The way home

Searching for direction

Fly out and discover

The world around you

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This is my story. As I write this, in the year 2012, I now am a woman of fifty-two years old. Something more than half a century I am standing in this life. What I have become mainly comes from what I have lived through as a child and what has been done to me as a child by adults. When, as a child, you are raped and sexually abused it causes such a pain, such a rending pain. But greater still than the physical pain is the pain, when you realize, that your life doesn’t cease. That you don’t die of it. But that your life goes on. Not to die, but to keep on living, that aches most. That realization only comes full as you grow older. Because the pain, that inner pain, you carry that along a lifetime. Day in and day out. That pain in your soul will never disappear. It’s like a pain against which physicians have no remedy,  no medications, no pills. Sometimes you tuck it away, far away in a little dark room inside your soul. But then suddenly something very small and unreal happens through which you suddenly feel it again. Through which the pounding memories come up again. Spirits, ghosts from the distant past. Until you have become fifty-two years old.

To murder someone is bad. That I was surely taught. That I nevertheless did it was because of the last straw. The last straw that breaks the camel’s back. Like the last drop that made my bucket spill. That hatred in my heart, that burning desire for revenge at that one moment of pent up ache, which I carried along inside of me for so many years, exploded in the fuddle of  “feeling nothing anymore”;  and yet still also so much again! If you get away with murder depends of who you are. If you kill in the name of the law or in defense of your country, then it can be justified or rewarded with a medal. When you kill out of revenge it is premeditated murder. I didn’t want to get away with it. On the contrary, I waited for three weeks for my arrest.  I waited for it. I knew it was going to happen. I have been punished, for what I have done, with twelve years imprisonment. And my two daughters were punished along with me. I served my sentence. My debt to society, I have redeemed. Only society doesn’t realize that!

LaReina is the name south American women gave me in prison. They gave me that name, because they felt, that I was like a mother to them and because they saw me as their queen in a kingdom of misery. Ever since, I wear that name with pride. I also use that name as my artist name. I sign my paintings with the initials LRW: LaReinaWilleke.

This is my story. It is not a nice story. If you don’t want to read it, then close this book, put it down and walk away!

August, 2012.

For reasons of privacy the names of persons involved have been changed. Of some only the initials are mentioned.