Blindfolded and Broken

The Moment Childhood Joy Turned to Panic

This is not the diary of a victim. These are the accounts of a spiritual Viking overcoming childhood abuse and narcissism, ultimately rediscovering bliss and joy.

Part I: Fragments of a Childhood

Fragment 2: Blindfolded and Broken

I don’t think I had many friends over to my home during my early years. The only time I remember friends visiting me was for a birthday party of mine when I was very young. It must have been during my kindergarten years, as the memory centers around playing a children’s game. In Germany, it’s called Blinde Kuh. (Blind Cow)

The rules are simple: one child is blindfolded and placed in the middle of the room. A metal cooking pot, turned upside down, is hidden somewhere. Using a wooden spoon, the blindfolded player must tap around to find it. Once they do, the sweets beneath the pot are their prize, and it becomes the next child’s turn.

When my turn came, I quickly realized I hated being blindfolded. The darkness pressed in around me, thick and overwhelming, and I began to panic. I tapped the floor frantically, the wooden spoon clattering against the hard surface, unable to find the pot. The other kids started laughing. I can’t remember if their laughter was playful or mocking, but to me, it was unbearable. My mother, noticing my struggle, must have tried to help by pushing the pot closer. Instead of calming me, it made things worse. Fury bubbled up inside me—fury at my failure, fury at needing help, fury at being watched while I floundered, powerless and humiliated.

The panic and anger built until I couldn’t take it anymore. I tore off the blindfold, gasping for air. I tried to stand, desperate to escape the game, to flee from the laughter and the stifling darkness. But in my disorientation, I misjudged my surroundings. My head collided with the marble top of a chest of drawers that I hadn’t realized was so close. The sharp pain reverberated through my skull, and as if that weren’t enough, the entire piece of furniture seemed to retaliate. The large mirror perched on top—framed in heavy, dark wood—tilted forward and came crashing down. It splintered into countless shards, scattering over the beautiful old chest and the floor around it, each fragment reflecting my panic from a thousand different angles.

For a moment, everyone froze. The other children, my mother, even I—we all stared at the destruction in shock. My panic only deepened. Most of all, I felt completely alone, I wasn't supported but yelled at. I wanted to disappear, to dissolve into the floor and escape the stares, the silence, the mess I had made. I don’t remember how my birthday continued, but it doesn’t take much imagination to know that I must have been quite relieved once I was sound asleep. I had made it through another day and found rest in the arms of deep darkness.

Looking back now, I realize something curious: I still own that chest of drawers. It’s the only piece of furniture I’ve kept from my childhood home. Now, I live in India, and everything I own from my old life is locked away in a storage unit in Augsburg, Germany. That chest of drawers is still there, buried under dozens of moving boxes. Furniture like that isn’t made anymore—strong and sturdy, it could last for decades, maybe even centuries, still useful beneath all the clutter, waiting for my return.

It is the last item that connects me to my childhood home. With almost no contact with my family and as I consider changing my last name, it may very well be my final link to my family altogether. But it also reminds me of a late victory. Even as a young child, I always sensed that something was off—that something wasn’t right. Now, as I revisit my fragmented childhood memories and begin to see the bigger picture, it’s obvious that my childhood was far from normal and that my instincts were intact. Back then, that constant sense of insecurity, danger, and desperation was simply my reality. Just as a child growing up in a slum might not consider themselves poor, I didn’t think of myself as unhappy or in danger. Life just felt strange—off-kilter and unexplainable.