Excerpt from my book "Exactly in the right place" (planned publication 2024)

In November 2021, I hit a wall with the whole topic. I attended a Feelings Practitioner Lab near Bielefeld. It's about the connection between feelings and the physical body. Feelings can be like a key to healing the physical body, I learned there.
The topic of the lab was the digestive system.
On the last day we were asked to do an interview with one of our digestive organs and I chose the stomach. Another participant in the lab sat opposite me and took on the role of the interviewer. I gave the answers and spoke for my stomach.

Interviewer: "Martina Riccarda's stomach, how are you?"
Stomach: "I'm under stress."
Interviewer: "You're stressed. What's the reason?"
Stomach: "My colon is shitting me. It's all happening far too quickly, all the food is just rushing through. I'm going crazy."
Interviewer: "Why don't you have enough time?"
Stomach: "It's rush hour down there in the gut every morning. I don't know what's going on, but it's not normal. Ask the colon, she won't talk to me anymore. I'll soon be fed up."
Interviewer: "Martina Riccarda's colon, can I talk to you?"
Colon: "..."
Interviewer: "Hello colon, what's going on with you?"
Colon: "..."
Interviewer: "Martina Riccarda's colon, what are you feeling right now?"

Colon begins to sob. Cries.
Interviewer: "You're sad. Why are you so sad?"
Colon: "I drown in coffee every morning. Most of my valuable bacteria have already been flushed away. I can no longer move. I no longer see any point in my movements either. They are for nothing and are not needed. I am labeled a failure, not fast enough, not often enough, not much enough, not soft enough. Martina Riccarda simply doesn't trust me. I'm just an inanimate container for shit."
Interviewer: "What do you need?"

Colon: "I was once a living intestine in a living body. Sadness flows in me, I flow with sadness, I am sadness and wisdom come to life.

Sadness is slow. I need time to do my work, to break everything down well, to send the nutrients into the body, to add the right amount of water to everything.
I am in contact with the whole body. With the stomach, the glands, the mouth, the teeth, the eyes, the nose. I am in contact with all of them without interruption. We talk to each other, inform, warn and rejoice.

All that is long gone. I hardly remember any of it. I'm alone down here.
I need more time for Martina Riccarda's digestion. There is fast digestion, there is slow digestion. There is no good or bad. I'm on the verge of getting sick.
I need contact, I want to be heard, I need much more time. No more enemas. Trust, trust, trust or death."

I had known this all these years.

The knowledge had been inside me and I had closed my eyes, ears and heart to it. Fear ran through my body. That it might be too late, that I might not be able to let go of these habits.

I knew that it wasn't just about a cherished habit. There were deep, multi-layered issues attached to the daily coffee enemas. It was about control, my weight, external image, addiction, repression and my No to life. And somewhere at the end of this long list, the topic of my sexual abuse also came up.
Far back, only dimly recognizable, like a small figure in the fog on a dark day, was what had happened to my two-year-old body on a Sunday when the sun was shining.
And back there at that end, I finally recognized the attempt to get myself clean, to finally cleanse myself deep inside, even deeper than inside: in the innermost part of the inside.