As well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb

If I had been a little bolder and more reckless, perhaps what my mother feared would have happened to me. But the fear of punishment was so great that even years later the mere thought of an accidental pregnancy frightened me to the point of trembling.

Once I had the courage to tell my parents that I would never have children. But for some reason my mother was not happy with this news, she decided that I was sick and began to persuade me to seek treatment to have a baby as soon as possible - "before it is too late", "from whomever".

My mother assured me that everyone in our family had had children and there was nothing to worry about.

But why "everyone"? Aunt Dunya, the nun, for example, didn't have any.

- How will you live without children? What for? - Mom was confused.

I can understand her. She didn't feel much affection for Tanya and me, but we gave her life some meaning. Dad saw me and my sister as his projects, into which he poured his love and his soul, and for Mom, motherhood was just a sacred duty, and parenting meant mainly control and discipline.

Everyone in the family, including us, the dog, and my father, had to obey her unconditionally.

Sometimes this worked with Dad, but more often it didn't. The same was true with Lala, my sister, and me.

But Tanya and I still managed to do a lot of things our own way, secretly, somehow, twisted, tricked.

As the saying goes, "It is as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb," and sometimes we just put everything on the line.

What to be?

My mother believed that she knew best how we, her children, should live and what we should be.

Under her pressure, Tanya enrolled in an institute she did not like, in a field of robotics that was completely uninteresting to her. And when she got her diploma, Mom arranged for her to work in the factory, in the workshop where she herself had worked all her life after school.

Tanya did not like this factory, her ego was hurt: why is she so smart, with higher engineering education should work in the team as a simple foreman.

- What did you want? - resented Mom.

She accused Tanya of ungratefulness and shouted that she could not find a better job anyway. And indeed, my sister had neither the courage nor the self-confidence to look for a job she liked. Which is not surprising. When a child is indoctrinated from childhood that she is stupid, that no one needs her, and that she will never achieve anything in life because of her "bad" character, it is difficult to convince oneself otherwise.

At first Tanya snapped: "I'm not like that!" but over the years she came to terms with it, placing all the responsibility for her misguided life on the infamous "three sixes" - the number of the beast.

Failures in her love life eventually undermined Tanya's faith in herself, convincing her that she was "the devil from hell" and that all her troubles were caused by a curse from her own mother, who once said that Tanya would never get along with a good man. And since that was so, the sister decided, there was nothing to be done about it, and she gave up on herself - damn it all!

Don't be picky!

In the sixth grade, I, a former excellent pupil, began to study badly, I became bored. But my mother decided that my laziness was to blame and increased parental control, began to personally check my homework and school diary, forced me to memorize paragraphs. And for every bad grade, she hit me with a belt.

It seemed to her that by beating me she could raise a good person, if not excellent, then at least good. It didn't work. I gave up my studies completely.

I wrote off my friends' homework and tests. I kept two school diaries, one for my mother - with good grades that I drew myself, the other - for the teachers.

I forged signatures on both.

The truth was revealed in the ninth grade, when it became clear that with a C in algebra, physics, drawing and geometry I would not be accepted into the tenth grade.

I didn't want to stay in the hated school, I dreamed of becoming a journalist, or better - a writer, and leaving Glazov. Preferably somewhere far away. And forever.

- Do you realize that to do that you have to study, go to an institute? - My mother brought me from the clouds to the earth. - But it's not for your chicken brain.

- I don't want to study at the institute, - I grumbled. - I just want to write, that's all.

- You're really going to drive me to the coffin! - My mother rolled her eyes. - We've never had a journalist in our family! Who needs you at the newspaper without money and connections? Be thankful if dad or I manage to get you a job in the factory, even as a cleaner.

I didn't want to work in a factory just because it paid well. I had a dream and my mother's words: "Don't be picky," "You should think about your pension," and "Dad and I will not feed you until you are old," were unpleasant, but they did not influence my decision.

I did not want to repeat the experience of my parents, who were also sent to work in factories by their own fathers. I saw how they hated their work, those dirty workshops where they had left their health and youth.

The beginning of the end

So I went to my grandmother Dusya's house in Tagil.

I was not attracted to the profession of a confectioner, I knew for sure that it was not my thing and I would never work in public catering.

But my cousin Lenka was studying at the same culinary college and she encouraged me to enroll, which I never regretted.

For the first time in many years I realized that learning can be interesting.

My mother was reluctant to let me go. She was afraid that away from her I would go completely off the rails, study badly, fuck - what else could she expect from me! My grandfather and grandmother were illiterate, there would be no one to watch over me and check my studies, and I had no self-discipline.

I thought so myself, but suddenly I liked studying in a new place.

We had wonderful mentors and teachers. No one pressured me, no one yelled at me, no one monitored my grades. I could finally breathe easy.

My mother was puzzled by my excellent academic performance: a daughter learning well without supervision - how is that possible?

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Moreover, her idea of unlimited power over me was shaken. Was I really capable of living on my own and making my own decisions?

I think this discovery was the beginning of her untimely end.

A cure for boredom

I have written before that when my father was in trouble, he sought solace in the bottle.

Sober, he was somehow embarrassed to blame his sins on others, to pick fights, to look for culprits. But once he'd had a drink, the scapegoat was quickly found - my mother.

She was guilty of everything, and my father would vent his anger on her by waving his fists, smashing everything, breaking furniture and appliances that fell under his hot hand. He knew that when he woke up, everything would be cleaned, washed, swept, and a hot dinner would be waiting for him on the table. In short, he could do whatever he wanted and not think about anything.

It was my mother who was always thinking - where to get money, what to feed the children, how to keep her husband in the family and at the same time protect herself from being beaten. The older my sister and I got, the more my father drank and the harder he beat my mother.

When he was drunk, he was like a roly-poly doll. He would seem to calm down, go to bed, and in a minute he would be up, looking for something, going somewhere, demanding money, threatening to smash the apartment if my mother dared to refuse him (and he often kept his word!). On such anxious evenings it was painful to look at my mother. She could not sleep and drank Corvalolum by the tablespoonful.

There was only one way to subdue the rowdy father - to mix sleeping pills into the vodka.

The "diphenhydramine" operation required special care and thoroughness - that's why my sister and I also took part in it, distracting my father while my mother shook and dissolved the pills in vodka.

We knew that if Dad found crumbs in the bottle, it would be bad for everyone.

At the bottom

I remember when I was a kid, after a party the guests would go home and there would be a whole row of empty bottles in our kitchen - green, brown, white, with colorful labels. Each of these bottles had a little bit of alcohol left at the bottom.

Tanya and I would sneak into the kitchen and drink or "taste" them.

I didn't like vodka - it was so bitter! Zhigulev beer the same. I hadn't liked beer since my grandmother Luda tried to cure me of a cold by heating it in a ladle on the stove and making me swallow it like a mixture. The moonshine smelled deliciously of caramel, but as soon as a drop entered my mouth, I spat it out - too bitter!

The port was more or less sweet. Champagne and sider were the most delicious, but the guests rarely drank them, and soon my interest in alcohol faded.

The first time I had a glass of champagne was at the holiday table at the age of fourteen. It was New Year's Eve, and instead of having fun, I spent the whole night suffering from colic.

I didn't like the state of intoxication. Usually, when I came home from the disco, I looked at myself in the mirror and did not recognize myself, I saw some mud in my eyes - and this is me? How horrible!

My friends laughed at the disgust with which I drank vodka - small sips (it was really disgusting!). But this intolerance to alcohol saved my life more than once.

Smoke

In times of scarcity, wine and vodka disappeared from store shelves. Cigarettes followed. It was a hard blow for smokers - how could they live without smoking?

My father used to buy home-grown tobacco leaves from somewhere, dry them on the stove, and make hand-rolled cigarettes from newspapers. I remember how disgusting that tobacco smelled!

One day, my father decided to quit smoking. He bought an auto-training record and started listening to it in the evenings. One side was devoted to the fight against smoking, the other side to the fight against drinking.

My sister and I also listened to it with my father. Tanya was seven and I was ten.

During the session, the hypnotist used a well-rehearsed voice to suggest that vodka was poison.

"Vodka! Vodka! Tobacco! - He repeated with disgust. - You can already feel the bitterness in your mouth!"

Relaxing music played in the background, forest birds chirped somewhere, rain poured down.

"Your eyelids are getting heavy, your legs are getting leaden," I heard through my slumber.

Unfortunately, I never had the chance to listen to the whole record, I kept falling asleep unnoticed. The hypnotist was a professional and knew his job very well.

As for my father, he always listened to both sides in good faith, but according to his confession, he wanted to smoke even more after the sessions, and he did not get rid of the bad habit.

Tanya was not affected by the hypnotherapist's speeches either - she had started smoking in the sixth grade. It seems that the only listener who benefited from the anti-smoking campaign was me. I've never smoked a cigarette in my life. The hypnotherapist must have planted it firmly in my subcortex.

Mom is sleeping, she's tired...

Midlife crisis. Rarely does anyone make it through it without loss, without being broken, without losing heart.

Your youth is over, your children are grown, family life and work don't bring you the same joy (if they ever did), you don't even have a favorite hobby. What is there to live for?

I didn't immediately realize how this happened to my mother.

It all started innocently enough. Well, she had a drink after work - "out of tiredness", who doesn't? She has the right to do so. Harmful chemical production - besides, doctors say that alcohol in small doses is good for the heart, removes toxins and calms the nerves.

The daughters are already big girls, they can take care of themselves: they will cook dinner and clean the house, not without reminders of course, but still. And in general, isn't it easier to just give up, let everything go to hell, and not have any problems?

But my mother rarely did that - it triggered the instinct of self-preservation. She realized how it could end and kept herself under control. But her strength was already leaving her.

And once again I failed (or didn't want to?) to see the impending disaster. On the contrary, Tanya and I were even happy that we could finally do what we wanted - dance in the disco until dawn, change suitors like gloves, go out and drink as much as we wanted. No one would ask where we were, why we were home so late. Who would ask? Mom is sleeping, she's tired...

Draw Me a House

At the end of the 80's the movie "Friend" starring Sergei Shakurov was shown. The movie immediately became my father's favorite. He watched it many times as if hypnotized. He even forgot to go to the toilet for a smoke.

Probably he saw in Kolya something close, some kinship of souls, a similarity of destinies.

I found the movie incredibly funny, almost a comedy, especially the episode when the dog called Friend threw bottles of vodka down the stairs to prevent his master Kolya from getting drunk. How I laughed! I could not imagine that one day this movie drama would become a nightmarish reality for my family. And I, like that talking Newfoundland dog, would have only one thing left - to watch with longing as my master went downhill.

Many years later, I suddenly realized why my father loved this movie so much.

The lyrics of the song "Draw Me a House," to which the protagonist leaves the mental hospital in the final scene, accurately reflect my father's unruly life, conveying his heartache and metamorphosis. They seem to expose the very seal, hidden from the eyes of strangers, that uninformed people tend to call a "generic curse":

I would, I would,

But I'm afraid I can't,

I can't find those halftones.

Through the woods of the woods

I gallop, I gallop on my horse,

And in a cold sweat

A day later I wake up from my sleep.

Snowman

It was 1982, I think - my mom and baby Tanya were in the hospital, and my dad and I went to visit them in the evenings. There were no cell phones then, and we were not allowed inside.

Dad would roll a snowball and throw it through the window of the room on the second floor. For Mom, it was a conditional signal: we are here. She would come to the window and she and Dad would talk for a long time with facial expressions and gestures. Dad would draw hearts in the air and blow an air kisses to my mom. Mom would smile and do the same in return.

And since there was no place for me in this parental dialogue, I would wave hello to my mother and hang around somewhere nearby.

One evening I noticed that Dad and I were not alone in the hospital courtyard.

A young woman in a ward on the first floor also had visitors-a little boy and his father. The man would knock on the window, and when his wife's face appeared, he would put the little boy on his shoulders, and the three of them would coo sweetly about something.

I watched them secretly, envious and terribly angry. Their family happiness seemed so real to me, not fake and contrived like ours. I wanted to be like them!

One day, before going home, a boy made a snowman for his mother. It was obvious that the mother was pleased with her son's gift. She smiled lovingly and pressed her palm to her heart in gratitude.

My reaction was immediate.

I waited for the father and son to leave, and instead of making another snowman to please my own mom, I trampled their snowman with hatred. I imagined how the woman would look out of the window in the morning and, not finding it in its place, would be upset, perhaps even crying bitterly.

These thoughts brought a gloating smile to my lips: let her cry! She deserves it!

I feel sorry for that little girl, who wasn't really that bad.

She just didn't know what she discovered much later: you can only be truly happy if you create something of your own in this life, but never if you steal or break someone else's.

Thanks for reading to the end! See you soon!

Sincerely, @natushka_555