"Freed me from repeating the script"

People who lost their mother early told how this influenced their lives

As a rule, people have to bury their parents, being already adults - and even then this event is injured by many. “ Cold ” talked with people whose mothers were gone when they were not yet 18 years old. They told how this was reflected in their lives.

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"A crowd of relatives in black, curtained mirrors and a corpse on the floor"

Sergey, 38 years old, Moscow

My mother was a housewife, a father-a dial-to-fighter who disappeared most of his time at work, and when he came home, to our small working village in the Tula region, he drank and cursed with his mother. I was always on the stirrup, carefully watched the facial expressions and movements of Bati so as not to fall under a hot hand. When he was home, he hoped that he was sober or would sleep, otherwise he would get to the bottom of me again. Already adults, watching the film “Cargo 200”, I realized that I lived in the Balaban reality, where human life did not mean anything, and time seemed to froze, and that I was surrounded by unconscious and uneducated people. I was an curious child: I constantly asked adults questions about the world around us - but they dismissed me. I think they simply did not know what to answer, but tried to hold their face. Since childhood, I felt a stranger among my own and for a long time thought that something was wrong with me.

When I was eight years old, I was going to visit my aunt one evening. I remember that my mother took out the clothes in the closet, and when I left, she went out into the hallway and asked if I would not return and stay with the aunt with an overnight stay. In the morning I was in a hurry home, I wanted to have time for the beginning of the series, which I watched then. He went into the hallway and saw a crowd of relatives in black, curtained mirrors and a covered corpse on the floor. Only legs stuck out from under the sheet. For some reason, I immediately realized that this was a mother, and, crying, went into the kitchen. There was a father. He hugged me silently.

The coffin with mom was put up at home. Before that, they often dragged me to the funeral, they say, “we’ll go out of us,” and forced to kiss the dead in the forehead-it always scared me very much, but then I still did not fully understand what death was. When my mother died, everything has changed. Her death became a disaster for me, sharply pulled out of childhood. I had no one to talk to my feelings, no one spoke to my mother either. After the funeral, this topic was closed. I cried at night, beat myself in the face, because I felt guilty for her death.

Soon my father went on the next flight, and I was left alone. The first month I was scared to come home. I went to relatives: either to eat with one aunt, then the other has a little to live. But in general there was one, and partly I even liked it: no one indicated what to do. At the same time, I felt abandoned. I really lacked my mother's warmth. True, my mother did not give me love: she often was detached, could push me away and say: "Go away, you are not my son." Because of this, I thought for some time that girls were born from girls, and boys-from boys, and that I was born from dad.

Only when I became older, I found out that my mother had schizophrenia and she did not just die, but committed suicide - hanged myself in the closet. I began to guess about this when one of the children on the street threw: "The same Shiz as the mother." Then relatives told me what happened. Mom got sick immediately after my birth - for this I also blamed myself for a long time.

I often wondered how my mother saw the world, what I felt, once killed herself. Why did not divorce, did not abandon the family and did not leave for another city, since she was so bad. I was angry with her for suicide for a long time. Closer to the age of 30, working out her injuries, I began to think that my mother simply did not grow up. In her soul, she was a little girl and did not know that the world in her head is not a reality, that you can live differently. To understand this, Mark Walinn’s book “It did not start with you helped me in many ways. How we inherit the negative scenarios of our family and how to stop their influence. ” I think my mother freed me from repetition of the script with her suicide.

"I was afraid that my mother would die when I was not there"

Daria, 24 years old, Novosibirsk

Mom gave birth to me quite late - at 46 years old. At that time, my older brother was 28 years old, his sister was 26, and two more brothers - 17 and 10 years old. We were always afraid of my mother, because she had a weak heart, but she died of oncology. When I was six years old, my mother diagnosed breast cancer. She hid it for two years from me. Then I noticed that my mother was drinking pills, and relatives whisper about something behind me. Then I directly asked my mother that it was with her. She said that, apparently, she would not soon become, as the doctors gave disappointing forecasts: the tumor was inoperable. I burst into tears and replied that we would certainly cure it. After that conversation, my mother lived another five years.

All this time I was afraid that my mother would die when I was not nearby. After school, I immediately ran home. She slept nearby, often woke up in the middle of the night, checked if she was breathing. When she became older, she made her mother injections. In recent months before her death, she suffered from severe pain, could not sleep lying - only sitting in a chair. I slept nearby on the couch, holding her hand.

One evening, mom became very bad. She stopped recognizing me, remembered only two older children. I sat next to me all the time, but at two in the morning fell asleep. At five in the morning she opened her eyes, and the first thing she saw was a policeman sitting at the table, who filled the papers. Mom was dead. I sobbed, took me to another room. I remember sitting on the bed and crying, I read the poems that she taught with her mother. I felt a terrible devastation, as if part of the soul had pulled out. I was 13 years old.

Six months later, dad married, and we moved to another city. Of course, I was offended, but I was able to reconcile with this. Pope at that time was 64 years old, he never lived without a woman. Cleaning, washing, cooking, my mother has always been done. I think that if he had not found a new wife, he would just get drunk and I would have lost him too. In the new school, I met a girl who also died my mother, and it became a little easier for me.

A year and a half I lived with my father and stepmother, and when I graduated from the ninth grade, they decided that I was already an adult to live separately. First, I moved to the hostel at the technical school, then my dad rented me an apartment. It was very difficult for me: I still did not come to my senses after my mother’s death - it took me a total of four years. I felt terribly lonely and began to drink: I wanted to drown out the pain and emptiness in my soul. I had several attempts by suicide: I swallowed pills and cut the veins. But they saved me.

When I was 17 years old, I met a guy who later married. I remember he saw my bandaged wrists, asked what was wrong with me, and I told him everything. My story did not confuse him. We started dating. On the fourth or fifth date, he came with a bouquet of flowers and confessed to my love. Two months later, we went to get acquainted with his parents. He immediately told them that he would marry me. It was he who helped me get out of all this hell.

Now I'm mom myself. We have two sons-guests. Oncological diseases can be inherited, so I am afraid that I myself will get sick and leave children early. This fear is always with me.

"I found mom on the floor with my head off"

Valentina, 33 years old, Irkutsk

My father - a stupid man - drank and beat his mother. He left the family when I was six. In the same year, grandmother died of diabetes. Mom washed down with grief. So she was a nonsense-if only on holidays, in the company. Grandfather Vinil Mom in the death of his grandmother, they say, brought, and periodically chopped her with his cane. My brother and I, who is a year older than me, at such moments usually hid in the closet. So his grandfather himself was difficult to call an example to follow: he served half his life.

Two months after the death of her grandmother, mother pulled herself together, returned to work, and life began to improve.

When I was 11 years old, my mother met a familiar job on the street from the old job. They talked, drank a little. That familiar was generally dysfunctional: it can be seen on her that drinking. Mom felt sorry for her, gave money several times. One morning, this woman showed up to our apartment with her man. Apparently again for money. This man woke me up and pushed me to take a walk out into the street. My brother was not at home: he went fishing. I did not understand anything. After wandering a little, I decided to return home. In the entrance, I ran into that man, he said: “There is not good for your mother” - and left.

In the apartment, I found my mother on the floor with a broken head. She tried to dissect, but she did not react. Then I woke my grandfather - at that time he was already 80 years old - and ran to the neighbor. She called an ambulance. I did not think that my mother was dead, and I realized this only when the doctors of the cops called. I don’t remember me cried.

My brother and I were not particularly needed by relatives: they were more interested in the division of the inheritance. One of my mother’s sisters sent us to the camp for the summer. The brother escaped from there. When the shift ended, the aunt took us to a “special school”, promised to pick up in the evening. But, of course, I didn’t come - we were simply handed over to the shelter. The brother ran away from there several times, he was returned, sent to a fool as a prone to shoots, he came to his senses and ran away again - and so in a circle.

I didn’t like it in the shelter either. Evil children, evil educators. They fed some kind of balland that I could not eat. From cocoa and porridge I wanted to puke. Well, at least one employee secretly fed me with home sandwiches with sausage. Probably, the children of drunks who did not see anything good in life, felt better there, but I had a normal family: my mother did not drink, worked.

Two weeks later, a cousin took me to her for several days - the daughter of the same aunt who handed me to the shelter. I was finally able to eat normally. I went to her about three times a year.

In 2002, my brother and I were transferred to a new rehabilitation center. It was good there. Teachers are adequate, the food is delicious. In the shelter it was possible to take only two pieces of bread, and there in the kitchen there was an enamel basin with bread - take as much as you want. On the first day, the girls and I scored more, hid under a pillow and then burned quietly. The teachers were in shock. We got used to such an abundance for a long time. But his brother ran away from there. Soon the aunt issued a custody of it for the sake of payments. He began to live independently, lagged behind him. I immediately refused the guardianship: figs to them, not my money.

When I was 14 years old, I and other girls were sent to study in vocational schools in Usolye-Sibirskoye. But I didn’t study much to study: it’s hard to ride an hour and a half to another city. At 16, she somehow received a diploma and released from the shelter. There was nowhere to go: the apartment in which my mother and I lived was owned by the state, then the aunts were somehow sold to it, my brother and I bought a hut without heating and gas, in which it was impossible to live. Other orphanages and I rented some room in a private house. We did not particularly know our rights, and no one helped us.

I somehow got out because I never wanted to scourge. On the fingers you can count those who released from the shelters and began to live normally. Most were drunk. I buried many girls.

Now I'm mom myself. I have twins, they are five years old. There is a man, but I did not register marriage with him in principle. I am listed as a single mother. Since the state did not allocate a normal apartment to me, I will squeeze everything that is possible. Although I earn normally.

When the twins were six months, I found my father. He drank and complained about life. I helped him with money. He never asked for money directly, but always pressed pity. And then I did not congratulate me on my birthday, I was offended and said: “Why was we giving birth, since you are so irresponsible? It would be better if I had dried up on your underpants. ” Then he was offended. Since then we have not communicated.

"I was calm at the funeral - as if all the emotions were chopped off"

Christina, 28 years old, Kemerovo

Mom died soon after my 16th anniversary. On that day, we rested in the country of grandfather with my grandmother. Because of some nonsense, now I don’t remember, I freaked out and quarreled with my mother, and she left for the city. At 11 pm my phone rang. I was surprised, because the signal was very poorly caught in the country and it was almost impossible to get through. An unfamiliar male voice asked to give his father's number. I was so confused that I dictated it on the machine and hung my phone. Then she thought: “Stop! What was it? " - And called back. They explained to me that my mother got into an accident: I could not cope with the control, hooked the oncoming car, flew to the ditch and died.

“I understand,” I said, and hung up.

Honestly, I myself was shocked by my calm. I woke my grandparents, said that my mother had an accident, but could not say that she was no longer alive. They immediately lifted relatives and friends on the ears. They sent a friend for dad: at that moment he once again went hunting in the taiga and was inaccessible. I spent midnight in a chair, looking at one point. Grandmother and grandfather fussed, wondered what exactly happened and in what condition was mother. Finally, my uncle called and told my grandfather that my mother was dead - grandfather fainted.

At the funeral, I was just as calm - as if all the emotions were chopped off. I think it looked strange from the outside. Grandma sobbed in hysteria, grandfather tried to hold on. Mom’s sister did not want to approach the coffin: “I do not want to remember her like that.” The coffin with mom stood in the apartment for a day. A lot of people came with her. But I really wanted all of them to leave and leave me alone. I wanted to be alone. There was only one thought in my head: "And what's next?"

Everyone lived his grief in himself. And I didn’t have much time to live on: I was preparing for the exam and admission to the university. She got up at six in the morning, walked with the dog, which my mother gave me for the 16th anniversary, at eight went to school, and then again walked with the dog and went to the other end of the city with tutors. In the evening she taught lessons and walked the dog again. I wonder how I survived with this regime. Honestly, I only studied for my mother: she wanted me to act.

Almost immediately after the funeral, I began to live alone: ​​dad again dumped on hunting. In fact, I think he thumped more than he hunted. He was not particularly worried about me. He didn’t even support financially - relatives helped. My grandmother lived in the next entrance and sometimes fed me. I immediately indicated that I don’t need to come to me without my knowledge and, if I need something, I myself will come.

A few months after the funeral, I noticed that dad was talking to Skype with women. Of course, I understood that he would not be alone all his life, but I was freaking out, because there was still so little time. Once, when I slept, dad invited my friend’s mother to the house. I heard the castle clicking, woke up and went out into the hallway. Seeing me, she immediately retreated. I was terribly evil, called her friend and expressed her everything that I think, although she was not at all in business. After that, we did not communicate for six months.

About a year later, dad began to meet with the daughter of my godfather. When he confessed to me, I waved my hand: "Do what you want, just not in my mother's apartment." Then the father moved to her. They got married.

To accept all this was helped by the dog lovers that I met in the evenings, and my driving instructor is adult and experienced people. I told them about my grievances, they reassured me, and I somehow freed less, communicating with my father. It is unlikely that I could talk about this with my grandparents.

Five years ago, I got married. In a common wedding photo, dad stood with his new wife. My thought flashed: "Mom had to stand here, not her." I think about my mother every day and, of course, regret that on the eve of the accident we quarreled, that this happened in the country, and not in the city, because then she would not go anywhere.