Respect for the power of being yourself

The simplest thing is to live in a world with clear values, but in fact we are not born with them.

There is great excitement. We are in a Soviet apartment with green and gold wallpaper that has nothing in common with the frozen landscape reflected on the playground. There is broken glass on the windowsill, and a group of boys are sitting nearby with a bottle of vodka in their hands. Music from Russian prisons plays loudly from their car - the swings were long ago stolen for the sake of iron.

It's two o'clock in the morning. At such moments I used to sleep - an hour later in my playroom or in a chair at the cinema. But this time I won't fall asleep. Not because of the music, not because we are in a secluded apartment. I can't sleep because my mom is having a terrible hysteria.

My father went to “Stralka” - a meeting aimed at resolving disputes. She runs around the house with her cell phone the size of a bullet, comes up to me for a second and whispers: “Everything will be fine. They will bring a nanny. I’ll just go to dad at the factory.”

She opens her Chanel purse, takes out a blister, swallows five tablets, not two, as in normal stressful situations. She finds it difficult to open the window - I help her. The air entering inside is minus forty degrees. Loud music outside, the smell of frozen sewers.

The mother lights a long cigarette with a DuPont lighter. Suddenly the big thing - the phone - rings. Her hands are shaking, the lighter falls, the cigarette is crushed between the lips of half a ruby. And then cry. A scream that even the music can't drown out.

I understand that something happened. I stand on the curtain and ask: “What about dad? Mom, what about dad?” She is silent. I continue: “What about father?” She looks into my eyes. The crying stopped. The screams disappear. And silence - colder than minus forty outside. “Dad died,” she says.

I freeze, I calm down, and all that comes to my mind is how I failed. How did dad fail? How could he, who had never been weak, allow himself to be hurt?

But dad returned. Wrapped in bandages, a doctor is nearby. In my family, we don't go to the hospital, even after being shot in the shoulder. Every time we are at sea and I see his wound, I think that I would rather have that wound than my own. Mine changed my life.

I taught myself that vulnerability is danger. that she is canceling me. That's why I couldn't take care of my father and family. I feel threatened mainly by women - perhaps because every woman is a queen to me. Even the slightest hint of criticism can make me feel threatened, as if my value is instantly destroyed.

That's how I learned to control. Control has become a defense mechanism against vulnerability. In an intimate space, she gives me a feeling of power, dominance as compensation. But the price is high: emotional intimacy is reduced. I maintain control, but I only show my strong side and lose the opportunity to be truly seen—alive, vulnerable, real.

You can call it armor. He protects me, but does not allow me to hug.