
Sometimes you won't even know what to do.
I'm fine with that, I'm fine with that.
No one said it would be easy. But maybe we'll get there in small steps.
Maybe soon more of us, the eight million, will demand mindfulness for our pain.
Maybe in time you'll learn to deal with us in a simpler, more natural way.
It wouldn't be a perfect world. But it wouldn't take much, and it wouldn't always have to be "great" and "best."
It would be a world in which we, the people of pain, too, could be happy.
Even though it hurts.

nele.sent-level.txt

Chronic pain: Nele has pain
Since Nele was seven, her legs and joints have been aching.
Every single day.
To this day, doctors aren't quite sure why.
Some believe it simulates.
Someone hits Nele's knee with a hammer. With full force, over and over again.
"It's a dull pain," she says, not knowing whether "dull" is a good word.
She has known this feeling for 26 years.
Every hour, every minute, it's there.
On bad days, it feels like an excavator is driving over Nele's legs.
Sometimes it's like someone stabbed their knees with a knife.
And sometimes, as if someone were burning their joints with a flamethrower.
Nele has taken these pictures to explain to the doctors what is wrong with her.
It was the summer of 1992, outside it smelled of sunscreen and raspberry bushes.
Nele was seven years old and, as so often during these holidays, she went out with her friends to climb in the forest.
There was this one rock, between the stones protruded roots like bristly hairs, on which one could hang along.
The chunk didn't measure four metres, but to make it all the way to the top you had to be skilful and have stamina.
Nele was one of the best.
As the petite girl perched on top and watched the others climb, her blonde ponytail swayed happily in the wind.
Almost every day she came home with ticks. Often ten, 15 pieces.
Her mother pulled her with tweezers. She had practice in it, so much so that even the men from the neighborhood rang when they caught a parasite.
After that day, however, she could no longer draw another tick.
It didn't work any more.
It started with a headache, then came the fever.
The family doctor sent the girl home.
"It's just a childhood flu," he said, putting his forehead in wrinkles.
But the headaches got worse, the fever went up.
The family doctor's wrinkles deepened into furrows.
Nele didn't cry.
She wanted to be a brave girl, so she had learned it in her extended family with the fluffy cousins.
But when paralysis was added, her mother took her to a clinic.
There they had no experience with symptoms like Nele had, so their records were sent to specialists in the United States, who diagnosed: Lyme disease.
The chances of contracting Lyme disease are not so low.
According to the Robert Koch Institute (RKI), up to 30 percent of ticks in Germany carry the pathogens that cause the infectious disease, depending on the region.
From early summer they multiply mainly in the south and southwest, where they prefer to live in tall grasses at the edge of the forest.
According to studies, between 80,000 and 200,000 people are infected each year with the Lyme disease bacteria, which can attack various organ systems, usually the skin, nerves or joints.
You get tired, muscles and joints ache, the lymph nodes swell – it feels like a severe flu.
But unlike influenza, there is no vaccine against Lyme disease, and sometimes no cure.
The discomfort can manifest itself, in rare cases leading to paralysis and arthritic pain, which spread to other parts of the body and persist for years afterwards.
Today, the disease is more often successfully treated, but not in 1992.
Nele's parents created a folder for their child's medical records, but one didn't.
The seven-year-old was treated in hospital with antibiotics.
The therapy seemed to strike, but a few weeks later came the pain, which should not go away: it zipped, the legs became stiff.
Then this feeling crept up to the hip, fast, overpowering and frightening, like flames on a room wall.
The burning, hammering and stabbing, as Nele puts it, were so intense that she became nauseous.
When she went into the squat, she could not get up without help, after all Nele could only walk with difficulty.
The Borrelia were still there. This time they had not attacked the nervous system, but the joints.
The bacteria were again treated with antibiotics and blood levels normalized.
On paper, Nele was healthy, but the pain remained.
Like mites in a mattress, he had nestled in his limbs.
The doctors were baffled.
Nele's father drove with her across Germany.
Navis did not yet exist, so the daughter had to learn to read maps.
In the glove compartment of the car lay a thick blue road atlas. He became a constant companion.
Some areas Nele knew later on the map inside and out.
While she was in the hospital, her grandmother sent her letters. So her grandmother called the old-fashioned, leafy postcards from pre-war times, on which were depicted wandering goats or sledging children.
"Hopefully your pain will be less when you receive this letter," the grandmother wrote in the mid-nineties.
"I pray that you will come home soon and be healthy."
Nele loved the cards.
Some have lifted it to this day, even if the prayers did not help it at the time.
In the following years Nele was treated with antibiotics, with cortisone, with opiates, with own blood.
On some days, doctors couldn't find veins to take her blood or put an infusion, so her arms were maltreated.
Her parents tried every conceivable therapy that conventional medicine has to offer, when that brought nothing, every conceivable alternative therapy.
A homeopath wanted to pull Nele's teeth.
They should commute their food to separate good apples from bad apples.
She got insoles for her shoes.
A self-proclaimed healer laid her hands on her, and so did a healer.
The next one recommended her vegan diet: "Then it will be again," he said, acting as if he had to convince himself above all else.
Even the famous doctor Müller-Wohlfahrt, team doctor of FC Bayern Munich, sent her home.
Eventually, there was no more evidence.
Many visits to the doctor, Nele says, she still clearly has in mind, other experiences are blurred.
That's when she started taking notes on cheat sheets, in homework books.
She collected some of the leaves in a leather folder.
On one, big words stand side by side.
Pain.
Fear.
Empty.
Powerlessness.
Disappointment.
Helplessness.
And further back: "I'm cold."
On the sheets, however, she also recorded other moments of her childhood.
Saturday evenings, for example. When Nele's mother went to church with her grandmother, the father turned up the music so loud that you could still feel the bass on the street.
For an hour, he whirled his two daughters through the living room to the roaring beats of Chuck Berry, Bill Haley and Jerry Lee Lewis, until they were dizzy with happiness.
Or Monday afternoon.
Fast food was actually frowned upon in the family, sugar too.
Juice was only available as a scallion and in the salad had to be kernels.
But after weekly doctor visits in the city, Nele's mother took her to McDonald's - and she was allowed to eat her way through the menu.
On bad days, however, it was said: PE lessons - fail.
Hanging out with friends - fails.
Later: Party - fails. Driving lesson - fails.
During puberty, Nele made up an arsenal of excuses.
"I can't, I still have to do homework," she told friends who wanted to go to the lake after school.
A Bollerwagentour on the 1st
In May, she moderated "Wandering is uncool," and in swimming lessons she had her period for three weeks in a row.
Nele was ashamed.
She didn't want to admit to being restricted in everyday life.
Even less wanted to give herself the nakedness in front of her circle of friends, because with each year and every unsuccessful hospital visit she felt less taken seriously.
With each passing year, she was less able to explain what was going on with her.
Once at school, Nele was supposed to make copies in the secretariat. Because she could not climb the stairs, she took longer than the five minutes in the small break. She would rather miss a class book entry than admit that she was in pain.
Not to be noticed, even to perform, was Nele's interpretation of attitude.
To make it work, she put on an invisible mask that wasn't allowed to crack.
She left no one to herself. Not in the family, not in friendships and later not in love relationships.
Others, she felt, found her arrogant.
On one of her sheets, Nele must have been about 15 years old, she noted: "I know that I could probably help myself by reaching out to others and talking about everything.
I've been close so many times, but there's an invisible wall and every day it gets a bit bigger.'
When she had a thrust and the pain rolled over her like a steamroller, no one was allowed to touch her, let alone take her in her arms.
Then it didn't hurt so much – in the head and in the legs, Nele talked himself into it.
Hiding the pain was exhausting.
At home, the strength wasn't even enough for the tablecloth, which the parents couldn't understand.
They reacted increasingly with shaking of the head and overload, after all, even the doctors could not justify the pain.
Exaggerated her daughter?
Was she lazy?
Maybe she was just imagining it all?
Or did she just want attention?
Actually, Nele is not alone.
There are people with chronic back problems, people with osteoporosis, people with tumor pain, migraines, cluster headaches, endometriosis or rheumatism, people with arthritis, people with phantom pain.
The German Pain Society (DGSS) estimates that more than eight million people in Germany suffer from recurrent or perpetual pain.
That would be one in ten Germans, 2.5 million more than those who voted for the AfD in the 2017 federal election.
Were it not for the crucial problem: Pain patients may not be alone, but they are still isolated.
Feeling pain is subjective, chronic pain is often not visible.
Very few pain patients wear crutch or bandages.
It is particularly difficult if no physical cause is found.
According to the DGSS, it is not uncommon for the environment to react to such inexplicable pain with incomprehension.
Those affected would be quickly excluded.
In order for them to emancipate themselves, pain patients would have to find each other in order to develop a unifying language, a vocabulary for suffering.
What is the name of the pain that suddenly penetrates the body with the force of a sledgehammer?
And what is the name of this other, grueling one, who quietly and slowly, over months and years, pulls the spirits of life out of one?
Simple, understandable words for the torment – even Nele lacked that, and the people around her.
In her youth, she retreated and found her own recipe: she threw herself into everything that dampened the slashes and hammer blows.
She began martial arts and worked the punching bags until her ankles bled and her shoulder joints ignited.
Nele let himself be given syringes, got into the ring and carried on.
She ate pizza until she had to hand herself in, then stuffed tons of ice into herself - and vomited again.
She drank alcohol, took drugs and tablets.
Too much of everything.
Far too much.
Nele wanted to be like everyone else: without that pain.
But because she was not like everyone else, the fear of rejection grew in her.
If she complained, she punished herself for it.
She trained even harder, ate and vomited even more frequently, drank even more alcohol, took even more tablets.
She didn't want to let the pain dictate what her body creates and what doesn't.
She trimmed herself to work.
Their wordlessness hardened until the pain was taboo.
But on a piece of paper, she wrote: "I wish I could tell everyone how I feel.
That every fucking ass understands me and feels with me.
That everyone takes me in their arms and tells me that everything is going to be good."
One date, Nele was 17 years old, she remembers exactly: Witch's Night.
She was storm-free and there was this party at the youth club that she really wanted to go to.
Her friends were there, the trendy people in the area, her swarm, just everyone.
But Nele's legs didn't play along.
She didn't even manage to put on a pair of trousers.
Out of frustration, she lay down in the bathtub, drank whisky, martini, sparkling wine – everything she could find.
Then she washed down her tablets until there were none left.
After a few hours, Nele thought she was feeling better, grabbed her clothes and set off.
She came a long way.
Guys found her in a roadside ditch.
A little later Nele wrote: "I want to live, I have so much to do and I want to get away with the shit!
Oh, please help me!"
Then she started fighting.
This time not against punching bags, not against himself, but for himself.
She got smart, went to a pain clinic and started psychotherapy.
Three other therapies followed.
The pain remained.
Not only the physical, but also what tormented the soul.
But slowly Nele learned to take seriously the signals she sent herself.
She learned to build trust and let people share in her emotional life.
She began talking to family and close friends, intensely, for hours.
She no longer blamed herself for her situation.
She adapted to daily routines and activities that she could realistically manage.
She got out of bed again, no longer felt constantly sluggish, suffered less often from depressive upsets.
Nele became accustomed to enduring the pain, and her family became accustomed to not being able to take the pain away from her.
"It saved my life," she says.
Now, at 33, Nele knows what you're good at and what you don't.
Physical strain is not good.
Stress, cold and obesity are not good.
A lot of sleep and relaxation, on the other hand, are good.
Exercise is good, sneakers are good.
And talking is good. It prevents Nele from withdrawing again.
It all sounds trivial, but if she has a bad day today, she knows: "Better days are coming."
She still sometimes eats pizza until she gets bad, and drinks alcohol when the pain is unbearable.
On the other hand, she no longer takes tablets or drugs.
Sometimes she walks around the park – but only on tracks where she doesn't know anyone if her legs fail.
Because there is still no new evidence for her pain, Nele has visualized it in her own way: her body is adorned with numerous tattoos, flames, knives, hammers.
She does not know whether there are now new approaches to combat the pain.
Her father suggested a few years ago to try neural therapy to affect pain memory.
But she refused.
She no longer visits doctors.
She can't remember what it's like without pain.
She has spent almost her entire life fighting the pain, displacing it, finally giving it a place.
Now he belongs to her.
A life without pain would be a change, perhaps a loss.
And to change again, to feel this powerlessness again, she does not want that.
Nor can it.
Nele has probably never spoken so openly about her pain.
But in a better world, she wouldn't have done it anonymously.
Because those affected would be understood and treated accordingly. Because Nele would never have been ashamed of her pain in this world.
Unfortunately, the real world is the one in which Nele did not want to give her name.
No one should know that she is in pain.
But that is now over.
I don't want to live in this world.
I am tired of being silent.
I'm tired of disguising myself and hiding.
This became clear to me during the writing process.
It's time to get up.
Nele is just a pseudonym.
Nele, that's me.
Look at me.
I'm the girl with the ponytail.
I am the teenager who silently cried out for help.
Many have discouraged me from mentioning my name.
There will be consequences, they said.
Of course it will.
If you googling my name from today, there will always be "borreliosis" there. There will be "alcohol", "tablets", maybe also "not resilient".
I have no idea how many jobs I won't get because of this.
I do not know how my colleagues will deal with it. Whether they approach me or pretend they know nothing.
But it's no different.
Even if there are successful therapies by now, I can no longer waste energy fighting something that I am.
The pain belongs to me.
Who would I be without him?
I don't want to know any more.
The pain will remain.
So you too, from whom I hid him until now, must learn to deal with him.
This may overwhelm some people, but talking about it only helps.
Talk to me.
Give me compassion, no pity.
Don't be over-caring, trust me with strength, but understand when I show weakness.
Don't spare me, but give me time off.
Don't always ask me how I'm doing. Only now and then.
And if you ask, don't expect a new answer.
And even that won't always work.
Sometimes you won't know what to do.
I'm fine with it, I'm fine with it.
Nobody has said that it will be easy, but perhaps we will move forward in small steps.
Perhaps soon more of us, the eight million, will demand mindfulness for their pain.
Perhaps over time you will learn to deal with us more easily and naturally.
It would not be a perfect world. But it would not take much, and it would be a world in which everything would not always have to go "super" and "best".
It would be a world in which we, too, can become people of pain.
Although it hurts.

nele.src.txt

Chronische Schmerzen: Nele hat Schmerzen
Seit Nele sieben ist, schmerzen ihre Beine und Gelenke.
An jedem einzelnen Tag.
Bis heute ist den Ärzten nicht recht klar, warum.
Manche glauben, dass sie simuliert.
Jemand schlägt mit einem Hammer auf Neles Knie. Mit voller Wucht, immer und immer wieder.
"Es ist ein dumpfer Schmerz", sagt sie und weiß gleichzeitig nicht, ob "dumpf" ein gutes Wort ist.
Sie kennt dieses Gefühl seit 26 Jahren.
Jede Stunde, jede Minute ist es da.
An schlechten Tagen fühlt es sich an, als würde ein Bagger über Neles Beine fahren.
Manchmal, als würde jemand mit einem Messer auf ihre Knie einstechen.
Und manchmal, als würde jemand ihre Gelenke mit einem Flammenwerfer ausbrennen.
Diese Bilder hat sich Nele zurechtgelegt, um den Ärztinnen und Ärzten zu erklären, was mit ihr nicht stimmt.
Es war im Sommer 1992, draußen roch es nach Sonnencreme und Himbeersträuchern.
Nele war sieben Jahre alt und wie so oft in diesen Ferien zog sie mit ihren Freundinnen los, um im Wald zu klettern.
Da gab es diesen einen Felsen, zwischen den Steinen ragten Wurzeln wie borstige Haare hervor, an denen man sich entlanghangeln konnte.
Der Brocken maß keine vier Meter, aber um es bis ganz nach oben zu schaffen, musste man geschickt sein und Ausdauer haben.
Nele war eine der Besten.
Wenn das zierliche Mädchen auf der Spitze thronte und den anderen beim Aufstieg zusah, wippte ihr blonder Pferdeschwanz fröhlich im Wind.
Fast täglich kam sie mit Zecken nach Hause. Häufig zehn, 15 Stück.
Ihre Mutter zog sie mit einer Pinzette. Sie hatte Übung darin, so viel, dass selbst die Männer aus der Nachbarschaft klingelten, wenn sie sich einen Parasiten eingefangen hatten.
Nach diesem Tag jedoch konnte sie keine weitere Zecke mehr ziehen.
Es ging nicht mehr.
Es begann mit Kopfschmerzen, dann kam das Fieber.
Der Hausarzt schickte das Mädchen nach Hause.
"Das ist nur eine Kindergrippe", sagte er, während er die Stirn in Falten legte.
Doch die Kopfschmerzen wurden schlimmer, das Fieber stieg höher.
Die Falten des Hausarztes vertieften sich zu Furchen.
Nele weinte nicht.
Sie wollte ein tapferes Mädchen sein, so hatte sie es in ihrer Großfamilie mit den flegelhaften Cousins gelernt.
Aber als Lähmungserscheinungen hinzukamen, brachte ihre Mutter sie in eine Klinik.
Dort hatte man keine Erfahrungen mit Symptomen, wie Nele sie hatte, weshalb ihre Unterlagen zu Spezialisten in die USA geschickt wurden. Die diagnostizierten: Borreliose.
Die Wahrscheinlichkeit, an Borreliose zu erkranken, ist gar nicht so gering.
Laut Robert Koch-Institut (RKI) tragen je nach Region bis zu 30 Prozent der Zecken in Deutschland die Erreger in sich, die die Infektionskrankheit auslösen.
Ab Frühsommer vermehren sie sich vor allem im Süden und Südwesten, wo sie bevorzugt in hohen Gräsern am Waldrand leben.
Studien zufolge infizieren sich jedes Jahr zwischen 80.000 und 200.000 Menschen mit den Borreliosebakterien, die verschiedene Organsysteme angreifen können, meist die Haut, Nerven oder Gelenke.
Man wird müde, Muskeln und Gelenke schmerzen, die Lymphknoten schwellen an – es fühlt sich an, als würde sich eine heftige Grippe anbahnen.
Doch im Unterschied zur Grippe gibt es gegen Borreliose keine Impfung. Und manchmal auch keine Heilung.
Die Beschwerden können sich manifestieren, in seltenen Fällen Lähmungserscheinungen und arthritische Schmerzen nach sich ziehen, die auf andere Körperregionen übergreifen und noch Jahre später anhalten.
Heutzutage wird die Erkrankung häufiger erfolgreich behandelt, 1992 nicht.
Neles Eltern legten einen Ordner für die Krankenakten ihres Kindes an, bei einem blieb es nicht.
Im Krankenhaus wurde die Siebenjährige mit Antibiotika behandelt.
Die Therapie schien anzuschlagen, doch wenige Wochen später kamen die Schmerzen, die nicht mehr weggehen sollten: Es ziepte, die Beine wurden steif.
Dann kroch dieses Gefühl bis in die Hüfte hinauf, schnell, übermächtig und beängstigend, wie Flammen an einer Zimmerwand.
Das Brennen, Hämmern und Stechen, wie Nele es formuliert, waren so intensiv, dass ihr übel wurde.
Wenn sie in die Hocke ging, kam sie ohne Hilfe nicht mehr hoch, schließlich konnte Nele nur noch mit Mühe laufen.
Die Borrelien waren noch da. Diesmal hatten sie nicht das Nervensystem angegriffen, sondern die Gelenke.
Die Bakterien wurden erneut mit Antibiotika bekämpft, die Blutwerte normalisierten sich.
Auf dem Papier war Nele gesund, doch der Schmerz blieb.
Wie Milben in einer Matratze hatte er sich in den Gliedmaßen eingenistet.
Die Ärzte waren ratlos.
Neles Vater fuhr mit ihr quer durch Deutschland.
Navis gab es noch nicht, also musste die Tochter Karten lesen lernen.
Im Handschuhfach des Autos lag ein dicker, blauer Straßenatlas. Er wurde zum ständigen Begleiter.
Manche Gegenden kannte Nele später auf der Karte in- und auswendig.
War sie im Krankenhaus, schickte ihr die Großmutter Briefe. So nannte ihre Oma die altbackenen, blättrigen Postkarten aus Vorkriegszeiten, auf denen wandernde Ziegen oder schlittenfahrende Kinder abgebildet waren.
"Hoffentlich sind deine Schmerzen weniger geworden, wenn du diesen Brief erhältst", schrieb die Großmutter Mitte der Neunziger.
"Ich bete, dass du bald heimkommst und gesund wirst."
Nele liebte die Karten.
Einige hat sie bis heute aufgehoben, auch wenn die Gebete ihr damals nicht halfen.
In den folgenden Jahren wurde Nele mit Antibiotika behandelt, mit Cortison, mit Opiaten, mit Eigenblut.
An manchen Tagen fanden die Ärzte keine Venen mehr, um ihr Blut abzunehmen oder eine Infusion zu legen, so malträtiert waren ihre Arme.
Ihre Eltern bemühten sich um jede erdenkliche Therapie, die die Schulmedizin zu bieten hat, als das nichts brachte, um jede erdenkliche alternative Therapie.
Eine Homöopathin wollte Nele die Zähne ziehen.
Ihr Essen sollte sie auspendeln, um gute von schlechten Äpfeln zu trennen.
Sie bekam Einlagen für ihre Schuhe.
Eine selbsternannte Heilerin legte ihr die Hände auf, ein Heiler auch.
Der nächste empfahl ihr vegane Ernährung: "Dann wird das schon wieder", sagte er und wirkte dabei, als müsse er vor allem sich selbst überzeugen.
Selbst der berühmte Doktor Müller-Wohlfahrt, Mannschaftsarzt des FC Bayern München, schickte sie nach Hause.
Schließlich gab es keinen Befund mehr.
Viele Arztbesuche, sagt Nele, hat sie noch klar vor Augen, andere Erlebnisse sind verschwommen.
Damals fing sie an, sich auf Spickzetteln, in Hausaufgabenbüchern Notizen zu machen.
Einige der Blätter hat sie in einer ledernen Mappe gesammelt.
Auf einem stehen nebeneinander große Worte.
Schmerz.
Angst.
Leere.
Kraftlosigkeit.
Enttäuschung.
Hilflosigkeit.
Und weiter hinten: "Mir ist kalt."
Auf den Blättern hielt sie aber auch andere Momente ihrer Kindheit fest.
Samstagabends zum Beispiel. Wenn Neles Mutter mit der Großmutter in die Kirche ging, drehte der Vater die Musik so laut auf, dass man den Bass noch auf der Straße spüren konnte.
Eine Stunde lang wirbelte er seine beiden Töchter zu den dröhnenden Beats von Chuck Berry, Bill Haley und Jerry Lee Lewis durchs Wohnzimmer, bis ihnen schwindlig war vor Glück.
Oder montagnachmittags.
Fast Food war in der Familie eigentlich verpönt, Zucker auch.
Saft gab es nur als Schorle und im Salat mussten Kerne sein.
Doch nach den wöchentlichen Arztbesuchen in der Stadt fuhr Neles Mutter mit ihr zu McDonald’s – und sie durfte sich quer durch das Menü essen.
An schlechten Tagen aber hieß es: Sportunterricht – fällt aus.
Mit Freunden abhängen – fällt aus.
Später dann: Party – fällt aus. Fahrstunde – fällt aus.
In der Pubertät legte Nele sich ein Arsenal an Ausreden zurecht.
"Ich kann nicht, ich muss noch Hausaufgaben machen", sagte sie Freundinnen, die nach der Schule an den See wollten.
Eine Bollerwagentour am 1.
Mai moderierte sie mit "Wandern ist uncool" ab, und im Schwimmunterricht hatte sie drei Wochen hintereinander ihre Periode.
Nele schämte sich.
Sie wollte sich nicht eingestehen, im Alltag eingeschränkt zu sein.
Noch weniger wollte sie sich die Blöße vor ihrem Freundeskreis geben. Denn mit jedem Jahr und jedem erfolglosen Klinikbesuch fühlte sie sich weniger ernst genommen.
Mit jedem Jahr konnte sie schlechter erklären, was mit ihr los war.
Einmal in der Schule sollte Nele Kopien im Sekretariat machen. Weil sie die Treppen nicht steigen konnte, brauchte sie länger als die fünf Minuten in der kleinen Pause. Sie ließ sich lieber einen Klassenbucheintrag verpassen, als zuzugeben, dass sie Schmerzen hatte.
Sich nichts anmerken zu lassen, sogar Leistung zu bringen, war Neles Interpretation von Haltung wahren.
Damit das funktionierte, setzte sie sich eine unsichtbare Maske auf, die keine Risse bekommen durfte.
Sie ließ niemanden mehr an sich heran. Nicht in der Familie, nicht in Freundschaften und später nicht in Liebesbeziehungen.
Andere, das spürte sie, empfanden sie als arrogant.
Auf einem ihrer Blätter, Nele muss etwa 15 Jahre alt gewesen sein, hat sie notiert: "Ich weiß, dass ich mir wahrscheinlich selbst helfen könnte, indem ich auf andere zugehen und über alles reden würde.
Ich war schon so oft kurz davor, aber da ist eine unsichtbare Mauer und mit jedem Tag wird sie ein Stück größer."
Wenn sie einen Schub hatte und die Schmerzen sie wie eine Dampfwalze überrollten, durfte niemand sie berühren, geschweige denn in den Arm nehmen.
Dann tat es nicht so weh – im Kopf und in den Beinen, das redete Nele sich ein.
Den Schmerz zu verstecken war anstrengend.
Zu Hause reichte die Kraft nicht mal mehr fürs Tischdecken, was die Eltern nicht nachvollziehen konnten.
Sie reagierten zunehmend mit Kopfschütteln und Überforderung, schließlich konnten selbst die Ärzte die Schmerzen nicht begründen.
Übertrieb ihre Tochter?
War sie faul?
Vielleicht bildete sie sich alles nur ein?
Oder wollte sie bloß Aufmerksamkeit?
Eigentlich ist Nele nicht allein.
Es gibt Menschen mit chronischen Rückenleiden, Menschen mit Osteoporose, Menschen mit Tumorschmerzen, Migräne, Clusterkopfschmerz, Endometriose oder Rheuma, Menschen mit Arthritis, Menschen mit Phantomschmerzen.
Die Deutsche Schmerzgesellschaft (DGSS) schätzt, dass mehr als acht Millionen Menschen in Deutschland an wiederkehrenden oder immerwährenden Schmerzen leiden.
Das wäre jeder zehnte Deutsche. 2,5 Millionen mehr als die, die bei der Bundestagswahl 2017 die AfD gewählt haben.
Wäre da nicht das entscheidende Problem: Schmerzpatienten mögen nicht allein sein, isoliert sind sie trotzdem.
Schmerzempfinden ist subjektiv, chronischer Schmerz häufig nicht sichtbar.
Die wenigsten Schmerzpatienten tragen Krücke oder Verband.
Besonders schwierig ist es, wenn keine körperliche Ursache gefunden wird.
Der DGSS zufolge kommt es nicht selten vor, dass das Umfeld auf solche unerklärbaren Schmerzen mit Unverständnis reagiere.
Betroffene würden rasch ausgegrenzt.
Damit sie sich emanzipieren könnten, müssten die Schmerzpatienten sich gegenseitig finden, um eine verbindende Sprache, ein Vokabular für das Leid zu entwickeln.
Wie nennt man jenen Schmerz, der ganz plötzlich auf den Körper mit der Gewalt eines Presslufthammers eindrischt?
Und wie heißt dieser andere, zermürbende, der leise und langsam, über Monate und Jahre hinweg, die Lebensgeister aus einem zieht?
Einfache, verständliche Worte für die Qualen – auch Nele fehlte das, und den Menschen um sie herum.
In ihrer Jugend zog sie sich zurück und fand ihr eigenes Rezept: Sie stürzte sich in alles, was die Messerhiebe und Hammerschläge dämpfte.
Sie begann mit Kampfsport und bearbeitete die Boxsäcke, bis ihre Knöchel bluteten und sich ihre Schultergelenke entzündeten.
Nele ließ sich Spritzen geben, stieg in den Ring und machte weiter.
Sie aß Pizza, bis sie sich übergeben musste, um anschließend tonnenweise Eis in sich hineinzustopfen – und sich wieder zu erbrechen.
Sie trank Alkohol, nahm Drogen und Tabletten.
Von allem zu viel.
Viel zu viel.
Nele wollte so sein wie alle anderen: ohne diese Schmerzen.
Weil sie aber nicht wie alle anderen war, wuchs in ihr die Angst vor Ablehnung.
Jammerte sie, bestrafte sie sich dafür.
Sie trainierte noch härter, aß und erbrach sich noch häufiger, trank noch mehr Alkohol, nahm noch mehr Tabletten.
Sie wollte sich nicht von den Schmerzen diktieren lassen, was ihr Körper schafft und was nicht.
Sie trimmte sich darauf, zu funktionieren.
Ihre Wortlosigkeit verhärtete sich, bis der Schmerz tabu war.
Aber auf ein Blatt Papier schrieb sie: "Ich wünsche mir so, dass ich jedem erzählen könnte, wie es mir geht.
Dass mich jeder verdammte Arsch versteht und mit mir fühlt.
Dass mich jeder in den Arm nimmt und mir sagt, dass alles gut wird."
An ein Datum, Nele war 17 Jahre alt, erinnert sie sich genau: Hexennacht.
Sie hatte sturmfrei und es gab diese Party im Jugendclub, auf die sie unbedingt gehen wollte.
Ihre Freundinnen waren da, die angesagten Leute in der Gegend, ihr Schwarm, einfach alle.
Doch Neles Beine spielten nicht mit.
Sie schaffte es nicht einmal, sich eine Hose anzuziehen.
Aus Frust legte sie sich in die Badewanne, trank Whisky, Martini, Sekt – alles, was sie finden konnte.
Dann spülte sie ihre Tabletten hinunter, bis keine mehr übrig waren.
Nach ein paar Stunden glaubte Nele, sich besser zu fühlen, schnappte sich ihre Klamotten und machte sich auf den Weg.
Sie kam eine Straße weit.
Jungs fanden sie in einem Straßengraben.
Wenig später schrieb Nele: "Ich will leben, ich habe doch so viel vor und ich will verdammt noch mal irgendwie mit der Scheiße klarkommen!
Oh, bitte hilf mir doch jemand!"
Dann begann sie zu kämpfen.
Diesmal nicht gegen Boxsäcke, nicht gegen sich, sondern für sich.
Sie machte sich schlau, ließ sich in eine Schmerzklinik einweisen und begann eine Psychotherapie.
Es folgten drei weitere Therapien.
Der Schmerz blieb.
Nicht nur der körperliche, auch das, was die Seele quälte.
Doch langsam lernte Nele, die Signale ernstzunehmen, die sie sich selbst sandte.
Sie lernte, Vertrauen aufzubauen und Menschen an ihrem Gefühlsleben teilhaben zu lassen.
Sie begann mit der Familie und engsten Freunden und Freundinnen zu sprechen, intensiv, stundenlang.
Sie gab sich nicht mehr die Schuld an ihrer Situation.
Sie eignete sich tägliche Routinen und Tätigkeiten an, die sie ganz realistisch bewältigen konnte.
Sie kam wieder aus dem Bett, fühlte sich nicht mehr ununterbrochen schlapp, litt seltener an depressiven Verstimmungen.
Nele gewöhnte sich daran, den Schmerz zu ertragen. Und ihre Familie gewöhnte sich daran, ihr den Schmerz nicht abnehmen zu können.
"Das hat mir das Leben gerettet", sagt sie.
Heute, mit 33 Jahren, weiß Nele, was ihr guttut und was nicht.
Körperliche Strapazen sind nicht gut.
Stress, Kälte und Übergewicht sind nicht gut.
Viel Schlaf und Entspannung hingegen sind gut.
Bewegung ist gut, Sneakers sind gut.
Und Reden ist gut. Es verhindert, dass Nele sich wieder zurückzieht.
Das klingt alles banal, aber wenn sie heute einen schlimmen Tag hat, weiß sie: "Es kommen wieder bessere Tage."
Noch immer isst sie manchmal Pizza, bis ihr schlecht wird, und trinkt Alkohol, wenn der Schmerz unerträglich ist.
Tabletten oder Drogen hingegen nimmt sie nicht mehr.
Bisweilen läuft sie eine Runde durch den Park – aber nur auf Strecken, auf denen sie niemanden kennt, falls ihre Beine versagen.
Weil es noch immer keinen neuen Befund für ihre Schmerzen gibt, hat Nele sie auf ihre Weise visualisiert: Ihren Körper zieren zahlreiche Tätowierungen, Flammen, Messer, Hammer.
Ob es mittlerweile neue Ansätze gibt, um die Schmerzen zu bekämpfen, weiß sie nicht.
Ihr Vater schlug vor einigen Jahren vor, es mit einer neuronalen Therapie zu versuchen, um das Schmerzgedächtnis zu beeinflussen.
Doch sie lehnte ab.
Sie besucht keine Ärzte mehr.
Sie kann sich nicht mehr daran erinnern, wie es ohne Schmerzen ist.
Sie hat fast ihr ganzes Leben damit verbracht, den Schmerz zu bekämpfen, ihn zu verdrängen, ihm schließlich einen Platz zuzuweisen.
Nun gehört er zu ihr.
Ein Leben ohne Schmerzen, das wäre eine Umstellung, vielleicht ein Verlust.
Und sich noch einmal umstellen, noch einmal diese Ohnmacht verspüren, das will sie nicht.
Das kann sie auch nicht.
Nele hat wohl noch nie so offen über ihre Schmerzen gesprochen.
In einer besseren Welt aber hätte sie es nicht anonym getan.
Weil Betroffene verstanden und entsprechend behandelt würden. Weil Nele sich in dieser Welt für ihre Schmerzen nie geschämt hätte.
Die reale Welt ist leider jene, in der Nele ihren Namen nicht nennen wollte.
Niemand sollte wissen, dass sie Schmerzen hat.
Doch damit ist jetzt Schluss.
In dieser Welt möchte ich nicht leben.
Ich habe es satt, zu schweigen.
Ich bin es leid, mich zu verstellen und zu verstecken.
Das ist mir während des Schreibens klar geworden.
Es ist Zeit, aufzustehen.
Nele ist nur ein Pseudonym.
Nele, das bin ich.
Schaut mich an.
Ich bin das Mädchen mit dem Pferdeschwanz.
Ich bin der Teenager, der schweigend um Hilfe schrie.
Viele haben mir davon abgeraten, meinen Namen zu nennen.
Das wird Konsequenzen haben, sagten sie.
Natürlich wird es das.
Wenn man ab heute meinen Namen googelt, wird dort immer auch "Borreliose" stehen. Da wird "Alkohol" stehen, "Tabletten", vielleicht auch "nicht belastbar".
Keine Ahnung, wie viele Jobs ich deswegen nicht bekommen werde.
Ich weiß nicht, wie meine Kollegen damit umgehen werden. Ob sie auf mich zugehen oder ob sie so tun, als wüssten sie von nichts.
Aber es geht nicht anders.
Selbst wenn es inzwischen erfolgreiche Therapien geben sollte: Ich kann keine Energie mehr darauf verschwenden, etwas zu bekämpfen, das doch ich selbst bin.
Der Schmerz gehört zu mir.
Wer ich ohne ihn wäre?
Ich will das gar nicht mehr wissen.
Der Schmerz wird bleiben.
Also müsst auch ihr, vor denen ich ihn bisher verbarg, mit ihm umgehen lernen.
Mag sein, dass das manchen überfordert. Doch dagegen hilft nur reden.
Redet mit mir.
Gebt mir Mitgefühl, kein Mitleid.
Seid nicht überfürsorglich, traut mir Stärke zu, aber habt Verständnis, wenn ich Schwäche zeige.
Schont mich nicht, aber gönnt mir Auszeiten.
Fragt mich nicht immer, wie es mir geht. Nur ab und an.
Und wenn ihr fragt, erwartet keine neue Antwort.
Und selbst all das wird nicht immer funktionieren.
Manchmal werdet ihr gar nicht mehr wissen, was ihr tun sollt.
Ich bin fein damit, geht mir genauso.
Niemand hat gesagt, dass es einfach wird. Aber vielleicht kommen wir in kleinen Schritten weiter.
Vielleicht fordern bald mehr von uns, den acht Millionen, Achtsamkeit für ihre Schmerzen.
Vielleicht lernt ihr mit der Zeit, einfacher und selbstverständlicher mit uns umzugehen.
Es wäre keine perfekte Welt. Aber es bräuchte nicht viel, und es wäre eine Welt, in der nicht immer alles "super" und "bestens" gehen müsste.
Es wäre eine Welt, in der auch wir Schmerzmenschen glücklich werden können.
Obwohl es wehtut.