The Operating System
THE ORIGIN FILES
THE ORIGIN FILES functions as its own column to give insight into the process, idea generation, and background of the magazine. It is essentially my own behind-the-scenes log, providing additional perspective alongside our curated print format.
These first entries originate from the text at story.bylucabockmann.de, which I wrote just before starting the first issue and out of which the theme of "Strength" was born.
P.S. The visuals come straight from my camera roll, and for this first entry, I pulled up one of the rarest photos that actually exists of me from my time living in Berlin—pretty close to the end of it. I think you can immediately tell how tired I look... the dark circles under my eyes probably say more than I could ever describe here.
All my life, I thought I had to fight: for love, for acceptance, for recognition. Always with the firm belief in my mind that my own worth depended solely on what other people saw in me and what they thought of me.
At sixteen, I fled the small village where I’d grown up and moved to Berlin. I carried with me all the heavy beliefs of a turbulent youth: that I wasn’t good enough, that I was worthless, that I had to submit, and that it was always best to simply remain silent. I thought others knew long before I did what was right for me, and that you first have to painstakingly earn your place in the world.
These thought patterns became deeply ingrained—they became my actual operating system. I avoided any conflict, constantly adapted, and tried with all my might not to upset anyone. But anyone who tries to please everyone ends up not only losing themselves but also eventually disappointing everyone. I stopped reaching out to others, shut myself off, and sought refuge in work. I spent my nights in front of the screen and slept during the day, just so I wouldn’t have to run into anyone. The less I liked myself, the more I buried myself in my work.
Looking back, it’s almost absurd: the lower my self-esteem sank, the more desperately I tried to justify my existence through sheer performance. My entire sense of self-worth suddenly hinged on my work performance. A phrase like
“No criticism is praise enough”
became a law for me: You have to do more. You have to get better. You have to work harder. I left Berlin and moved to Paderborn for my first real job. Finally, everything seemed to fall into place: new coworkers, evenings spent together, the feeling of finally belonging and being wanted. But just four months later, I was sitting in the bosses’ office and heard them say, “If this keeps up, you won’t be working here much longer.”
That sentence hit me with full force. In my mind, it had long since ceased to be just about a job. To me, it meant: You’re not good enough. You’re letting everyone down. Your past was right.
Old survival mechanisms kicked in immediately. To keep my job, I worked overtime—50 hours, 60 hours, through the weekends. Every extra hour of work was a desperate attempt to earn my right to exist. On the side, I moved into an expensive apartment and dreamed of status symbols like my boss’s penthouse, in the naive hope that money and prestige could fill the inner void. Whenever I cautiously hinted at how loud and chaotic things were going on in my head, the only response was: “Distract yourself—work always helps.” And because I didn't know any better, I believed it.