When you are not something, nothing is enough proof that you aren’t… you can only prove something that is… not the absence of it.

I left off the article yesterday that in preparation to Saturday’s Activate Divinity, I found and integrated a fragment of my self.

Here is the incident how come I lost that fragment:

When I was three and a half years old, I was raped. I was washed up and taken home. My mother heard the story, looked at me, said “you are a whore” and turned away in disgust.

I didn’t know what whore meant, and surely I didn’t know that it had anything to do with sex. I didn’t know about sex. Sex didn’t happen to me.

What I did know is this: in the basement apartment lived a family that moved there, to the mountain where we lived, because their daughter had tuberculosis. The clean air of the mountain is said to cure that.

She was a beautiful girl, about 17 at the time. She dressed beautifully. She wore expensive clothes, quite in contrast with their apartment and anyone I knew.

My mother called her a whore too.

The association, nice clothing, with the passing years extended to personal hygiene, to keeping my clothes clean, keeping my room clean, to money… It never even gone close to sex… weird, isn’t it?

I was trying to prove to my mother that I wasn’t a whore. Until yesterday I was still trying.

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