Confession

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Confession

Confession

There's an opinion that every person can write a book. And this book would be about them.

I believe that every person has several facets, some even have many. Based on this, depending on which aspect of themselves a person wants to reveal, that's how many books they can write.

Honestly, I've been trying to write a book for about seven years now, but this is the only thing in my life (at least I can't remember other such things) that I approach with such trepidation and from which I run away so much.

So, shall we begin?

In this narrative, I very much want to encourage the reader who has been given a terrible diagnosis or whose relative has. I, for example, have a diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder and I want to share my life journey with this illness. Within this endeavor, I will be writing my first book))

Let me skip ahead and tell you what kind of life I lead right now: I have a family consisting of my husband and son. I work as an analyst in an IT company. I do sports, have sex, and have hobbies. If I don't tell someone that I have a diagnosis, it would never occur to them. Not even to an experienced psychologist.

How did I get to this point?

Now here's the most interesting part!

Chapter 1

Summer 1995. I am 6.5 years old. I'm standing at the train car exit with my mother, and the station police officer, train conductor, and station master have already approached us. I don't remember the name of the city, but I remember all the events of this story precisely. I assume it was the city of Makat (Kazakhstan), but within this chapter's framework, it's not that important. So, this whole crowd of opponents is trying to convince my mother to leave the train. She, in turn, categorically refuses and claims that the station is made of papier-mâché, the sign on the station isn't real, and everything around is just a prank.

Hmm, the entire delegation from the train and station assumed that we had no money and nowhere to spend the night, and that she was thus trying to secure sleeping berths for herself and me. This was the final station, and the train had to go to the depot.

"Mommy, please, this really is Makat, let's get off," I pleaded.

"If you don't leave the train, we'll forcibly remove you. Do you really want your child to see this?" the police officer continued in his firm and confident voice.

Whether it was the police officer's voice being so harsh, or my mother finally remembering that I existed, or something clicked in my mother's head at that moment, she took me and the suitcases and left the train.

The most disgusting thing was that there was no money for tickets to Orenburg… none at all… not a kopeck, not a ruble. But my mother had gold rings and earrings, and I had a plan. And this plan consisted of exchanging all the gold for tickets to Orenburg, and once there, at home, we would figure out the finances.

Fortunately, the cashier liked my plan, and we made it to our hometown.

This was the first episode with my mother. Strangely enough, none of her circle in Krasnovodsk (now Turkmenbashi) understood that she was going crazy. None of the station workers suspected such a thing. And of course, being so small, I certainly couldn't assume my mother had a disorder.

Later I would learn to recognize her states, the days when it would "storm," and how to survive them. But when my first episode happens, at age 17, again none of my loved ones would think that I was ill. And certainly not me myself.

So, when you or your loved one falls ill for the first time, you most likely won't understand it!

At 6.5 years old, I experienced terrible stress. I don't want to burden readers with the weight of the situations on the way home and the hell I faced at home. But I want to tell you that upon arriving home, I wanted to be baptized. Fortunately, there was a church not far from home, and my mother, after really lengthy persuasion, agreed to go with me. She hadn't been hospitalized yet and naturally wasn't taking medications.

Where did the thought of God originate in me? How could I, at 6.5 years old, never having encountered this before, have drawn this idea? For me, this remains nothing other than God's providence. And this was my first step (from grief) toward God, toward Faith and Hope that I would survive no matter what.

Subsequently, for the next 2 years after my mother's hospitalization, I would continue living with her, and she, not taking medications, would be able to maintain remission for 2 years. But then I would have to leave her and go live in the Caucasus, with my grandfather. There I would experience my mini-hell, but I don't want to write about that. At least not in this chapter.

Chapter 2

What triggered my illness? I'm sure the reader has asked the same question about their own diagnosis or their loved one's diagnosis. It seems to me that it's more of a cumulative effect. There's a feeling that nerves gradually thin out, and then a significant or insignificant event happens, a strong rupture occurs, and they seem to run dry.

For me, that accumulation was life in the Caucasus at my grandfather's with his wife. I went through manipulations from my grandfather's wife and bullying at school and in the yard that lasted four years. I held on only because I had an equally sensitive friend. Together we went to the library and devoured everything we could read when we managed to find time between working on the land and selling fruit at the station.

Kropotkin – the city where I lived – was a junction station, and trains made long stops there, sometimes 40-50 minutes. Before continuing on their routes, passengers usually strolled along the platform and bought everything from vendors. Prices were significantly higher than at the market, so many sought to sell fruits, nuts, and God knows what else. But there was one "but": it was forbidden by local law, so you could often meet police officers on the platform, fining vendors or taking them to the station.

Some vendors ran quickly with buckets of fruit, some hid under train cars, and some gave bribes. My grandfather and I sometimes ran away or crawled under a car to hide on the other side of the train.

I won't say that police came on raids for every train, but scenes with the Moscow train that departed at 3:00 PM every day are forever imprinted in my memory. Oh, that was bliss! Here you could sell all four buckets of fruit for fabulous money by my standards. This was a gold mine for vendors!

All these moments were happy moments for me; my grandfather completely accepted and loved me. I perceived escaping from a police officer as a game. But after the sunny day and piercing sun that left an inimitable smell of heat on the skin, there were always long moments of bullying at school and in the yard.

I couldn't stand up for myself, and there was no one behind my back. And this is the most disgusting feeling – when there's no one behind your back!

Every evening I cried into my pillow and begged God to return me quickly to my mother, to my home.

My mother, despite her diagnosis, was an unusually light person, super emotional, spontaneous and super easy-going. But during her episodes, she opened up from a completely different side – suspicious, insecure and super frightened. I didn't know her like this. After my return from the Caucasus, my mother wouldn't have an episode for another 2 years (remember, she wasn't taking medications) and her episodes were initially like thunder from a clear sky for me. Initially, she would get a cold, then "withdraw into herself" and after some time stop sleeping and eating. She could stand for hours on end in one place and stomp a little, like that for a day, night, and in the morning again in the same position.

At the same time, she could block my front door and ask me not to go to school. This was Hell! In the end, I would call an ambulance and she would be hospitalized for several months, and I lived on her pension, alone.

After treatment, she would return light and fulfilled and pretend nothing had happened.

In my hometown of Orenburg, there was no bullying either at school or at training. Quite the opposite, for some time I even felt like a "Star." On the basketball team I was team captain, at school I was an excellent student. I had cheerful girlfriends with whom we spent time carefree.

My mother's episodes repeated more and more often, and I wanted to be home less and less. And in 10th grade I got carried away, I decided with a friend to get jobs as waitresses at a local nightclub and be home even less. This was a fatal mistake, since during the day I studied, and at night instead of sleeping I went to work at the nightclub. I slept in snatches during the day after school and a couple hours in the morning before classes.

Chapter 3

Our Father, who art in heaven! Hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our debts, as we also forgive our debtors; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto ages of ages. Amen.

Like a chiseled ritual, in the evenings I would recite the words of the most famous prayer and ask the Lord God to help me on my path, to walk it and leave my hometown.