The Hidden Barbies
In a small village in the heart of Germany, I hid my Barbies from my father as a child. Not out of defiance, but from a fear I couldn’t yet name. Our house was filled with tension and violence – my father was abusive toward my mother, and both of my parents were so consumed by their own problems that there was no space for a child who was already different.Inside me lived a boy who wanted the life he felt – equal parts feminine and masculine. But in a world full of rigid structures, where homosexuality was taboo, and in a home where survival meant staying invisible, I felt trapped in a straitjacket. Being different wasn’t just shameful – it was dangerous.I knew early on that I was gay. And with that clarity came shame – a feeling that shapes me to this day. Shame for being myself, amplified by an environment where showing any vulnerability could make you a target. I escaped into fantasy worlds that became my refuges, small worlds where I could finally breathe, where violence didn’t exist, where I could be safe and whole.
The Path to Freedom That Wasn’t
When my parents separated and me and my mother moved to the city, new doors opened. I graduated high school, went to Leipzig to study, had several relationships. But I continued hiding from my family – out of shame for myself and fear of being recognized as gay. Until I couldn’t anymore.My family eventually accepted it, got used to it. Today it’s completely okay. But the shame remained. It transformed, became more specific, more cruel: shame about being sick, having sexually transmitted diseases that “gay men just get.” About dying of AIDS. I was afraid to get tested. So I tried to drown the fear in alcohol.It worked for one evening. The next morning, it was back. So I drank more.
Berlin
I went to Berlin because I knew it was the only place where I could find people who could help me. People who had experienced the same things I had. People who could mirror me. But Berlin also led to my escape into alcohol only intensifying. We all know Berlin.In this city of supposed freedom, my imprisonment paradoxically intensified. I was surrounded by people like me, but more trapped than ever in a cycle of shame, fear, and numbing. Everywhere I looked, I saw gay men who seemed to have everything I longed for – muscular bodies they wore with pride, an openness about their sexuality that I could only dream of. They moved through the city with an unapologetic presence that made my own hiding feel even more suffocating.I envied them with a intensity that sometimes took my breath away. Not just their bodies, but their freedom from the shame that still lived in every cell of my being. While I was drowning myself in alcohol to escape who I was, they seemed to celebrate it. The contrast was devastating – and it drove me deeper into the bottle.I drew my self-confidence mainly from validation through the men I had sex with. I was actually satisfied with my body, but this self-confidence was fragile, dependent on external recognition, on desire. I used my body to get validation and numb pain, without really listening to it or appreciating it. All the while watching others who seemed to have mastered what I was desperately seeking: self-acceptance.What I didn’t understand then was that even the most perfect body, the most sculpted muscles, the most confident exterior couldn’t protect someone from shame and addiction. The very men I envied were fighting their own battles, carrying their own wounds. A beautiful body can be just another mask, another way to hide from yourself. The real work – the work of truly accepting yourself – happens on the inside, not in the gym.
The Point of No Return
Then came the moment when everything became crystal clear: I stopped drinking and smoking because I knew it had become life-threatening. I saw how my body was changing. And I witnessed a friend getting sick. Three mirrors that showed me where my path was leading.When the alcohol was gone, I could suddenly feel again what I had done to my body. I realized that I had been far too selfish with myself – not lovingly selfish, but destructively selfish. I had kept going without looking, without listening, without feeling.
The Silence After the Storm
Berlin without alcohol is a different city. The same streets, the same places – but suddenly I heard the rustling of trees in the early morning hours, the conversations of people on the subway that I had previously drowned out. My skin became thinner, my emotions lay exposed like raw nerves.Without the constant fog of nicotine and alcohol, I suddenly felt real tiredness again, real hunger, real joy. It was as if I was slowly awakening from years of numbness. Sometimes it was overwhelmingly beautiful, sometimes painfully intense.
Before Chris’ Camera – A Farewell
When Chris photographed me a year ago, I was ready for something I couldn’t quite understand at the time. The photo shoot was more than just creating images – it was a farewell to my old body. A farewell to the Lars who had abused his body to numb pain and find validation.Standing before Chris’ camera, naked and without any mask, reflected what was happening inside me: shedding old habits, showing myself in complete honesty, the willingness to be vulnerable – but this time from strength, not from desperation.During the shoot, something magical happened: I felt truly present in my body for the first time in a long time. Not hidden behind substances or seeking validation, but simply there. Present. Alive. Reconciled.
The Realization
Since this encounter with Chris and with myself through his camera, I have learned that the body is the home of the soul – and therefore worth protecting. This realization changed everything. My body was no longer just an instrument for gaining pleasure or suppressing pain, but my home, my temple, my responsibility.The Lars in the photos will soon belong to the past. The old, self-destructive me will be history. The images document not just a moment, but a transition – from destruction to healing, from escape to acceptance, from shame to self-love.
To You
If you’re reading these lines and recognize yourself in my story – whether in the shame, the escape, the search for validation, or the courage to start anew – know this: You are not alone. Each of us carries wounds from childhood, societal conditioning, fears of being different.Perhaps you recognize your own hidden Barbies in my story – the parts of yourself you thought you had to hide. Perhaps you know this longing for a place like Berlin, where you could finally be yourself, only to discover that freedom there also holds new traps. If you’re currently trapped in a cycle – whether alcohol, other substances, or destructive behavior patterns – allow yourself to recognize: Your body is the home of your soul. It deserves protection, love, and respect. From yourself. The journey to oneself begins with the courage to look. With the willingness to be vulnerable. With the decision to show yourself – as you are, not as you think you should be. Sometimes we must first completely expose ourselves – before a camera, before a mirror, before ourselves – to discover who we really are. And sometimes that’s the moment when the real journey can finally begin.