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  • I was born prematurely and went straight from my mother´s belly into an incubator. She could neither touch nor breastfeed me for 8 long weeks. I did not get to go home with her and lie with her in her bed, instead I imagine I felt utterly lost and alone in the universe, I was not home, I was in no hotel or maybe in the hospital kind of hotel: incubators also are inhabited by varying guests.

    My father traveled a lot and as long as I did not need to attend school my parents took me with them. After the hard years of the wry they were eager to dance and laugh and so they would put me to bed in a hotel room and then go downstairs to a dance. Once I awoke during such a night, I had fallen out of bed and was lying on the cold wooden floor. Those beds in those times were very high and I did not manage to climb back in. I tried to cover myself with a rag carpet when I heard thunder. I was a small girl, alone in the dark and the thunderstorm came. I freaked out, I was sure I would die.

    I did not die, nothing much happened, I fell asleep on that hotel room floor and when my parents returned they put me back onto my bed. But this night is stored as a traumatic experience of existencial loneliness in my brain cells.

    Maybe the incubator and that unfortunate summer night in a small village in the Black Forest are the culprits for me hating hotel rooms. I am fine in a hotel room as long as I am not alone. Once I am alone I can be in the finest hotel, I will have trouble sleeping, I will wake up with nightmares, I can fall into a real clinical depression.

    While during crisis, like when the doc diagnosed me with Tunnel Vision, I take refuge in my own bed in my own bedroom in my own house. I hide under the blankets and feel safe.

    But the most luxurious bed in the fanciest hotel does not make me feel safe, once I am alone in there. I do not feel the secrets, thoughts, fights and dreams of the people, who have slept here before, who clean the room and make the bed. I just feel alone. Lost in anonymity and impermanence. What I know to be true for life in general becomes so much more true: I am just a guest passing through. The room does not care. The room is the same for anybody: a saint, a narco or me. The room does not belong to me and I do not belong to it. Tomorrow it will throw me out and won´t remember me at all, as if I had never existed.

    Alone in a hotel bed I enter my own private horror movie, my self - fabricated torture chamber. I am reduced to a mere number, the number of my room, the number of guest that I have become for tonight. Nobody cares how I feel or if maybe I even die here in this bed. This bed does not care the tiniest bit if people in it make love or die.

    There are beds and beds. My own is my haven, any hotel bed can turn into my private hell...

    Art by Kiki (" I Just Don´t Feel Safe In This Bed!")
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