Read the book: «Through Men, to Myself»

Truth

I want to write the truth about myself - the very truth I have carried inside me for so long, afraid that it was somehow too much…

Within the pages of this book will settle my experiences, memories, and feelings. I will write about the decisions I am proud of, the way one is proud of a hard-won child. And about the things I have done that I am still ashamed of - those that left scars on my memory and still bring bad dreams.

You will see a girl from a village who, every evening, made a wish upon a star and asked it for a different fate. You will see a woman who shattered into a thousand pieces, yet gathered herself back together piece by piece, becoming stronger each time. You will see the journey of a person who wandered through dark rooms until she learned to hear her own voice.

I know that memory is a liar. It fills in details, confuses the order of events, and paints the past in shades that are convenient for us. But I will leave that game behind. I will preserve what matters most: the salty taste of emotions I have lived through and the calluses on my heart left by the lessons that mattered.

I am writing this for myself, and for the woman who may now be standing at the edge of her own abyss, searching for someone’s hand. Perhaps she will recognize herself in my confession. Perhaps she will find the very answer she has been searching for in the darkness.

And if, among these lines, you suddenly encounter your own reflection, I will be happy. If you find an answer, then I will have fulfilled my purpose. And if you do not, let this book simply become someone else’s experience for you. A testimony that even the most winding road is not endless. That everything begins with a choice. With that very moment when you decide not to suffer, but to act. With the decision not to wait for the pain to pass, but to choose yourself. To choose to live and keep moving, even when the road is nowhere in sight.

This is my true story. Pride in what I have done and pain for what I have endured. Paragraph by paragraph.

I begin…

A Girl from the Village

Imagine a world capital. London. Tokyo. New York. Paris. Beijing. New Delhi. Cities where people rush to work in expensive suits, where skyscrapers reflect the sun, where restaurants are filled with people discussing deals, travel, investments, and future plans. Now imagine a place about fifteen hundred kilometers south of such a capital. A village. That’s where I was born. Where the child has practically closed opportunities. I was born into a family of a simple driver and an accountant. Our house was a small, old, clay house built of reeds. The toilet was outside. We carried water in buckets from a pump. Mom and Dad practically lived at work. They didn’t work for travel, a beautiful life, or big purchases. They worked to feed me and my brother. So we would have food. So we could go to school. So that one day our family would have a normal brick house. While my parents were at work, I became the lady of the house. I was a child, but I stopped feeling like just a child very early on. A girl who was supposed to play, go for walks, and wait for her parents. I cleaned, helped around the house, and looked after the household. It was so natural for me that I didn’t even question why it was happening. Probably because there was no other option in our lives. These were the nineties. Crisis, poverty, lack of normal work, uncertainty. It was a difficult time for many families. For ours, too. My parents tried for years to escape that life. But there was never enough money. Throughout our entire childhood, they managed to save almost only for the construction of a brick house. Brick by brick. Year after year. And everything they managed to earn went there. So there was practically never any money for us, the children. No expensive clothes. No computer. No phones. No sweets. No opportunity to buy everything we wanted. Sometimes we lacked the most ordinary things that other children took for granted. But back then, I didn’t understand that. I just lived. And I understood one thing very early: if you don’t have money, the only thing no one can take away from you is knowledge. So I studied at school with incredible persistence. I was sure: education was my only ticket to a different life. I didn’t miss a single lesson. I tried hard. But at the same time, I didn’t consider myself smart at school. On the contrary. My friends got straight A’s. I was the "dumbest" among them—at least, that’s how it seemed to me. I had two B’s. Only two. But next to girls who had practically all A’s, I felt like I was far behind. Only much later did I realize that this environment was a huge gift to me. I looked at them and thought, "If they can do it, then I should too." I tried to keep up. That’s when I first understood how much the people around us shape us. Sometimes you don’t need someone who will constantly say, "You can do it." Sometimes it’s enough just to see someone who already has. And you feel ashamed to give up.

The Ugly Duckling

At school, I considered myself ugly. One day I told my mom about it. She looked at me and said, "You’re an ugly duckling for now. But soon you’ll turn into a beautiful swan." I didn’t believe her then. Not at all. I was very thin, with long black hair and thick, bushy eyebrows. I didn’t have any bright, memorable facial features. An ordinary face, an Asian appearance, dark skin. But I wanted to be different. I wanted to be Slavic. It seemed to me that this was what true beauty looked like. Now I think about that little girl and smile. How cruel we sometimes are to ourselves. How many years we can look at ourselves through the eyes of other people’s standards and not notice our own beauty. Back then, I didn’t know that beautiful people don’t exist in just one standard. Beauty comes in different forms. And, perhaps, there are no ugly people. There are people who haven’t yet learned to see themselves. I was one of them.

University

At seventeen, I received my diploma. Two B’s, the other A’s. And I left to study in the regional center. I entered a state university to become a math and computer science teacher. I was seventeen. I left the village for the city practically on my own. My parents rarely could give me money. My grandmother helped. When she received her pension, she would set aside a small amount for my expenses. And that was it. There was practically no other help. My brother was also studying at university—the same one as me. My grandfather sometimes helped him. He lived with him because my grandfather’s apartment was not far from the university. I, however, had to rely mostly on myself. And then I understood another thing: if there’s no money, you have to earn it another way. So I tried to study well enough to receive two scholarships. I literally had to earn the opportunity to continue my education. It still wasn’t enough. But I continued. Studying. Part-time jobs. Saving. And studying again. In the summer, I worked at a factory, in a grocery store. The money was small. But it was mine. In parallel, I helped my parents with their first small business. At some point, Mom and Dad quit their jobs and decided to try working for themselves. Dad bought a red cheap car. Several milk cans. A separator—for processing milk and cream, making cottage cheese. Our family had a little of its own livestock—it was practically impossible to survive in the village without it. But it wasn’t enough. So my parents bought milk from neighbors, from the farm, from ordinary people. And they started selling dairy products in courtyards in the city center. It sounds almost romantic now. But back then, it wasn’t romance. It was a struggle. There were pennies. And these pennies were enough for food. Sometimes—for clothes. And they saved for building the house. That’s all. No more savings. No big plans. Just another day.

First Love

The first year of university ended. I was promoted to the second year. I was eighteen. And one day, my friend and I went to a famous local bar called "Prado." I wasn’t thinking about boys at all then. Not even a little. I had other plans. To study. And to study again. I loved music and dancing (I went to choir and dance classes in school). The music ended, the next song started, and I moved away from the crowd of girls and headed for the exit—just to get some air. And there I met him. My first boyfriend. The man with whom I was to spend the next five years. I didn’t know then that I was meeting my first love. And do you know what first love is? It’s when a person becomes part of your life so quickly that you stop understanding where he ends and you begin. He was handsome, well-mannered, interesting. He worked as a deep-sea captain and often went to sea. And that sounded almost like a life from a movie to me then. He was only two years older than me. I was eighteen. He was twenty. He had had many girlfriends before me. I had never had a boyfriend. He was my first in everything. And he knew how to charm. Very well. He took care of me. Helped me financially. Supported me morally. Was there for me. And I loved him as, perhaps, only a person who has truly opened their heart to someone for the first time can love. I was faithful to him. Even when he went to sea. Even when we were far from each other. I waited for him. Back then, it seemed to me that this was love. That this person would definitely become my husband. That this was my destiny. I didn’t yet know that destiny sometimes first gives us a person we love with all our heart, and then takes them away to make us meet ourselves.

Five Blows

Time passed. I finished university. Received my diploma as a math and computer science teacher. Entered graduate school. Had already studied for a year. And then something happened in my life that I still remember as one of the most terrible periods. Not one tragedy. Several at once. One after another.

First. My mother fell ill. A brain tumor. The disease progressed rapidly. She lost her memory. Lost her health. Gradually became practically incapacitated. I looked at my mom and didn’t understand how this could even be happening. Just yesterday she was a person who worked, took care of everyone, held the family together. And now her health was fading right before our eyes. A lot of work. Stress. Poverty. Years of constant tension. All of it, it seemed, finally caught up with her.

Second. My grandmother died. The very grandmother who helped me. She died in my arms and in my uncle’s arms. I still remember that moment. I remember the foam from her mouth. I remember the fear. I remember the feeling of absolute helplessness. I loved her very much. And at that moment, I lost a person who had been one of my pillars for many years.

Third. My brother was far away. After university, he served in the army. Many guys went through this. And he also had to do his duty. But for me, it meant one thing: he wasn’t by my side.

Fourth. Dad went to another city to work. Selling milk no longer brought the same income. More and more stores appeared, selling cheaper, albeit not the highest quality, milk. The small family business began to fade. And my father again left to find work.

Fifth. And it was then that the most painful thing happened. My first love betrayed me. He cheated on me. I saw a message from another girl. I remember that moment. And the most terrible thing is—he knew what I was going through. He knew about Mom’s illness. Knew about Grandma’s death. Knew that Dad was far away. Knew that my brother was in the army. He knew everything. And I, in my third year, had once waited for him for a whole year while he was in the army. I was faithful to him. And now, at this very moment, he betrayed me. He asked for forgiveness, apologized for a long time, got down on his knees, but I couldn’t forgive him. He "died" in my eyes. And then he left on another voyage.

And I was left alone with my blows. I stood on the ruins of my life. And I was dying inside. To say that I experienced extreme stress is an understatement. Before this, I thought I had already seen a lot in life. Relatives’ illnesses. My parents’ quarrels and fights. Their almost-divorce. The betrayal of "friends." My own fight with five girls at school, after which there was blood practically all over my body. The absence of everything a normal child would want. Now all of this could be called trifles. But for a child, these are not trifles. However, all of this, compared to what happened then, truly seemed like a trifle. Because five blows came almost simultaneously. And they almost killed me. But only almost. Because there was nothing left for me to do but gather all my strength and act.

Salvation

First—Mom. I decided I would save her. I didn’t know how. I didn’t know where I would get the money. I didn’t know who would help me. But I had to do something. With enormous difficulty, I managed to wrestle a quota for an operation at a capital research institute with the best neurosurgeon. I went to the department of health. There, they showed me an entire office piled high with sheets, where everyone was waiting for their turn for surgery. I understood everything, but I had no choice but to—beg. To cry. To ask for help. I gathered documents. And I asked again. We were approved for a surgery quota. Money for Mom’s other expenses was raised not without the help of people. Relatives. Neighbors. Acquaintances. Everyone helped in any way they could. And the operation finally took place. Mom was operated on. Gradually, over six months, she returned to the state of a healthy person. Not immediately. Not easily. But she came back. Of course, there were consequences from the operation; an artery in her brain was damaged, and she lost vision in one visual field. But she is alive, she made it. And it was something she could live with. And then, for the first time, I felt very clearly: sometimes a person doesn’t have to be strong alone. Sometimes strength is admitting that you need help. And allowing people to help.

Grandma. We buried Grandma. With relatives. The whole village. I loved her very much. May the earth be light upon her.

Father and brother. Then Father returned. My brother finished his service and also returned. They returned in turn. And with each return, I felt a little lighter.

Finally, there were people at home again. Mom was alive. Father returned. Brother returned. But that didn't solve the fifth problem. My love was destroyed. And then I made the first truly important decision for myself. I decided to move to the capital. To my aunt, my mother's sister. She rarely visited us. But in our understanding, she was almost a person from another world. She was from the capital. And the capital, for us, was something enormous, distant, and almost unattainable.

Two Diplomas and a Ticket to the Capital

By that time, I was finishing my master’s degree. Writing my master’s thesis. Taking state exams. At that time, I was simultaneously working two jobs and pursuing my master's degree. At the university—as a leading specialist in the scientific department, a lecturer of mathematical analysis for first-year students. And on Fridays, I went to a boarding school for children with disabilities—teaching them math. I successfully completed my master’s degree; thanks to my hard work, I managed to pass my state exams with top marks and successfully defend my thesis. Then I quit all my jobs and immediately bought a plane ticket to the capital. That evening was very tearful in my house. I announced to my parents that I was leaving. Mom was already home by then and feeling well. My brother had gotten a good job and had just gotten married. His pregnant wife moved in with us. I, however, borrowed a little money from my parents, who sold a couple of cows to provide me with some funds, and then packed my suitcase. I took my two diplomas and flew to conquer the capital. Alone. That, in essence, was all I had. Two diplomas. A small suitcase. And an enormous desire to change my life. I thought the worst was behind me. How wrong I was... The worst was just beginning...

The Capital I Never Saw

I arrived in the capital with two diplomas, my small suitcase, and the certainty that my life would now definitely change. I immediately wanted to work at a university. It seemed logical to continue an academic career: mathematics, computer science, education, and science. I had studied for so many years precisely for this. But the capital quickly explained one simple thing to me: here, no one cared how much you had dreamed. You had to start from the place they gave you. And they gave me a school. A local school on the outskirts of the city where my aunt lived. I remember my first impression. I came from a small village where everyone knew each other, where children could greet their teacher on the street, and adults knew which family each child came from. Here it was different. The capital's children were aggressive and arrogant. Some of them, in fifth grade, knew swear words better than the multiplication table. I came there as a math and computer science teacher. But I very quickly realized that they wouldn’t let me be just a teacher. I had to be everything at once. A teacher. A psychologist. A social worker. A curator for several classes. Sometimes—a mother. Sometimes—a person who just had to listen to a child. I arrived at school an hour before lessons began. And sometimes I left at ten in the evening. I was working two full-time jobs. I bought children candy with my salary, trying to establish some kind of contact. Sometimes they took the candy and were still ungrateful. There were children from disadvantaged families. Yes, such families exist in the capital too. I got angry. I cried. I got tired. I returned home. And in the morning, I went there again. It was like a nightmare from which it was impossible to wake up. And the most terrible thing—I barely saw the city. I came to conquer the capital. But I only knew the route: home—school—school—home. No walks, no theaters or museums, no restaurants, no beautiful streets—no city life at all. I was so busy surviving that I didn’t even have time to understand exactly where I was living. But the school was only half the problem. The other half was waiting for me at home.

Aunt

My aunt, my mother’s sister, turned out to be a very difficult person. Capricious. Demanding. Controlling. She had her own rules, her own beliefs, and a huge number of complaints about me. This wasn't done right. That wasn't right. You can't go there. Don't socialize with these people. Don't go anywhere. Only the apartment and school. All the money I earned went towards food, the apartment, and her expenses. Sometimes I managed to buy myself some clothes. And that was all. At the same time, I understood her. She herself was from a village. She also once broke away to the capital. Got married. Then her husband died young. She had been disabled her whole life and didn't work, living on a disability pension. Perhaps her life was also not at all easy. When I arrived, her life became a little easier. But along with that, she began to control me even more strongly. After eight months, she said: "Choose. Either you live like this and I’ll bequeath my apartment to you, or go back to the village and you’ll be left with nothing. And don’t come back." She manipulated me. And I cried. I wanted to be with Mom. I didn’t want to live under such total control, to see dissatisfaction and strange looks every day. I didn’t want to live only for her and wait for manna from heaven. I was already in a difficult emotional state; I was mentally unstable. And her constant pressure. She was killing me even more from the inside. I wanted to go back home. I lived with her for nine months. I worked at the school for one academic year. And I returned. I didn't truly see the capital. At least, not the city I had imagined. And then I decided that, perhaps, the capital just wasn’t for me. I thought that some special people lived there. Strong. Tough. Confident. And I, perhaps, was too weak. I thought: "I won’t become part of this world." I was wrong. But then I didn’t know it yet.