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Oksana M. (LII) — Loneliness and the Music of the Universe

The Magic of Lost Childhood

For the most part, childhood brings back good memories. I remember this time of my life as something bright and pure, filled to the brim with hopes and interests. Oh, how much curiosity there was in childhood! Everything was unfamiliar and new, as if for the very first time. Waking up in the morning, I would smile at the new day, heading to school or kindergarten with pleasure. Every single day delighted me with its novelty.

Unfortunately, I failed to carry this sense of wonder through life; now it is nothing more than a childhood memory. Today, it feels as though it didn't happen to me at all, like a story I once read. Reality blurs with unreality. Sometimes you wonder whether it actually happened, or if it's just some sort of fantasy—or perhaps a cheap novel written by an unknown, impoverished hack writer wearing a large, warm scarf and reeking of stale alcohol.

Building Sanctuaries out of Sofa Pillows

I loved visiting my paternal grandmother. It was always a fun, comforting place to be. Her sofa consisted of a wooden frame and large, hard cushions. I adored them. Because I was small, those cushions were practically my size, and I used to build little houses out of them. They always turned out quite flimsy, so my grandmother would help me. I would construct several rooms. I loved having different spaces to sit in whenever the mood struck. One room was always dark, made by throwing a blanket over the cushions—that was my bedroom. The other was bright, using a thin couch cover—that was my living room. I always looked forward to going to my grandmother's just to build that house and sit inside it.

As a child, I felt happiest in small, enclosed spaces like my little pillow house or a cardboard box; I felt incredibly cozy and secure there. At home, we had two wardrobes positioned perpendicular to each other, creating a tight corner you could squeeze into. I used to sit in that corner with my legs tucked up, or just stand there. When the wardrobes were rearranged, I resorted to sitting in a corner behind the curtains.

Wooden Pies and Forbidden Jokes

My grandmother never scolded me and let me get away with everything. Whenever she tried to make me do something I didn't want to do—like eat, as I was a terrible eater as a child—I would protest by taking her favorite Khokhloma wooden spoon set and hurling them from the balcony onto the street. My grandmother would then patiently go downstairs to pick them up. Once, she couldn't find one of the spoons, and I really caught it from her (meaning I got a proper scolding), but that didn't stop me, of course. I did start throwing them less often, though, and mostly on the sly.

My grandmother loved to cook and feed my dad and me. To be honest, her cooking was absolutely dreadful. She would toss massive dill umbrellas into her soup, and her pies were always hard as wood—you could genuinely use them as weapons for self-defense. She would always pile our plates high with these pies, and my dad and I would secretly feed them to our dog under the table. The dog was the only one who actually liked them.

Whenever my grandmother noticed a pie disappearing into the dog's jaws, she would scold us, but she always smiled while doing it, calling us "shameless." In fact, she rarely ever got truly angry and always reacted to our misbehavior with a smile. I always felt wonderful at her house. She would tell jokes and sing songs. Some of her jokes were definitely not meant for children, which always got her into major trouble with my mother. Because of this, the next joke would always be shared on the strict condition that my mother mustn't hear it. I absolutely loved them and would always beg her to tell me just one more.

The Kindergarten Cafeteria Torture

I enjoyed going to kindergarten, despite the fact that the food there was absolutely horrific. The kitchen where the food was given out smelled of rotten, filthy rags—a stench that made me instantly nauseous. For lunch, they served cocoa with skin on top, cottage cheese casseroles with carrots, boiled fish, fried onions, pea soup, and porridge. To this day, that list fills me with revulsion. Even if it smells delicious and is cooked at home, I cannot bring myself to eat it because it immediately triggers those childhood memories. My father never ate porridge either, always saying he had his fill of it in the army. I, too, had my fill of it for a lifetime in kindergarten.

But the absolute worst part was the rule that you couldn't leave the table until you finished your food. While all the other children ate their lunch and ran off to play before naptime, I was stuck sitting at the table, watching them play. I honestly tried to force that casserole down, but the moment I started chewing, I gagged. So I would sit there, using my spoon to intensely mash the food down to make the portion look smaller. I worked at it diligently because I wanted to play too, but the mere sight of the milk skin and the casserole made me sick. Only when naptime actually arrived was I finally allowed to get up.

This went on day after day, year after year. It felt as though they were just torturing me. Everyone knew perfectly well that I wouldn't eat it even if I were starving, yet they still made me sit there. My mother even told the teachers that I was a poor eater and shouldn't be forced because I wouldn't eat anyway, but apparently, they couldn't care less.

The Family Smart-Aleck

Generally speaking, my grandmother and mother were the types of people I could easily outsmart, even when I was little. They could never see through my schemes. I remember how much I loved lecturing them in childhood, teaching them what was right and wrong, and correcting them whenever they said or did something I deemed incorrect. Naturally, it was impossible to win an argument against me—I always knew exactly how things should be done, while they didn't. In the end, they just threw their hands up and backed off. From then on, I was allowed to do whatever I saw fit, exactly the way I thought was right.

My father was the only one who could ever trick me. I didn't particularly like it, but I never held a grudge against him for it. Since early childhood, I grew accustomed to expressions thrown my way like: "Stop being such a smart-aleck," "Of course, you're the smartest one here and the rest of us are fools," or "Look who's trying to get above their station!"

The House of Secrets and Candy Hunts

I loved hiding things at home; I had secret stashes everywhere. I hid all sorts of objects: toys, colorful pieces of glass, pocket money. I was fascinated by the sheer process of hunting for a hiding place; it was incredibly exciting. For instance, I would find spots between layers of wallpaper. I’d carefully peel back one sheet and slip papers underneath another. I also hid things behind rugs, under the very center of carpets where no one ever looked, between the top of the wardrobes and the ceiling storage, inside toys, and so on. My house was basically one giant hiding place, and often, after hiding something, I would forget all about it. Once the perfect spot was found and the treasure was buried, it simply lost all interest for me.

I also had a massive sweet tooth, especially as a child. I would eat everything down to the last bite, no matter how many kilograms of candy there were. Naturally, my mother tried to hide them from me. But finding them was never an issue. I would walk into a room, scan it, and instantly estimate where they were hidden. Usually, a candy hunt took just a few minutes.

Occasionally, though, my mother would find a genuinely difficult spot, and that was the best part. A great sense of excitement would wake up inside me. At that point, it wasn't even about the candy anymore; it was about cracking the secret. I would start analyzing where they could possibly be, mapping out the room and marking potential spots. Then I would inspect them. On the rare occasions I didn't find the treasure immediately, I would try to step into my mother's shoes and imagine where she might have tucked them away. In short, the only time I failed to find candy was when there wasn't any.

Playing Dead Under the Table

Once, I took a major, definitive offense to my parents. There was a desk in my room, and underneath it were my toys. I always had a ton of them, all different kinds. My mother placed a huge emphasis on making money, completely neglecting her communication with me. My father always earned less, and honestly, my mother was the one who ruled our family.

I crawled under the desk, buried myself deep in the piles of toys until I was completely invisible, and lay silently on the floor. I tuned out everything happening in the house. As it turned out, I stayed there for quite a long time. By the time I got bored and crawled out, my parents had already called the police. My mother was frantic, and my father was running around the neighboring courtyards looking for me.

When they started shouting and demanding to know where I had been, I told them I was just playing and fell asleep, so I didn't hear a thing. I just didn't want to discuss anything with them. Whenever a conflict arose, I always withdrew into myself.

The School Readiness Test

I remember the day it was time to enroll me in school. Of course, I already knew how to read, count, and write in block letters, and I couldn't wait to go to this mysterious place, because it seemed so unfamiliar and alluring. To get in, I had to pass a mental ability test. It was interesting, though I was very shy around the strange woman.

She showed me a picture of the winter taiga, depicting beautiful, snow-covered blue spruces. I was asked to describe it. At first, I was self-conscious and answered reluctantly, just saying there were trees and snow. But by the end, I got so carried away that when I mentioned seeing happy children playing snowballs and sledding, the woman looked at me strangely. With wide eyes and a surprised, altered tone, she asked where on earth the children were, since there were only trees. I replied that they were somewhere out there, far away behind the spruces, hidden from view. All in all, I passed the test.

Echoes of the Past in School Corridors

My school was an old building with grand, massive staircases and tiled floors. Whenever classes were canceled, I would run home happily, the clatter of my sandals echoing through the entire school as I sprinted across the tiles scuffed by years of footsteps. On the wall near the main entrance hung a plaque stating that during the Great Patriotic War, the building served as a hospital for wounded soldiers.

Walking down the vast, silent corridors used to give me the creeps. I would think about how people with missing arms and legs once lay here covered in blood, while exhausted, desperate nurses rationed the last bandages and vodka (my imagination likely drew these scenes from the war movies constantly shown on Victory Day). The assembly hall terrified me the most in this regard; it was huge and cold, with a booming echo. I always imagined that the bulk of the war-maimed soldiers had been kept right there.

The Song of the Poplars

In our schoolyard grew large poplars that seemed absolutely gigantic to me. I loved walking out there. In the summer, I would come to the schoolyard alone when all the other children had left for the countryside to visit their grandmothers. I would sit under the poplars and listen to them rustle in the wind. The sound felt extraordinary, almost magical. When the wind blew and the stiff poplar leaves began to whisper, I felt as if I were being carried far, far away. These weren't just sounds; I could distinctly hear the melody of the poplars, and nothing else mattered, as if the surrounding world ceased to exist. I no longer felt the heat or thirst; I plunged into this vortex and was swept away somewhere far from here. It was like the music of the universe.

Years have passed, but I remember that feeling of oneness perfectly. I grew up, but I would still occasionally visit the old schoolyard to see the poplars. They no longer seemed so gigantic, and I never heard the music of the leaves and wind again. I sat beneath them just like before, but now it was merely the rustling of leaves in the wind. And later, the poplars were cut down completely. Passing by the school one day, I saw only stumps where the trees used to be. Something broke inside me; to me, they weren't just old, hazardous trees.

The Terror of the Tram Cars

A child with an imagination as vivid as mine should never be frightened. In my childhood, the tram—that marvel of the modern world—absolutely terrified me. I lived in constant fear that I would fall and have my legs severed.

Whenever I climbed the steps into a tram, horrifying images would flash before my eyes: I would misstep or slip, and my legs would slide right under the wheels. I never envisioned the immediate aftermath—I couldn't stand the sight of blood and flesh, so my mind simply cut that part out—and the scene would skip directly to me hobbling around on crutches. The mere thought of watching other children play and have fun while I felt completely miserable made me sick to my stomach. I knew that if such a thing ever happened, I wouldn't want to go on living. To me, being a cripple wasn't a life at all. My mind conjured up countless variations and sequels to this tragic scenario, each with different details.

My heart would stop whenever I saw boys hitching rides on the outside of the trams. They would scramble onto the rear couplers, hanging on for dear life, and ride together. The sight made me physically ill because I would instantly visualize their legs being severed. In my imagination, I watched the whole scene unfold: a bloodcurdling scream, the tram grinding to a halt, friends shouting in panic, adults rushing over, and an ambulance already speeding to the scene. Inside the tram, passengers would crowd around the rear window to gawk, only to turn away with faces contorted in disgust at the sight of mangled flesh. Parents would shield their children's eyes to spare them the trauma. The more impressionable bystanders would begin to wail and lament: "How could this happen? Why did he climb up there? Where were his parents? He's disabled now!" Others would hurl blame at the driver for not paying attention.

The Weight of Parental Anxiety

None of this happened without a reason; everything in this world has a cause. My mother loved me fiercely—perhaps too fiercely—and was constantly crippled by worry and anxiety on my behalf. Because of this, whenever we saw boys hitching rides, she would repeatedly lecture me that riding on the outside of trams was strictly forbidden. In reality, such an idea had never even crossed my mind, nor could it have; I simply wasn't the kind of reckless child who would do something so daring. She insisted it was forbidden because if I did it, my legs would be cut off and I'd be forced to walk on crutches.

To drive the point home, a boy who used crutches lived in the neighboring courtyard. Every time we passed him, my mother made sure to remind me that he was in that condition because he had hitched a ride on a tram. (As far as I recall, he actually had lost his leg under those exact circumstances—a fact I later verified just to check the validity of my parents' warnings).

The Dread of Becoming a Burden

A single glance at that boy would make me feel deeply ill. To me, becoming disabled was the ultimate horror, because it meant you would spend the rest of your life as a mere dependency. I believed that people would stop loving you because you would no longer be a human being—just a piece of heavy luggage that strains everyone's backs. I envisioned a grim future of living on meager government benefits in absolute poverty, surrounded by the perpetual pain and suffering in my parents' eyes.

I imagined how, as the years went on and their friends' children won sports trophies or dance competitions, my parents would walk home from work and watch a young mother chase after her playful, running toddler. They would realize that they would never experience those joys. Thoughts of why they were saddled with such a punishment—or rather, such a burden—would plague them more and more frequently. They would come home and try to smile at their child, but behind their eyes, you would read only the exhaustion of their heavy load and a desperate, occasional longing to just run away from it all—to fall asleep and never wake up, or to start life completely over.

Rules of Survival

I didn't actually mind trams themselves, and I wasn't particularly afraid to ride them. Yet, with predictable regularity, this parade of horrific images would invade my mind and flash before my eyes. As a result, I always exercised extreme caution, my heart turning cold every time I stepped on or off a tram, or crossed the tracks.

I even figured out that if you ever found yourself trapped between two oncoming trams, you had to lie down flat on the ground because the clearance underneath would leave you unharmed. I came up with that survival tactic entirely on my own. Even back then, I understood that the probability of ending up in such a predicament was incredibly low, but I kept the plan ready just in case.

A World Full of Invisible Hazards

It was the exact same story when it came to crossing the street. My mother constantly hammered into me that I had to cross with absolute caution, checking repeatedly to make sure no cars were coming, otherwise I would be run over. Her warnings were routinely reinforced by the graphic accident reports that were constantly shown on television at the time.

Of course, my mother meant well, but her warnings turned out to be a disservice. I always crossed roads with a deep sense of dread, continuously watching internal slideshows of the various ways a car could hit me. At first, analyzing all the potential outcomes of any given situation was almost engaging—it gave me a strange sort of mental rush—but eventually, it became exhausting. The habit simply stuck. These horrific mental images became hardwired to specific actions; the moment I stepped off a curb, I would involuntarily start visualizing an accident, until it became an inseparable part of my daily life.

There was an enormous number of things that triggered this response—in fact, it applied to most areas of my life. Swings, roads, bicycles, bodies of water, and so much more...

The Cinema of the Mind

I still remember all of this with crystal clarity today. I can easily transport myself back to that time and watch those mental movies exactly as I did then. These memories present themselves to me like photographs or films, entirely stripped of physical sensations—I don’t recall the oppressive heat, for instance. I remember it intellectually, but I don't actually feel it. I don't feel the external environment either, like the gentle, cool breeze that offers such sweet relief on a scorching summer afternoon. Yet, the visuals remain incredibly realistic.

I can picture the summer sun blinding my eyes, and even now, that mental movie is somewhat obscured by the glare, just as it was back then. Though saying "just as it was back then" isn't entirely accurate, because that very same sun is permanently etched somewhere deep within my subconscious. I simply pull it out from the archives and watch it all over again.

The Internal Radar and the Fear of Determinism

Back in school, I almost always knew exactly which day I would be called to the board to answer. Being caught off guard by a sudden, unexpected call was a rare exception. It always started well in advance. I would pick up my history textbook and intuitively understand that it wasn't my turn yet, meaning I didn't need to prepare (though I usually skimmed the material anyway just to stay in the loop, since teachers might ask for a quick answer from your seat if someone else stumbled). A week later, I would pick up the textbook again and feel that things were getting "warmer"—my turn was approaching, but I could still afford to coast.

Then, the day would come when I’d open the book and just know I was going to be called. It wasn't just a feeling; I knew it as an absolute fact. Sometimes this knowledge was backed by logic—like realizing it had been a long time since my last turn—but logic was always secondary. Other times, I would come home and feel an urgent need to study, even if I had just been graded the day before and had no logical reason to expect another test. Sure enough, the next day would bring an unannounced pop quiz or a surprise inspection.

Of course, there were times when I missed the signal, getting entirely lost in my own thoughts. Many times, I would arrive at school, and right before the lesson, it would suddenly dawn on me that I was going to be called up today and I was completely unprepared. I would grab the textbook, furiously scan the pages, memorize everything in a flash, and go up to deliver a high-scoring answer. I have a very fast short-term memory when the situation calls for it. This happened a lot in elementary school. I vividly remember arriving one day when we were supposed to summarize a massive story. I suddenly realized I was the one who was going to be called, but I had forgotten to read it at home. I snatched the book, sped-read through it, and the moment the lesson began, my name was called. Everyone knew I hadn't read it beforehand, yet I delivered the answer and got an A. The whole class was in shock.

Sometimes, these episodes left a bittersweet aftertaste, a creeping feeling that everything in life was predetermined—that you are merely a tiny cog moving along a set, unalterable track. It made me feel terribly melancholy and hollow. I tried not to think about it, or tried to convince myself that reality wasn't actually built that way. For me, originality, novelty, uniqueness, and a non-standard, distinct personal approach were paramount. It was my intuition of possibilities at work.

The Trampoline Metaphor: Riding the Wave of Flow

I’ve spent time thinking about how to describe this intuition of possibilities, trying to truly feel it out, and I finally found the perfect analogy.

Think about jumping on hard ground. It takes a lot of effort to push off; you feel the heavy weight of your own body, you can't get very high, and when you land, you feel a jarring impact in your legs. You tire out quickly—after just a few jumps, you can already feel your energy draining away. But then, imagine jumping and suddenly landing on a trampoline. For me, the intuition of possibilities is exactly like bouncing on a trampoline. You push off just a little bit, but you soar much higher than you ever could on your own, spending virtually no energy. You apply a tiny bit of effort, fly high into the air, sink gracefully into the canvas upon landing, and are immediately propelled even higher.

In that moment, it takes your breath away as you shoot upward. You feel completely safe; it's not scary at all—it's thrilling and fun. You feel an immense surge of energy rather than exhaustion. Yet, because you still remember what it felt like to struggle to jump on solid ground, the experience feels even sweeter and more exhilarating.

When you are jumping normally, that's just ordinary life. But when you hit the trampoline, you are operating on the intuition of possibilities. A certain project or problem arises, and suddenly everything begins to effortlessly align in your favor. Even minor, secondary details fall into place: you get a random phone call out of nowhere, events unfold perfectly, and the issue resolves itself while you exert the absolute minimum effort. One or two light movements, and everything takes off on its own momentum. It's as if a smooth corridor opens up before you, allowing you to breeze through while genuinely enjoying the ride.

When this happens, you experience a signature feeling: a deep sense of well-being, an immediate lift in your mood, and a profound rush of happiness. You just want to look out at the world because you are in perfect resonance with it, and it with you. There is no arrogant ego involved—no feeling like you are the king of the world. Instead, it’s a beautiful resonance, a feeling of being completely at one with the universe, a part of a grander whole, and it brings immense peace to your soul. It’s as if wings sprout from your back, lifting you off the ground and carrying you forward. The key is not to lose your footing, or those wings will fall away. I don't fully understand how to consciously step into this stream, how to catch the exact moment, or how to grab the tail of whatever it is that carries you. But when an opportunity is near, you can feel its proximity. It feels as though something unseen is approaching or hovering right beside you. In those moments, you have to take a leap of faith in whatever direction you feel nudged. If you step the right way, you just have to grab hold of that tail and hang on—from then on, you won't have to walk; you will be carried.

Slipped Opportunities and Blind Steps

Sometimes, though, for completely unknown reasons, everything falls through. In those moments, I feel like something is circling right next to me, breathing down my neck, playing with me like a blind kitten. You can feel its presence, you know it's there, but you are trapped in a dark room, seeing nothing, navigating solely by touch and bumping into obstacles. The wings are right there within arm's reach, but you can't seem to use them.

For example, recently at work, a woman approached me and we struck up a conversation. In the course of our chat, I found out she was the head of our marketing department. Since my degree is in marketing, she mentioned she was currently looking for someone and would love to bring me onto her team. It felt like an incredible opportunity had dropped out of the sky directly into my lap. But a short while later, I ran into her again, and she sheepishly, hesitantly told me that they had ended up giving the position to a secretary instead. Just as quickly as the wave had appeared, it surged right past me. Sometimes the tail reveals itself, but you just fail to hold on.

Situations like that are deeply depressing. They leave a lingering emotional ache, making you feel as though you are losing your edge, which is a terrifying thought. In times like that, I suppose you just have to let go of the situation and allow life to take its natural course.

Independence and the School of Life

I was a very independent child. Coming home from school, I would rest for a bit and then sit down to do my homework. No one ever checked it because I always told them I could handle those things myself; my education was entirely my own responsibility. I always got good grades, though not perfect ones. Grades never meant anything to me; I found them uninteresting.

In kindergarten, school, and later in higher education, my relationships with my peers always went quite smoothly. I was the kind of child everyone wanted to be friends with. Girls were always drawn to me, and I could feel their need for my company. I was brave, honest, and smart; they found me interesting and fun to be around. On top of that, I always had plenty of clothes because my mother bought me everything. My friends wanted to be just like me, so they tried to stay close.

In school, however, I did have to get into fights periodically. That was just how we settled scores—by fighting. Usually, this went down right before gym class in the girls' locker room. All in all, I didn't go to school just to study academics. It would be more accurate to say I went there to learn about life.

Learning to Stand Up for Oneself

The way parents communicate with their child regarding peer relationships, is very important. A child must be taught to stand up for themselves, both physically and mentally. If a boy is being bullied by his peers, he should be enrolled in karate or a similar martial art. This has a profoundly positive impact not just on their physical state, but on their psychological well-being too. It makes them more confident in themselves and their actions.

Peer relationships play a massive role during a child's development. In cases of conflict or harassment—whether from agemates or older kids—a child might completely withdraw into themselves. Parents might have no idea that things are going poorly at school. The child might keep quiet or give evasive answers about school, while deep in their soul, complexes and a sense of worthlessness are being born or reinforced.

The Deception of School Grades

As a rule, some parents place an excessively high value on school grades. More than once, I’ve heard warnings like: "Study hard, or you'll end up sweeping the streets," or "You need to get straight A's so you get used to working hard, and then everything in your life will be fine." I don't know why they say this, because it is a complete delusion. Generally speaking, those who comfortably make it in life materially are the ones who were troublemakers in school, barely scraping by on C's and D's. Meanwhile, the straight-A students end up working as ordinary engineers at factories. I am not suggesting that grades should be ignored entirely, but everything should be in moderation. It is far more important for a child to be genuinely interested in learning than to chase this school "years of service."

Grades are not an objective measure of knowledge. They are a combination of various skills: understanding the material, executing tasks, finding common ground with the teacher—and quite often, the ability to brown-nose and flatter.

Questioning the Archives of History

Schoolwork always came easily to me; I never stressed over it, though I was never a straight-A student either. Grades held no value for me, and besides, I needed to be genuinely interested in a subject to care, which wasn't always the case in school.

Even at a very young age, I highly doubted the validity of history. Some random guy centuries ago wrote something down, someone else declared him an authority, and now the entire world blindly believes it and accepts it as absolute historical truth. Where is the proof? Where is the guarantee that this information is accurate and not just a calculated manipulation for someone's gain? I wasn't there, so I don't know what actually happened.

My history teacher absolutely loathed me for this mindset. I always got the impression she would have been thrilled if I just stopped showing up to her class. I did my best not to push the issue during lessons, but every now and then, my skepticism regarding the truth of historical events would break through. Why waste my time memorizing things that might never have happened at all, or that might have unfolded in a completely different way?

Family Ties

My relationship with my father in childhood was quite peculiar. We were never particularly close, yet we always understood each other without words. He would start speaking, and I knew how he would finish the sentence. He would walk through the door, and I knew exactly what joke he was about to make. In general, it felt as though I was a carbon copy of my dad. I always loved him. Simply put, he never stressed me out.

With my mother, there was never any mutual understanding. And there still isn't. She has always loved me deeply, and I love her too, but it's as if we are strangers. I felt no inner kinship with her. Throughout my childhood, my parents were constantly separating and getting back together. They finally broke up for good when I was about eleven. I think it would have been much better if they had parted ways sooner, rather than dragging out this vague relationship for so many years.

Unspoken Bonds and Inherited Pain

I didn't see my father very often, but when he did visit, he didn't give lectures. He would just smile, genuinely happy to see me just as I was. My father is a rather serious man who had a brutal childhood; if he got a C in school, he would spend his evenings forced to kneel on dried peas in the corner. His own father used to beat him and his mother, and of course, that cycle of violence left its mark. My dad caused a lot of resentment, pain, and nervous breakdowns for both my mother and me. Yet, despite all of that, I always loved him and felt a deep, soulful kinship with him. We laughed at the same jokes, and even at forty-five years old, he would turn on cartoons on the TV, and I would instantly run over to watch them with him.

The Coldness of Waiting

My mother raised me practically on her own. She worked a lot, and I didn't see her as often as I would have liked. Whenever she was late, I would stand by the kitchen window, staring into the dark emptiness, terrified that she had died and wouldn't come home. There were no cell phones back then, and the waiting was always agonizing. I stared into the void of the darkness outside, and I felt just as empty and dark inside. The fear of the black unknown chilled my body. My grandmother never noticed a thing at home; my outward appearance never betrayed my inner turmoil, so to her, everything seemed normal.

I would just stand in front of the window, terrified that the phone might suddenly ring and someone would say something terrible had happened. When it did ring, I was too scared to pick up the receiver. Perhaps that was the first time loneliness called me. And ever since, it has become my faithful companion through life.

Red Pencil Cries for Help

When I grew a bit older and was already in school, I remember how hard it was for me when I was hurt or mistreated at home. People would lash out and scream at me for no reason at all, simply because they were in a bad mood. In fact, it was a regular habit in our family to vent anger and the irritation accumulated throughout the day on those at home.

I took it very heavily and used to write notes in red pencil using large block letters, stating that I was running away from home or was going to commit suicide. I hid these notes in various places: behind armchairs, under rugs. I was too afraid to leave them out in the open because I knew I would be subjected to hysterical scoldings, yet I desperately wanted them to be found. So, I tucked them away all over the house, even if they were in hard-to-reach places.

I remember my mother eventually found one of those notes. She caused a massive scene and scolded me severely. In situations like that, she would always scream that I was an ungrateful brat, that she spent her entire life working herself to the bone for my well-being—so that I could have dresses, toys, and good food—and here I was writing such notes.

These screaming matches were incredibly painful for me. They heavily reinforced my sense of worthlessness, leaving me feeling absolutely wretched and gnawed by guilt. Whenever my mother asked what was wrong or why I was unhappy, I couldn't answer her. I would immediately shut down, remaining silent or begging for forgiveness, promising I would never do it again. I could never just talk or open up to her; I always went into a total freeze. There was simply no mutual understanding between us. After that, I stopped writing notes—the reprimand had been severe enough. I just coped with it quietly inside, though sometimes I would cry or resort to screaming.

Sharp Elbows and the Churning of Butter

My mother worked constantly and always told me that to make it in life, you have to use your elbows, push your way through, and climb to the top. She used to tell me to "churn the butter under your feet"—a reference to the fable about the two frogs in the pitcher, where one gave up and drowned, while the other kicked frantically, churned the milk into butter, and managed to climb out. Even as a little girl, I knew perfectly well that I could never live that way. I couldn't step over people to get ahead.

These lectures always deeply depressed me, but I kept my mouth shut. I didn't want to discuss it because I knew the only response I would get would be arguments about how I was wrong, how I was good for nothing, and how things must be done her way. I never liked getting into pointless arguments with adults. Her advice only bred a sense of worthlessness in me. My mother was an authority figure; she said this was how one must act, and since I knew I couldn't and wouldn't do it, I began to feel completely useless and entirely ill-suited for survival in this world. After all, if that was what it took to survive, and I couldn't do it, then it meant I was superfluous—that there was no place for me in a world where you have to fight with your elbows just to live.

The Day the World Crumbled

A specific incident stands out from my teenage years. I was out walking with my friends, including my boyfriend and my best friend. I have a poor memory for specific details, but somehow my boyfriend ended up walking off to chat with his friends, completely ignoring me. Feeling hurt, I confronted him, asking why he was acting this way and telling him I didn't appreciate it. He just brushed me off and walked ahead with them. We were on our way to a gathering. When we arrived, I told him that if he wasn't going to pay any attention to me, I was leaving. He simply replied, "Go ahead then."

Turning to my friend, I told her I didn’t want to go inside because nobody wanted me there. She listened to me, but then just said, "Well, if you don't want to go, then see ya," turned around, and walked away.

I was left entirely alone in the pouring rain. In that moment, I felt worse than I ever had before. My world simply collapsed, shattering into pieces. I couldn't feel or understand anything anymore; I felt completely betrayed, as if a knife had been driven into my back by the people closest to me. I wandered home in a complete daze, wrapped in a numb cocoon. On the way, I lost consciousness several times. I was crying so hard that tears streamed down my face uncontrollably; I couldn't see anything around me and just kept stumbling forward. It’s a miracle I wasn't hit by a car.

When I finally reached my building, I couldn't bring myself to go inside. I sat on a pipe outdoors for a long time until it grew completely dark and late. The darkness and emptiness in my soul were just as pitch-black as the night. When I eventually went indoors, I realized I was covered in blood, but I hadn't felt a thing while walking. No one helped me—people have so many important things to do, after all, that they have no time for such trifles. And in the grand scheme of things, all of this happened simply because I felt forgotten and abandoned.

Looking back, it wasn't worth it. Today, of course, things are different. There have been far too many stabs in the back since then. Now, I wouldn't react to something like that at all—though I still wouldn't go to that gathering. I cut ties with those people a long time ago. I have no need for friends like that. In that situation, I found it impossible to follow the rule: "Accept people for who they are."

Befriending Loneliness and the Breath of the Cosmos

I used to fear loneliness and dread its visits, but walking through life together, we actually managed to become friends. It became my loyal companion and advisor. If I need to think about something, rest, or feel something deeply, I now seek it out myself. And I feel good with it—better than with anyone else—but that only happens when I go to it willingly, rather than when it comes to me uninvited.

When you seek out loneliness on your own terms, you experience sensations that are beyond comparison. You feel a sense of oneness with this world; you stop breathing with your own chest and begin breathing with the chest of the earth. I don't know how to put it into words, but you become limitless, as vast as the cosmos, and you begin to feel the entire world, breathing in unison with it. In those moments, you deeply feel the unity between humans and this world—that we are all part of one big whole, that humanity is ultimately a single organism made up of millions of cells. You realize you are just a cell in a massive body. All people are interconnected; it’s just that humanity has strayed from its true potential. We wouldn't have needed to invent cell phones if we could communicate through mere thoughts from anywhere. It's like having legs but choosing to crawl on your back.

Perhaps it sounds unpleasant to suggest that a human is merely a grain of sand—the human ego resists this notion, believing that man is the pinnacle of nature and has no equal. But only people who have never felt part of a whole can think this way—those who have never breathed through the lungs of the cosmos, when your body no longer exists and you become the size of the universe, with no beginning and no end. It is truly a magnificent, incomparable feeling. I used to think like everyone else too, until loneliness paid me a visit.

The Missing Spark in Perfection

Sometimes you see a person who is objectively well-dressed. They are wearing high-quality, expensive clothes, the color combinations are perfectly balanced, the shades are pleasant and easy on the eyes, and everything fits their figure flawlessly, as if tailored to their exact measurements. The style and selection of pieces are completely fine. Yet, it looks totally ordinary. There are no unique touches, no stylistic hooks. It's high-quality and well-put-together, but it's fundamentally uninteresting; it doesn't catch your eye. Such people seem incapable of finding truly compelling, unusual clothing—it just doesn't call to them. But unique pieces always find their way to me; I always manage to stumble upon something extraordinary.

The Poetry of the Night City

Parked near my office, there is a black jeep—ordinary, sleek, and polished. It features a custom aerography design, which is very popular these days, depicting New York City at night. It shows a massive metropolis ablaze with lights, with a glowing bridge illuminated by thousands of tiny bulbs dominating the foreground. It didn't just catch my eye; it deeply inspired me and stayed with me. When I first saw it, I couldn't help but think what wonderful taste the owner must have to choose such a design. A city at night has its own unique romance, its own breathtaking majesty.

Seeing it brought back memories of how my friend and I used to drive up to the overlook near the Oka Hotel after dark. The view from there is spectacular: our city sprawled out in a sea of lights, with the Kanavinsky Bridge cutting across the foreground, cars streaming across it like a river of fire cutting through the darkness of the night. We would park, turn off the engine, and just sit there in absolute silence, staring at the night cityscape and the bridge. And what did we see through all of that? Nothing, really. We just sat there, wrapped in a very special, deeply comforting sense of peace. Eventually, we would start cracking jokes, our spirits would lift, and we’d end up laughing hysterically, wanting nothing more than to enjoy the fun of the moment.

Acceptance and the Wish for Attention

The questions of what I would like to change or what I would like to have instead completely stumped me. Hypotheses began to surface in my mind, but they were immediately followed by the thought that if those things had changed, everything else would have shifted too. There is no telling where it would have led or how it would have played out. Perhaps things would have turned out even worse. Ultimately, I settled on the conclusion that I wouldn't want to change anything in my life. If it happened, it means it was necessary for me—for the formation of my individuality and for learning certain life lessons. After all, we come into this world to better ourselves.

Yet, if I try to abstract myself from these philosophies, I do wish my parents had given me more attention, because that is incredibly important for a child. Parents are the closest people a child has; a young mind forms by absorbing them along with their care, attention, and affection.

Nurturing Talents over Parental Illusions

Parents should place a special emphasis on uncovering a child's talents and helping them develop as an individual. They need to engage in activities the child actually enjoys, choosing extracurriculars based on the child's preferences rather than their own. All too often, parents want their child to pursue the very things they failed to achieve in their own lives, which is completely wrong. A child is a distinct human being, even if they share your blood. They have their own path, their own abilities, and their own talents, which wise parents ought to reveal rather than drown in their own unfulfilled illusions.

I see this as a foundational issue because this dynamic is incredibly common in families. As a result, many people end up in fields that aren't right for them, walking down the wrong path, and consequently living unhappy lives. Not many have the strength and determination to turn their lives around once they reach adulthood. Of course, one could look at this from the perspective that if things turned out that way, then that's how it was meant to be—but I still lean toward the first scenario. A person's talent is like a diamond; it needs cutting and polishing. To achieve this, parents need to arm themselves with patience and attentiveness. You need to speak to a child as an individual, not as a vegetable that understands nothing. Their opinions and preferences must be respected.

The Burden of Expectations and the Family Fortress

It is vital to find a common language with your child so they can trust you and feel safe sharing their problems. Children are often simply terrified of telling their parents things because they know they will be scolded, or they fear failing to live up to parental expectations. “We raised you to be one way, and look how you turned out.”

Since childhood, the fear of disappointing my parents hung around my neck like a dead weight. Whenever I faced problems, I stayed completely silent about them for that exact reason: I knew my mother would get upset, and her soul would be tormented by thoughts that she was entirely to blame. I knew I would hear that they hadn't raised me for me to have, say, these kinds of problems.

It is crucial to let a child know that their family is a fortress where they will always be supported and helped, no matter what happens. A child needs to feel this support, to know that their back is covered. Parents are, after all, the closest people. If a child cannot resolve their problems independently, you have to help them. If conflicts arise at school, parents need to step in—talk to the teacher, the principal, or the peers, depending on where the issue lies. Any problem is solvable if you start addressing it in time rather than letting things drift.

You need to trust your child more and listen to them. If a child's behavior changes—if they become more withdrawn or, conversely, overly uninhibited—it means they have a problem. You need to delicately and carefully draw them out into contact, while also gathering information from the outside, like from other parents or teachers. All too often, parents simply don't trust their children; they don't take them seriously. You need to invest in your children, love them, care for them, and respect them. Do that, and everything else will be fine; the rest are just temporary hardships, and they will pass.

Essence of Recommendations for Parents

Source: How to Raise a Child Without Complexes by O. Mikhevnina