The Eyes That Tried to Break Me

There are things I’ve lived through that I keep forgetting.
Not because they didn’t matter, but because I never had the space or safety to process them.

One of those memories has just returned.

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The Man Who Tried to Break Me

In the psychiatric hospital, there was a man who wanted to blow up the trams.

I didn’t fully register what that meant at the time—just another unstable person in a place full of instability. But looking back now, he was radicalised, likely seeing the world through an ideology that had already cast people like me as enemies.

He looked at me like I was scum.
You could feel it in his eyes—not just aggression, but contempt. Like I wasn’t even human.

He tried to fight me.
Not once.
Many times.

He had no weapons.
But he had intent.
And yet, somehow—I wasn’t afraid. Not in the way you might expect.

I didn’t cower. I didn’t bark back.
I just looked him in the eye and said:

“You have beautiful eyes.”

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A Strange, Broken Connection

I think that moment confused him.
I wasn’t playing the role he expected.
He was trying to intimidate me, and I met him with presence instead.

And that’s where it got even stranger.
Some part of him… liked me, I think. Or at least couldn’t hate me as cleanly as before.

There was a strange dynamic between us. A kind of fractured connection, almost human. I think I represented something he didn’t know how to deal with—someone outside his narrative who wasn’t fighting back, but wasn’t afraid either.

It wasn’t safe.
It wasn’t resolved.
But it was… something.
Something that’s been buried deep in me for years.

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I Was Never Given Space

No one really protected me.

He was dragged away multiple times. But there was no real safeguarding.
No aftercare.
No processing.

Just silence.

I survived it, and I buried it.

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I’m Writing This Because I Forget

I’ve never had anyone consistent, safe, and strong enough to hold this memory with me.
So I pushed it away.

But now I have a therapist.
And I have this space.

And I’m remembering:

• I was in danger.
• I wasn’t imagining it.
• And I didn’t deserve to carry it alone.

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There’s More to Come

I haven’t even touched on Spain, where I was strapped to a stretcher.

There’s a whole layer of memory I’ve locked away just to keep functioning.
But I’m ready to start remembering—not all at once, but on my terms.

This post isn’t for anyone else.
It’s just for me.

To remind myself that I lived it.
That it mattered.
And that I’m still here.

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