Are you afraid that you will burst into tears right in front of random passers-by? Don't want to torture yourself with hopes anymore? Are you tired of everything and want to quickly put an end to the documentary film called "Life"?
Are you familiar with this? Is it possible to escape from hopeless longing when you no longer want to fight it? The RD correspondent managed to undergo a 10-day course of treatment for depression from a military medical psychologist of the FSB and learn the secrets of recovery.
They put me at the computer and let me fill in psychological tests. From several answers, in some cases you need to choose what you feel right now, in others - as usual. The questions are different: about mood swings, suicidal thoughts, about sympathy for people, about the desire to stand out from the crowd ... The next day I find out the results: "severe depressive moods" and "emotional exhaustion."
My thoughts before turning to a psychologist: why not try? Fears: too many "healers of souls" divorced - and without them I know enough.
“It's a shame to think that I suffer so much, and the reason, perhaps, is the usual lack of some substance in the body,” I complain. The doctor asks about parents, grandparents - whether someone in the family was prone to blues. And he notices: “Genes and physiology (anemia) make themselves felt. The next week, our classes will be reduced to special trainings. Also, I have to make changes in my lifestyle. Be sure to walk outside for half an hour every day. And only in the company, only in a sports rhythm. Do not read or watch anything that would lead to sad reflections.
I am told to forget about rubbing in the morning with a cold towel, which I tried to bring myself to my senses, but only fell into even more despondency. “Your type of health needs a hot shower to stay awake - and only at the end you can switch to cool water!”
In the psychologist's office, we switched from conversations to exercises. On my head - on my forehead, behind my ear, on the back of my head - they attached several sensors with wires that caught the rhythms of the brain, I put a special ring with a wire on my finger. All of this was connected to a computer. And then it started at literally brainwork. I had to ... struggle to imagine something good, pleasant - I imagined mountains and the sea, cloudless childhood memories surfaced in my memory ... The more I thought about the good, the higher the alpha rhythms became (responsible for tone) . In total, three types of rhythms were measured for me - alpha, beta and gamma. I realized that the worst ones are those that talk about muscle tension, fatigue; others talk about the activity of the mental process, others - about positive emotions. The doctor measured the readings of impulses before the exercise, during and at the end. After a week of training, my ability to relax and “think positive” improved, and stiffness and fatigue decreased. Thus, you can train without a computer - 20 minutes every day: sit comfortably, close your eyes, think about the good.
In addition, I was sent for trainings in the relaxation room, that is, relaxation. Here the patients sat in comfortable leather armchairs with armrests and footstools, leaned back, the lights in the room went out, and on the ceiling, on a huge blue ceiling, small silver bulbs lit up, creating the illusion of a starry sky. In the corner, water gurgled softly in an artificial fountain. We were given a video cassette with a relaxing course. It took about an hour to do the job. main point: learn to relax physically, emotionally, mentally. This can also be done at home: sit comfortably in a chair, put your hands comfortably with your palms up, as if towards the sun, close your eyes and open your mouth so that all the muscles on your face relax. And then begin to sequentially "travel" through your body, starting with the feet and ending with the head. Tighten the muscles of the feet and take a breath, hold the air, then begin to relax the muscles and at the same time exhale easily, then also move to the lower leg, knees, abdomen, hands, shoulders, neck. At the same time, always under load, that is, tensing your muscles, take a breath, and relax as you exhale. Having made a circle of physical tensions and relaxations, walk through the body again, only now mentally focus on one or another part of the body and imagine that you are tensing it, relaxing it and inhaling and exhaling air through it. Also try to imagine that this or that hand becomes warm. These exercises will help you better control your condition, in stressful situation relax and, conversely, concentrate when needed. This is the so-called psychotraining for self-regulation. Biofeedback.
The main thing in treatment is complexity: more communication, excursions, new experiences, vitamin nutrition. Buy nature sound CDs, browse travel magazines. Be sure to make plans for the day.
Hot tubs, sharko showers are useful, but, for example, they did not suit me. Very good massage session. Walks - 5 km a day, physiotherapy exercises.
Read useful literature. For example, from those printouts of various psychologists that my doctor gave me, I gathered the following for myself:
“Failure is not defeat, if you don't want to think so. Let's take an example from plant life. Their growth depends on the processes of ebbs and flows that occur cyclically as a result of the attraction of the Moon and the Earth. On the growing Moon (in the phase of the tide of the Earth's vital juices to the surface, i.e., the most favorable conditions for plants), their visible part, located above the surface ("tops"), grows on the waning Moon (the conditions are most unfavorable, the earth's juices are removed from the surface ) plants are forced to develop a root system, otherwise they will not survive. And, interestingly, the quality and quantity of flowers, fruits, leaves, i.e. tops, depends on the degree of development of the root system. The same regularity is also true for a person: during the period of success, success, his “tops” grow, that is, achievements visible to others, while during the period of failures - that is, unfavorable, it would seem, conditions for a person - his roots grow, that is, invisible to others inner work by accumulation vital energy, strength, self-confidence, stress resistance and balance, in the knowledge of one's own resources.
Recently, Sofia Gorlenko's film "Atlantis of the Russian North" was released on a large scale. The film is creepy, and, at the same time, strikingly beautiful. The audience in the cinema hall, adults (and it’s too early for children to watch such things), applauded when the credits rolled across the screen. Some wiped away tears. Where does this effect come from? Our era is stingy with empathy ...
It's all about the emphasized, concentrated bet made by the director on the frankness of the film narrative. The film turned out to be not just a documentary, but ... some kind of super-documentary, as if its creators set out to create the most reliable source on the history of our time for future researchers.
Every nation that creates high culture, has some secret predilection for some one virtue artwork. It becomes decisive for most readers. Other virtues can please, delight, attract attention, but in their meaning it is this one, and no other, that in the vast majority of cases dominates. Moreover, no one will ever write in a textbook and, moreover, will not write in a manifest artistic association such is the unspoken priority. Everyone knows everything, but extremely rarely voice their understanding. What for? Whoever needs it, without that, with mother's milk, has absorbed the understanding of the essence of the matter ...
In Russian culture, something is highly valued, about which one can say: “This is the truth!” It is the truth, and nothing else, that is valued above all else. Above the liveliness of the mind, above the philosophical properties of the intellect, above the technical sophistication, above the wealth of ideas, but above anything. There is truth, and much is forgiven. That is why in Russian culture - literature, painting, cinema, theater - realism is so highly valued. That is why the attention to detail and the desire for "authenticity" always pays off with the grateful attention of the audience.
And in the film by Sofya Gorlenko there is nothing "playful", nothing beyond the realism of everyday life. Not even a voiceover. There is no interviewer asking questions of contemporary witnesses. It's just that the inhabitants of the Russian North talk about themselves. Scary - so let it be scary, sad - so let it be sad, witty, clumsy, absurd, deep - everything is presented in the form of the truth of the fact. And the truth of the fact is presented in such a way that there is no gap between it and some lofty, transcendental truths.
Here they gathered village old women so that they sang old folk songs. The old women dressed up, and the accordion player says to them: “Sorry, I can’t play for you. My friend died today, I can’t, you yourself somehow. Crashed and left. Two or three of the most groovy grandmothers tried to start a concert without music, and the rest disperse. Were embarrassed. Well, then these also dispersed: although they came from big city filmmakers in their wilderness, but uncomfortable, very uncomfortable to sing next to someone else's grief. How to sing here? Oh, they dressed up in vain.
What do northerners say - old and young? And they talk about their sorrows with calm dignity. People live in poverty, many have left for the cities, households are ruined everywhere, full of dead villages. Beautiful wooden temples decay from year to year. And the camera shows: yes, that's strong an old house, very large: eighty years ago there was a prosperous peasant family, she had a lot of cattle, a river nearby, in the forest - a game animal, mushrooms and berries. Now the forest has been cut down, the beast has been knocked out, the cattle are gone for a long time, and museum workers are wandering around the empty house in search of antiques. But more often, of course, not museum workers, but simple marauders: a very profitable business is to pull out old utensils from abandoned houses, and then take them to antique shops. Tourists pay well...
And all this against the backdrop of wooded hills, flowering meadows, beautiful lakes, whose tin sheets seem to be virgin from the beginning ... What a beauty!
And what poverty...
Camera: here's a living village... lights, smokes, cows, life... but a dead one... toothless window gaps... gaps in the walls... a collapsed porch... still dead... more, more, more and more...
Words about our village are already heard as about something past: "Those who live now in the village touch the hidden Russian Atlantis, the city of Kitezh." Where is the voice coming from? Yes, from there, from under dark waters North.
But there are islands of recovery here and there. Or maybe not even restoration, but a completely new life, which does not allow itself to forget about the old life, drowned in time. A thick-set Russian peasant, pulls out on himself even what seems impossible to pull out. He wants help from the state, it doesn’t hurt, the state helps him, the state is somewhere far away, the state is melting in a foggy haze, but if at least it doesn’t interfere, then he alone, on himself, pulls out an unbearable cart.
Young people came to the village educated people from the city. Resist horn and do not leave. They feel like "their own". They feel that here it is easier for them to build around themselves the universe that they need: it doesn’t work out in the bustle of the metropolis, people grind to pieces, but they have no joy. Here is another matter. A young musician says to the camera: "How to teach people to feel like a master in their land." He talks about the petty psychological pressure of the mass media. Every screen demands: "Be a successful person!" And what can be successful man in the countryside, among the forests, with a poor life on cow dung? But life here is good, glorious, and, therefore, we must calmly say to ourselves: “By local standards, I am an unsuccessful person ... Yes, that's fine.” And live on, and manage in your house.
Some churches perish irrevocably - from rot, from fires, from desolation. And some live. There is no place for a place, everywhere it depends on the will of local residents.
In some places, churches are being restored, and the economy is being conducted in spite of the general ruin. Locals do not give up, they are not satisfied with life in a landscape of economic ruins.
Camera: a semi-dismantled church, a former village club where dances used to take place under Leonid Ilyich... People complain: “There is no money, no workers, how to put it in order”... they are swarming around the church, slowly doing some little work... here the garbage was removed ... something was hung up here ... And now there is a temple in in perfect order, with a new head office ... A miracle?
One of the carpenters reflects: “Temples are like checkpoints on our land. While they stand, the land is ours, and we ourselves exist. If they don't exist, we won't. We will be free, nothing will keep us on the ground. As they say, vacate the territory!” The grandson of a priest, an archpriest, who was killed during the years of repression against the clergy, says to his mother, who remembered the hardships in the life of a simple rural priest: "We must continue the path of grandfather."
Through the darkness, from under the boulders, from below, it seems, from the very bottom, voices are heard, alien to despondency: “There is hope: the night is especially dark just before dawn.” And - about the same damned "Atlantis", but in a completely different tone: "It's too early to say, the Russian village has died, that this is a sunken Atlantis."
God bless! There are people who will not go anywhere, but will remain, each in his place, the backbone of his land. This means that the Russian case is not lost. So, "we'll still wander!"
One burly northerner at the very end of the film says: “I am sixty years old, and my son is one year old. I'm risking. But you don’t have to think like that: I will live or I won’t live ... If you feel the potential in yourself, don’t whine, act!”.
One might get the impression that the author of these lines admires the film as a wonderful ethnographic canvas of modern Russian life in the countryside. No, nothing like that. I'm not outside, I'm inside. I do not live in the village, but in the city, but I am with those about whom the Atlantis of the Russian North tells. After all, these are my people, my fellow tribesmen and co-religionists. Their pain is my pain, their hope is my hope, their prayers are my prayers. I want them to live better.
And therefore I will finish by saying that my people love it so much, I will say to Sofya Gorlenko and my comrades: "That's true." And for the truth - low bow to you.
Dmitry Volodikhin
Nabokov Vladimir
Letter to Russia
Vladimir Nabokov
Letter to Russia
My distant and lovely friend, it follows that you have not forgotten anything during these more than eight years of separation, if you even remember the gray-haired, in azure liveries, the watchmen who did not interfere with us at all when, on a frosty Petersburg morning, we met in a dusty, small, similar to a snuffbox, the Suvorov Museum, How nicely we kissed behind the back of the wax grenadier! And then, when we emerged from these ancient twilights, how silver fires burned us Tauride garden and the brisk, greedy barking of a soldier, rushing forward on command, sliding on the sleet, thrusting his bayonet into the stuffed straw belly in the middle of the street.
Strange: I myself decided, in my previous letter to you, not to remember, not to talk about the past, especially about the trifles of the past; after all, we writers should be characterized by the sublime modesty of the word, but meanwhile I immediately, from the very first lines, disregard the right of beautiful imperfection, deafening with epithets the memory that you touched so easily. Not about the past, my friend, I want to tell you.
Now it is night. At night, you especially feel the stillness of objects - lamps, furniture, portraits on the table. From time to time behind the wall in the plumbing sobs, water overflows, as if approaching the throat of the house. At night I go out for a walk. In the damp, black-greased Berlin asphalt, the reflections of lanterns flow; in the folds of black asphalt - puddles; in some places a grenade light burns over a fire signal box, at home - like fogs, at a tram stop there is a glass pole filled with yellow light - and for some reason it makes me feel so good and sad when it flies by at a late hour, screeching at turning, the tram car is empty: clearly visible through the windows are lighted brown shops, between which passes against the movement, staggering, a lone, as if slightly drunk, conductor with a black purse on his side.
Wandering down a quiet, dark street, I like to listen to a person coming home. The person himself is not visible in the dark, and one can never know in advance which particular front door will come to life, accept the key with a creak, swing open, freeze on the block, slam shut; the key on the inside will grind again, and in the depths, behind the glass of the door, a soft light will shine for one amazing minute.
He rolls the car on pillars of wet shine—black itself, with a yellow stripe under the windows—damply trumpets in the ear of the night, and its shadow passes under my feet. Now the street is completely empty. Only the old dog, clattering his claws on the panel, reluctantly takes a lethargic, pretty girl for a walk, without a hat, under an umbrella. When she passes under the red light that hangs on the left, above the fire signal, one tight black part of the umbrella turns wet crimson.
And behind the gate, above the damp panel - so unexpectedly! - the wall of cinema is shaking with diamonds. There you will see, on a rectangular canvas as light as the moon, more or less skillfully trained people; and now from the canvas approaches, grows, looks into the dark hall a huge female face with lips, black, in brilliant cracks, with gray twinkling eyes, - and a wonderful glycerin tear, elongated glowing, flows down her cheek. And sometimes there will appear - and this, of course, is divine - life itself, which does not know that it is being filmed - a random crowd, shining waters, silently, but visibly noisy tree.
Farther on, at the corner of the square, a tall, stout prostitute in black furs slowly walks back and forth, sometimes stopping in front of a roughly illuminated shop window, where a toasty wax lady shows the night onlookers her emerald flowing dress, the shiny silk of peach stockings. I love to see how a middle-aged, mustachioed gentleman, who had come on business from Papenburg in the morning, approaches this elderly, calm harlot, having previously overtaken her and turned around twice. She will slowly lead him to furnished rooms, to one of the nearby houses, which in the daytime can not be found among the rest, just as ordinary. Behind front door an indifferent, polite porter guards all night in the unlit entrance hall. And upstairs, on the fifth floor, the same indifferent old woman would wisely unlock the spare room and calmly accept payment.
And do you know with what a magnificent roar the train passes over the bridge, over the street, lit, laughing from all its windows? He probably does not go further than the suburbs, but the darkness under the black vault of the bridge is full at this moment of such powerful cast-iron music that I involuntarily imagine warm countries where I will go as soon as I get those extra hundred marks that I dream of - so complacently, so carefree.
I am so carefree that sometimes I even like to watch how people dance in the local taverns. Many here with indignation (and there is pleasure in such indignation) shout about fashionable outrages, in particular about modern dances - and after all, fashion is the creativity of human mediocrity, a certain level, the vulgarity of equality - and shout about it, scold it means to recognize that mediocrity can create something (be it an image state government or the new kind hairstyles), which should make some noise. And, of course, these dances of ours, supposedly fashionable, are in fact not at all new: they were fond of them in the days of the Directory, since the women's dresses of that time were also wearable, and the orchestras were also Negro. Fashion breathes through the centuries: the crinoline dome in the middle of the last century is a complete sigh of fashion, then exhale again - tapering skirts, tight dances. After all, our dances are very natural and rather innocent, and sometimes - in London ballrooms - are quite elegant in their monotony. Do you remember how Pushkin wrote about the waltz: "monotonous and crazy", After all, it's all the same. As for the decline in morals ... Do you know what I found in the notes of M. d'Agricourt? "I have not seen anything more depraved than the minuet that we deign to dance."
And so, in the local taverns, I like to watch how "a couple flickers after a couple," how amusingly made-up eyes play with simple human fun, how black and light legs cross, touching Each other, - and behind the door - my faithful, my lonely night, wet reflections, car horns, high winds.
On such a night in an Orthodox cemetery, far outside the city, a seventy-year-old woman committed suicide on the grave of her recently deceased husband. In the morning I happened to be there, and the watchman, a heavy cripple on crutches that creaked with every swing of his body, showed me a low white cross on which the old woman had hanged herself, and yellow threads stuck where the rope had rubbed (“brand new,” he said softly ). But the most mysterious and charming of all were the crescent-shaped footprints left by her small, like a child's, heels in the damp earth at the foot. “I trampled a little, but it’s clean,” the watchman remarked calmly, “and, looking at the threads, at the holes, I suddenly realized that there is a childish smile in death.
Letter to Russia
Vladimir Nabokov
Nabokov Vladimir
Letter to Russia
Vladimir Nabokov
Letter to Russia
My distant and lovely friend, it follows that you have not forgotten anything during these more than eight years of separation, if you even remember the gray-haired, in azure liveries, the watchmen who did not interfere with us at all when, on a frosty Petersburg morning, we met in a dusty, small, similar to a snuffbox, the Suvorov Museum, How nicely we kissed behind the back of the wax grenadier! And then, when we emerged from these ancient twilights, how the silver fires of the Tauride Garden burned us and the cheerful, greedy grunting of a soldier, rushing forward on command, sliding on icy ice, sticking a bayonet with a swing into the straw belly of a stuffed animal, in the middle of the street.
Strange: I myself decided, in my previous letter to you, not to remember, not to talk about the past, especially about the trifles of the past; after all, we writers should be characterized by a lofty bashfulness of the word, but meanwhile I immediately, from the very first lines, disregard the right of beautiful imperfection, deafening with epithets the memory that you touched so easily. Not about the past, my friend, I want to tell you.
Now it is night. At night, you especially feel the stillness of objects - lamps, furniture, portraits on the table. From time to time behind the wall in the plumbing sobs, water overflows, as if approaching the throat of the house. At night I go out for a walk. In the damp, black-greased Berlin asphalt, the reflections of lanterns flow; in the folds of black asphalt - puddles; in some places a grenade light burns over a fire signal box, at home - like fogs, at a tram stop there is a glass pole filled with yellow light - and for some reason it makes me feel so good and sad when it flies by at a late hour, screeching at turning, the tram car is empty: clearly visible through the windows are lighted brown shops, between which passes against the traffic, staggering, a lonely, as if slightly drunk, conductor with a black purse on his side.
Wandering down a quiet, dark street, I like to listen to a person coming home. The person himself is not visible in the dark, and one can never know in advance which particular front door will come to life, accept the key with a creak, swing open, freeze on the block, slam shut; the key on the inside will grind again, and in the depths, behind the glass of the door, a soft light will shine for one amazing minute.
He rolls the car on pillars of wet shine—black itself, with a yellow stripe under the windows—damply trumpets in the ear of the night, and its shadow passes under my feet. Now the street is completely empty. Only the old dog, clattering his claws on the panel, reluctantly takes a lethargic, pretty girl for a walk, without a hat, under an umbrella. When she passes under the red light that hangs on the left, above the fire signal, one tight black part of the umbrella turns wet crimson.
And behind the gate, above the damp panel - so unexpectedly! - the wall of cinema is shaking with diamonds. There you will see, on a rectangular canvas as light as the moon, more or less skillfully trained people; and now from the canvas approaches, grows, looks into the dark hall a huge woman's face with black lips, in brilliant cracks, with gray flickering eyes, and a wonderful glycerin tear, elongated glowing, flows down her cheek. And sometimes there will appear - and this, of course, is divine - life itself, which does not know that it is being filmed - a random crowd, shining waters, silently, but visibly noisy tree.
Farther on, at the corner of the square, a tall, stout prostitute in black furs slowly walks back and forth, sometimes stopping in front of a roughly illuminated shop window, where a toasty wax lady shows the night onlookers her emerald flowing dress, the shiny silk of peach stockings. I love to see how a middle-aged, mustachioed gentleman, who had come on business from Papenburg in the morning, approaches this elderly, calm harlot, having previously overtaken her and turned around twice. She will slowly lead him to furnished rooms, to one of the nearby houses, which in the daytime can not be found among the rest, just as ordinary. Behind the front door, an indifferent, polite doorkeeper guards all night in an unlit hallway. And upstairs, on the fifth floor, the same indifferent old woman would wisely unlock the spare room and calmly accept payment.
And do you know with what a magnificent roar the train passes over the bridge, over the street, lit, laughing from all its windows? He probably does not go further than the suburbs, but the darkness under the black vault of the bridge is full at this moment of such powerful cast-iron music that I involuntarily imagine warm countries where I will go as soon as I get those extra hundred marks that I dream of - so complacently, so carefree.
I am so carefree that sometimes I even like to watch how people dance in the local taverns. Many here with indignation (and there is pleasure in such indignation) shout about fashionable outrages, in particular about modern dances - and after all, fashion is the creativity of human mediocrity, a certain level, the vulgarity of equality - and shout about it, scold it , is to recognize that mediocrity can create something (whether it be an image of government or a new kind of hairstyle) that would be worth making a fuss about. And, of course, these dances of ours, supposedly fashionable, are in fact not at all new: they were fond of them in the days of the Directory, since the women's dresses of that time were also wearable, and the orchestras were also Negro. Fashion breathes through the centuries: the crinoline dome in the middle of the last century is a complete sigh of fashion, then exhale again - tapering skirts, tight dances. After all, our dances are very natural and rather innocent, and sometimes - in London ballrooms - are quite elegant in their monotony. Do you remember how Pushkin wrote about the waltz: "monotonous and crazy", After all, it's all the same. As for the decline in morals ... Do you know what I found in the notes of M. d'Agricourt? "I have not seen anything more depraved than the minuet that we deign to dance."
And so, in the local taverns, I like to watch how "a couple flickers after a couple," how amusingly made-up eyes play with simple human fun, how black and light legs cross, touching Each other, - and behind the door - my faithful, my lonely night, wet reflections, car horns, high winds.
On such a night in an Orthodox cemetery, far outside the city, a seventy-year-old woman committed suicide on the grave of her recently deceased husband. In the morning I happened to be there, and the watchman, a heavy cripple on crutches that creaked with every swing of his body, showed me a low white cross on which the old woman had hanged herself, and yellow threads stuck where the rope had rubbed (“brand new,” he said softly ). But the most mysterious and charming of all were the crescent-shaped footprints left by her small, like a child's, heels in the damp earth at the foot. “I trampled a little, but it’s clean,” the watchman remarked calmly, “and, looking at the threads, at the holes, I suddenly realized that there is a childish smile in death.
Perhaps, my friend, I am writing this whole letter only to tell you about this easy and tender death. So the Berlin night was resolved,
Look, I'm perfectly happy. My happiness is a challenge. Wandering through the streets, through the squares, along the embankments along the canal, absent-mindedly feeling the lips of dampness through the holey soles, I proudly carry my inexplicable happiness. Centuries will roll by, schoolchildren will miss the history of our upheavals, everything will pass, everything will pass, but my happiness, dear friend, my happiness will remain, in the wet reflection of the lantern, in the careful turn of the stone steps descending into the black waters of the canal, in the smile of a dancing couple, in everything that God surrounds so generously with human loneliness.
All crawling on the way Home
I remember well the May holidays three years ago. I was then overwhelmed by a terrible identity crisis: not only did I not coincide with myself at the edges - my “I” melted in the sun and, congealing, turned into an ugly shapeless mass. Am I in my place, with those people, where do I go and why is everything so difficult - there were a lot of questions, answers - zero.
While everyone was eating kebabs outside the city, I smoked on the balcony in empty apartment and, without getting out of her pajama pants, she wrote texts: she took work for the weekend, not knowing how and not allowing herself to refuse, so as not to be tormented later by regrets about lost profits and feelings of guilt. I was at the end of my career as an editor-in-chief and was extremely exhausted by workloads, loneliness and the fact that a year and a half had passed since the divorce, and I still didn’t manage to start a relationship with anyone (except in a dead end).
Outside the window apple trees, chestnuts and bird cherry blossomed narcotic sweetly, and I clattered on the keys and ate the inner emptiness with spoons of boiled condensed milk from a can and five or six packs of my favorite ice cream at a time. She got mercilessly fat and hated herself for it - as well as for the fact that instead of resting, she urgently drew herself a job. Ate to even more piss yourself off to even more aggravate the already complete discord inside, reach the limit point, turn inside out, die and be born again, but already some other - and at least someone needs ...
... Late at night, a text message came from ex-husband: he wrote that his new woman- his personal miracle, that he is happy, that he loves, that God, I can't tell you how great it is -
my heart skipped two beats, and a tear rolled out of my left eye, slowly slid down and flowed into my ear.
It seems that my swamp of self-destruction, self-pity and self-loathing still had limits -
so warm May night
with her rustles, wine
and falling stars
I'm impressed
in your
bottom.
“I don’t know where it comes from and why it rolls so spontaneously,
for no reason is, meanly, surreptitiously,
without a decent explanation:
girl, hormones, menstruation,
will soon pass.
I want to be hysterical. but first -
drink, talk
pity until you lose consciousness,
cry out
dissolve yourself
on loops, threads,
crumble on the ground
with dull brass buttons,
torn from a blue children's sailor suit ... "
The next day I woke up at 4.30 am, took a piece of paper and began to scribble my “manifesto” like crazy, where, without embarrassment in expressions, I wrote everything that I think about myself, my life and my prospects - in the handwriting of an excellent student, beautiful block letters almost capslock. I remember how I wrote then that no one will solve my problems for me, no one will come and save me, because “well, how much can you suffer”, no one is interested in my colorful depressions - and damn it, no one should not be.
So wipe your snot, put on your sneakers and run. Run until you drop from fatigue, and when you fall, crawl towards the house.
At that moment, I became my own Master, hitting my back painfully with a bamboo stick. I got out of bed, pulled on my sneakers, stroked the crazy cat and ran. It was my first twelve-kilometer dash across an empty city.
... Huge Maybugs copulated with loud crunch fell on the asphalt, and the dawn sky was so pure and clear that my eyes hurt.
I ran– and distinctly heard the metallic taste of her own lungs in her mouth.
I swam- and where it’s shallow, I smelled to shiver of a pioneer camp: the smell of empty Soviet washrooms, cold tiles, pines and toothpaste.
I got my silence back as a state of life, comprehended the practice of resignation to the inevitable. My muscles and soul ached, I still worked on weekends and didn’t get enough sleep, but one thing I knew for sure: I don’t want to die anymore, and how can you want to die when lilacs and peonies bloom, grass grows with a quiet creak at night, A Street musician plays the tango accordion.
I was an adult, single and free. Free not from, but for.
See you Sasha
remained
month.
***
Only three years have passed since then, but it seems that whole life. How I would like to say to the girl that she was, that everything will be fine, everything will work out - there will be a family, and a favorite job, and a strong trained body, and even a Nest. How I wish I could tell her that the night is dark before dawn, and self-destruction is never a worthy exit. That there is a lot of interesting things ahead, much, much more interesting,
than in her whole life “before”, and this anger at herself that morning will become the best motivator to pull yourself together and start sculpting the life you want, and not the one you have to live.
How I wish I could tell her What
when she still fell from fatigue,
to her
managed
crawl
Home.
May 2016
Music: The National-Need My Girl
Olga Primachenko's book "I'm at home with you" ( best lyrics from the blog according to the author) in print or electronic version can buy . Public Chat Nests in Viber - by
