Why do you dream about your childhood home? Dream Interpretation - To Each Other

I spent my childhood and youth in the same house; we called such houses “Khrushchevkas.” Yes, probably, not only here, but throughout the once “Soviet Union”. Arriving in this mining town called Chervonograd, my dad himself chose an apartment for us. Those were the times...
And it happened like this. Having settled in one of the mines, our family was immediately provided with housing. Only in order to choose it for yourself, the house number and street name were indicated.
I didn’t know all the details, since I wasn’t in the world yet. I remember from my dad’s stories that he walked into this house, the entrance was clean, the painted walls smelled. I went up to the first floor, to the second, third, fourth. I went into one of the apartments, it smelled of such warmth and comfort that he immediately decided that this apartment would be ours. It happened in winter, and once upon a time winters were cold, not like now. There was nowhere to rush, my father laid a newspaper near the radiator and went to bed for the night. The next morning he went to the mine and filled out all the necessary documents, and after that he went to Novovolynsk to pick up my mother and my sister, where we lived previously. Not long ago, in nineteen sixty-two, I was born. Our future neighbors slowly began to move into our house...

Uncle Vanya’s family lived with us on the site. His wife’s name was Aunt Galya, they had two sons - Volodya and Sasha. Uncle Vanya and Aunt Galya worked at the mine for as long as I can remember. The family was very hard-working. They came from some village and started everything from scratch, I mean furniture. They had a bed and a table; the others did not yet have one at that time.
And with us (this is already from the stories, the same Aunt Galya had everything: a wardrobe, a TV, a table, chairs for it, some kind of bookcase, a rose). Here is a rose, I remember very well, it covered a whole corner in the hall. There was such a fashion then for such large plants. Now they are mainly installed only in offices or large institutions.

The next family was that of Uncle Kolya and Aunt Milya, and they had a daughter, Sveta. By local standards, this family was considered rich. Uncle Kolya worked as a driver, Aunt Milya worked at the mine. She graduated from Lviv University and worked as a controller. I still remember when I came to Sveta (we were friends), they had all sorts of pebbles on the shelf, and when I took them in my hands, they shimmered different colors. Aunt Milya, after graduating from university, for a long time went on expeditions to the mountains, and these samples served in their family as a memory of her past romantic profession - a geologist. They had one daughter, Sveta. Honestly, I have always envied Sveta. I remember she had a bicycle. Small, three-wheeled, and I really wanted to ride it. Now I understand my feelings, this happens with all children, you always want what you don’t have.

Not long ago another family came to our house; it consisted of four people, it was Aunt Oksana and Uncle Vitya. They had two children, daughter Natasha and son Pavlik. This was only later, after a while they had another son, Andryusha. Wow! - and I loved him little. Yes, ask, who did I not love? All the little children who were in our house are known to me. I nursed them all. Back then, in my distant childhood, I never dreamed of being anything, including a teacher. Uncle Vitya worked as a driver, like Uncle Kolya, and Aunt Oksana worked as a seamstress in a factory. The doors of our apartment, and theirs, were never locked - “come in, I don’t want to.” Yes! I remembered one more detail: it used to be that when my mother left home for a long time, she would leave the key under the doors (under the rug). And he’ll write a note with the following content: “the key is under the rag.” Those were the days... By that time the doors were already riddled with holes from changing the locks many times. As children, we often lost our keys; our mothers would then attach them to an elastic band and hang them around our necks. Then the keys were certainly not lost.

The floor below lived the family of Aunt Sonya and Uncle Kolya; they had two children, son Tolik and daughter Natalya. Their parents worked at the mine, and they also had a grandmother. We were all so interested, we had to go to our grandmothers, but here it is for you, your grandmother lives nearby. As children, we didn’t understand many things back then. When the children and I walked in the yard, the eyes of Baba Katya, that was the name of this grandmother, always followed us. And what pies she baked! It was a miracle, she wrapped them in newspaper and threw them from the third floor to her grandchildren. We stood below as if enchanted and watched to see if we too would get a pie. Natasha unwrapped this package, and the breath that came from it was breathtaking. Granny always put a couple of things in reserve, and whoever was nearby always received this unforgettable gift.

Another floor below lived the family of Uncle Vitya and Aunt Lida; they had two daughters. The eldest was called Lilya, and the youngest was Lena. Uncle Vitya also worked at the mine, and Aunt Lida worked in the office at the market. I remember Lena more, with her tricks. She was a big cat lover. For as long as I can remember, they always had a cat in their apartment. And to be honest, not only did I not love them, I was afraid of them...
When I was a child, I was bitten by a dog, and this was the result of my fear. Lena knew very well that I was afraid of cats. No, she still took the cat she came across and threw it at me. The cat clung to my dress with such force that it dug its claws into me so that I screamed in pain. This clearly brought her pleasure. Now I remember it with laughter, but then...

On the first floor of our house, Uncle Styopa’s family lived with Aunt Katya. Uncle Styopa was also a miner, like most of the men in our house. Aunt Katya, like my mother, did not work anywhere and raised children. They had two boys - Boris and Kolya. Uncle Styopa played the accordion very well. He loved to take it outside to play on it, and, of course, to sing. Aunt Katya argued with him about this, but he didn’t listen to anyone. We stood side by side and listened to him with great attention; this was a novelty for us.

Next to them on the site lived Uncle Misha and Aunt Valya. They had two girls Nelya and Lyusya. Uncle Misha was a miner, and Aunt Valya worked as a teacher. primary classes. Aunt Rosa lived with Uncle Vasya, he was also a miner, Aunt Rosa worked in a factory where they made hosiery, and they had two children. The eldest was the daughter of Paradise, and youngest son- Vasya. There lived another woman, her name was Eva, and she had three sons. She was a hard-working woman, as long as I can remember, she worked in a miners' hostel as a cleaner, not an easy job. She was friendly to everyone. I remember one incident...

Once upon a time I didn’t go down from my fourth floor, but flew down. And not only me, all the children from our yard did this. We either sat on the railing and slid down (they had already been polished by us) or rushed like mad up the steps. Here in one of summer days, I was so rushed. I jumped out of the doorway and didn’t immediately understand what had happened to me. My legs couldn’t budge; after looking around, I understood everything. They were laying asphalt near the house, and without seeing the laid masonry, I fell from the threshold of the house, right into the asphalt with my feet. Trying to somehow free myself from captivity, I jerked one leg, and then the other. I was unable to escape; I further complicated my situation by falling on my hands. It was then that I was overcome with crazy pain, and I began to scream. At my cry, Aunt Eva looked out from the window. She saw that I was standing, stuck in the asphalt, and holding my hands with my palms up. Without thinking twice, she ran out, holding a bottle in her hands. vegetable oil. How she managed to get me out of there, I no longer remember. She was the first to give me necessary help, and saved my hands from getting burned - something that will never be forgotten...

There were a lot of kids in the yard. What games did we not play? I remember the name of the game was “military girls”. It was necessary to write pieces of paper in which we indicated who was German and who was Russian, put them in someone’s hat, shook them and threw them up. These pieces of paper fell to the ground, we picked them up and thus formed squads. Who was Russian and who was German. No one wanted to be Germans; even then, we had high patriotism, no one wanted to play the role of an enemy. We mostly hid in the basement of a neighboring house. In it, we knew all the moves and exits. Our parents saved coal there at that time, because there were still stoves and titans in our houses, and the whole thing had to be heated, and later, when gas was installed, they saved potatoes and unnecessary things there.

In front of the house there was a front garden. The girls and I (with the help of adults, of course) dug it up and sowed flowers. The greatest pleasure was when we took turns holding the water hose to water the flowers. How great it was! And then we walked around, shod in these rubber slippers, which had a jumper across thumb. When it rained, we ran boldly through it, the boys ran up to us and tried to stand on the backdrop. Then they ran back, the backdrop hit the leg painfully, this is in the best case, and in the worst case, it just came off, and then at home it was “right to the eyeballs”...

And our games are “badminton”, “candy wrappers”, “counsellor, counselor, give me a pioneer”, “tails”. Yes, you can’t even remember them all...

The girls and I loved to spread out an old blanket and sit in the yard on the grass. The boys, as always, bothered us, they always tried to ruin everything for us. They were angry with us that we did not accept them into our games, it was in the summer. But in the winter, we played together. We built snow barricades with them, went sledding downhill, skating, skiing, it was something...

Our childhood passed quickly. We meet sometimes, just in passing. Almost all of us are grandparents. Almost everyone “changed fifty dollars.” I think they will be pleased to read my memories; each one, of course, has his own. We should all meet, former children from our yard. How interesting it would be, and whoever’s parents are still alive would be able to see them too. They could tell us more about us than we remember about ourselves...
Guys! How are you? Do not mind? Let's meet!

I am a former “child of the system.” From first to third grade I lived in a boarding school, which was 200 kilometers from my hometown, and from fifth to ninth grade in an orphanage. With my story I want to show how a child who has fallen into the “system” feels, and how adult woman analyze why people working in this “system” begin to use violent methods of education.”

My mother is sick. She has schizophrenia. She first realized that something was wrong with her when she was in the 8th grade. She was very frightened by her thoughts and shared her fears with the school director, who sent her to be checked by a psychiatrist, and he sent her to the Jelgava Children's Center for treatment mental asylum. And that's where the bad thoughts ended. Years passed, and my mother forgot about this episode from her life. I studied, lived, rejoiced, fell in love, and I was born.

I’ll say right away that my father played a cameo role in my life, so I won’t talk further about him...

I remember very well the moment when I felt that something was wrong, something was changing. We sat on the grass at the bus stop and waited for the bus to go home. Suddenly my mother took a cigarette out of her bag and lit it. I had never seen her smoke before.

And then I started another conversation about how I didn’t like the kindergarten I went to, and asked my mother not to take me there anymore. And she said: “Yes, okay. Let's change it.”

This was the starting point after which everything went wrong. I started going to a new kindergarten, which I liked, but at home everything was not the same as before. Mom smoked more and more, mom’s voices appeared in our house, American President Reagan, God. All this really scared me. Mom got out of bed less and less often, smoked, sat on the sofa and either looked at one point on the wall or actively spoke to voices. From time to time she remembered me, pulled herself together, prepared food, talked to me, and then returned to her world again.

One day, when I was playing in the yard, my mother came up to me and began to braid my hair. Strangers appeared. Mom braided her hair and disappeared. Someone else's aunt asked if I wanted to go to the director kindergarten? I replied that I wanted...

Someone else's uncle carried me into the car. I felt that something was wrong, but I didn’t fully understand what exactly. On the way, the aunts said that today we would not go to the director, but would go to one place where I would live with other children. I think that was the first time they told me that my mother was sick. And that I will live there until my mother gets better, which will definitely be soon. I was very scared and blamed myself. I blamed myself for asking my mother to change kindergarten - if I had stayed in the same kindergarten, my mother would not have gotten sick. I lived with this feeling of guilt until I was 12 years old...

I remember boarding school vaguely. I am still horrified when I try to remember that time.

No one talked to me or asked how I was feeling. I was just inserted like a small cog into a big mechanism. I felt bad. I was scared, I wanted to go home. To Mom. Even with all her voices.

I have a new ritual. Every evening I prayed. However, it was more like trading. It sounded something like this: “Dear God! Please, please, make sure that mom is healthy and returns home. If You do this, then I...” and then I began to list all the things that I didn’t like to do and even something I couldn't do.

In first grade, I studied in the same building where we spent the night. In the morning we got up, had breakfast, then went to classes, had lunch, then studied again, did homework, then there was an afternoon snack (only those who had done their homework received it) and then before dinner they could go out into the yard to play. We had two teachers. One was very sweet and kind, and the second was harsh and loud. When I came to the boarding school, I didn’t really know how to read yet, but I quickly learned. It was the kind teacher who motivated me. I really enjoyed reading and started reading everything. If only there was a book. Books became my salvation. I could hide from reality in them. It was a different world and most importantly, there was no boarding school there.

You know, there is a joke that when a child needs to go to bed, he immediately wants to eat, drink and go to the toilet. And then we, parents, gritting our teeth, go to the kitchen to get the potty... If there are twenty children in one room, then it is even more difficult to put them to bed. They want to talk, tell horror stories, and jump around. In the boarding school, in order to maintain order, we were punished for being children. Once I was punished for not going to bed on time: I was seven years old, I was standing in a dark room on a cold floor, on bent legs with outstretched arms, on which lay a pillow. I don’t remember how long I had to stand, I just remember how they came up to me and asked: “Now are you going to go to sleep?”, to which we usually answered: “Yes,” and then the answer followed: “Well then, wait a little longer so that I slept better."

It is very difficult for me to remember anything good about the boarding school. Because everything good is connected with the fact that I left there. But for sure there were good moments. It’s just that for me, as a child, what was happening was such a big trauma that my subconscious crowded out all the good things.

Very quickly after I ended up in the boarding school, I developed chronic gastritis. To which they reproachfully told me: “It’s all because you were starving at home.” Gastritis disappeared at the age of 15, after I left Orphanage.

Gastritis became my second salvation. I was often sent to hospitals. First to the local one, then to the regional one. I spent a lot of time in hospitals. I still feel safe in hospitals. The cleaners, nurses, doctors - they all treated me with warmth. They sympathized with me and brought a feeling of warmth to my little Child's world filled with fears. Now, looking back, I admit that I was deliberately kept in hospitals longer. It’s just that everyone saw how afraid I was to return to the boarding school.

Because of gastritis, I was sent to a sanatorium in Jurmala. I associate it only with joy. No one there knew that I was from a boarding school. I could be like everyone else. I lied and fantasized about my life. In this world, my mother was healthy, and I was happy from these fantasies. I started stealing at the sanatorium. Relatives constantly visited the other children and brought them something tasty. I really wanted it too, so I started stealing from other children. Of course, the theft was quickly noticed, but the culprit could not be found. I started being cunning. She stole it and put a piece of it in one girl’s locker. She was "caught". But then they “caught” me too - at the time of the theft.

Mom was still in her own world. From time to time she pulled herself together and came to me. It was a big holiday for me.

Mom always brought a lot of gifts. That day, my mother was unable to go back, and she was allowed to stay overnight with me. We were lying in the same bed. It was the greatest happiness to feel my mother next to me.

Every time she came, I begged her: please take me with you, I feel bad here. And one day she did just that - she took me.

I lived at home for almost two years. In fact, no one helped either my mother or me. In September I went to our city ​​school, in 4th grade. Nothing has changed at home. Mom still had voices, from time to time she tried to take care of me, but she was not very successful, because the voices dictated their terms. At school I was constantly made fun of - dirty, lousy, smelly, withdrawn into myself. It was the same in the yard. I only had two friends who are still very close to me. And so, by and large, I never knew why I would be ridiculed today.

People began to appear in our yard who could not calmly look at my condition. I remember one day I was walking past a house, a woman appeared in the window and asked: “Karina, do you want to eat?” I answered: “I want to.” She invited me in. She had a daughter my age, with whom we quickly became friends. This was the time when I went to them to eat. They took it for granted. When I arrived, without asking, they put a plate on the table with the words: “First, eat.”

Another friend of mine had a formidable-looking mother. All the children in the yard were afraid of her. The only child who was not afraid of her was me. Because she always treated me with warmth and kindness. She was very worried about my mother and her fate.

Soon my class teacher also began to worry about me. She began to come to our house to see what conditions I was living in, and she realized that she couldn’t leave me at home. In the middle of the fifth grade, I was taken to an orphanage, and again with the words: “While mom is sick. Then you can come back.”

At first it seemed to me that everything would be different in the orphanage. There were much fewer children there than in the boarding school. The premises are more comfortable, and the director is a very sweet and warm-hearted woman who, when she saw me, hugged and caressed me. This has not happened before. And there was my best friend from boarding school, whom I was very happy about. I began to believe that everything would be fine now...

One person worked in the orphanage; he was the head of the economic department. He was firmly convinced that discipline could be imposed by force. He had quite big influence at the director, and at some point, desperate and not knowing what to do with “problem children,” she began to believe that his methods could help. These children were periodically beaten for inappropriate and aggressive behavior. It seemed normal to us. The way we looked at it was that they were being punished for what they did.

I was about 11 years old when the children brutally beat me. It was late evening, and I said something wrong about one girl. My best friend told her this. This girl was friends with a guy who was an authority among the children. I remember I was sitting in my room when they came and started pushing me.

I ran to the toilet, hid in a corner and began to cry. That boy grabbed me by the throat, pulled me towards him and said: “This is for what you said about that girl.” Then he threw me back on the floor. Then another boy kicked me in the head, and my head hit the wall every time. Then I think I started going hysterical. All I remember is that I wanted to die.

I didn't see any other way out. Death at that moment seemed to me the only solution. I wanted to get rid of this pain, humiliation, despair and fear. I had nowhere to run. It seems to me that someone ran to the night guard and told me that I wanted to commit suicide. I remember the teacher was afraid of only two things:

1. so that I don’t commit suicide

2. so that the management does not find out about this fight.

I didn't tell management anything. Why? Because, firstly, it seemed to me that I myself was to blame, since I said something bad about that girl. If I hadn’t said that, I wouldn’t have been beaten. Secondly, it’s unlikely that anyone would help me. What I realized at the age of 11 is that I only have myself. Nobody can help me. And I can't trust anyone.

Unlike the boarding school, where only “boarding students” studied, children from orphanage went to school with everyone else. But I don’t remember having even one “city kid” friend. We, from the orphanage, always stayed separate. And here for the first time I felt how “normal people” treated us. They tried to stay away from us, considered us abnormal, we were synonymous with the word “problem”... The belief that I was worse than others took root in me more and more. Because others had families, a home, and we were a herd that no one wanted to take.

The caretaker had days when he had good mood and days when it's bad. We were always waiting to see what day today would be. Personally, I never received anything from him, because I was a “good girl,” and “problem children” received... True, he could say something offensive to me, and these harsh words cut deep into my soul. And I always waited for the director, because she was always kind to me, I could hug her, cuddle up to her.

About a year later, the orphanage moved to another city. I moved to 6th grade to a new school...

At this school I met a woman who taught German. She knew the director of the orphanage and, apparently, she told her how I got there. It turned out that her mother had the same disease as mine. I started visiting them for a day, two, a week, a month. She had a son who was very happy to meet me. This woman and her husband tried very hard to make me feel at home. What they couldn't quite see was that over the years I had become broken. I couldn't see the good anymore. While in their house, I didn’t think for a second that I was here because I could be loved. At first I explained it to myself this way: I am with them because this aunt’s mother has the same disease as my mother. Then it’s like: well, I’m here because these people are very polite.

Not for a second did I think that you could become attached to me, that you could love me. I was from there - from an orphanage. They don't like people like us.

Only many years later, when I was already 28 years old, having undergone multiple courses of psychotherapy, I realized that it was because of me.

They tried very hard to teach me how to do basic things. Auntie talked to me a lot and explained. But I perceived every word she said like this: it’s because I’m bad, I’m abnormal. And she closed herself off more and more. She quickly noticed that I loved to read. She had a fantastic library. I loved this room... She noticed that I always read the ending first and only then the book itself. She taught me that you need to leave the intrigue. But I was very afraid of a bad ending... She was the one who noticed that I was not 100% left-handed. That I only write with my left hand and do everything else with my right. Her husband taught me that when asked, “How are you doing?” You need to respond with more than just “Okay.” But I looked at all their sincere efforts to help through the prism of my ugly perception of the world. I wasn't able to see love. And after leaving the orphanage at the age of 11, I closed the door to their house forever.

Aunt was the one who finally broke my illusion of “when mom is healthy, I will go home.” She delicately explained to me that this disease cannot be cured, that it lasts for life. And it was she who was the person who finally explained to me that it was not my fault that my mother got sick.

Every day I wanted more and more to be like everyone else - normal. And not the one at whom they point a finger behind your back and whisper “she’s from an orphanage.” I felt that I was worse than others, and I really wanted to be there - with others, normal ones.

Many "city children" went to music school. I asked the director if I could go there too. She agreed, and soon I began playing the flute. I wasn't the best student, but I liked to play. Music calmed me down. For many years later, when I was already studying in Riga, in stressful moments I loudly hummed Mozart's symphonies to myself. I performed with an orchestra. This allowed me to break out of my usual environment. We often went to perform with the orchestra, participated in rallies, and went to other cities for two or three days. However, I never left the feeling that I was different. I didn’t have pocket money like other children. There were many, many sandwiches. It is very important for children to feel like everyone else. And therefore, when you are broken, even the little things can be a big trauma for you.

When my eyes were opened and I said goodbye to the illusion that I would soon go home, something changed inside me. I began to think more and more often about how to become like others, and how I could leave the orphanage. I think that at that moment the adult in me woke up. I realized that I could no longer wait for salvation. I have to act on my own.

At the school where I studied, no one called me names, but inside I still felt different, rejected. I had two girlfriends who themselves wanted to be friends with me. When I stayed with my aunt, we walked home together, we had our own girly affairs, in which I seemed to physically take part, but in my soul I was far from all this. I was different, I was not a city child. When a classmate spoke to me at school, I jerked and thought: “What does he want from me? Why is he talking to me?”

Meanwhile, “problem children” were growing up in the orphanage. They became more aggressive, full of hatred, and inadequate. Everyone was afraid of the caretaker. If once violent methods were used only against “problem children,” now we were all afraid of him. One day, a girl didn’t say “thank you” to him and got hit on the back with a roll of wallpaper.

A psychologist appeared in the orphanage. Something new. She invited each child to her office, they had to draw something. This was the first person who tried to understand what was hidden behind our masks. But soon the director began to demand that the psychologist tell her what the children were telling her. She refused, and relations between the workers became strained.

The violence on the part of teachers has ended. But no one ever taught them what to do with “problem children.” They couldn't handle them. In order to somehow pacify them and restore order, they constantly threatened... The children scoured the city, looked for bottles and bulls in trash bins, and stole. I distanced myself from all this as I “infiltrated” society.” normal people"Soon, I made enemies in the orphanage. Returning “home” in the evening, I always thought: it would be nice if there was no one in the yard. Then I hid my fear deep, deep inside and went into the yard. I knew that if I showed I'm weak, I'll get eaten...

The age came when I started drinking alcohol and smoking. Aggression and anger began to grow in me. If until now I felt fear, humiliation, I had low self-esteem, then now all this is covered from above by aggression, anger and hatred. At school I became disobedient and cocky.

One day I didn’t do what the class teacher asked, and she yelled at me: “You stupid orphanage! Nothing will come of you! To which I loudly barked: “Go to hell!” and ran away.

More and more often I began to get angry at those around me. I swore - I'll show you again, whore. I will achieve much more than all of you combined. Let's see who is the scum of society here.

I found a vocational school in Riga, where in parallel with the program high school it was possible to master the secretary-clerk program. Received.

At the beginning of the summer, I agreed with the head of the new orphanage that in the summer I would work as a cleaner in a group for children. All summer I washed the floors, because in my new life I really wanted new, stylish shoes that all the city girls had. I received the money, happily ran to the store to buy shoes (three sizes too big, but I bought them anyway), bought sweets, cigarettes, paid for the entrance to the disco for the first time (before that, one of my friends usually paid) and happily waited for my freedom .

The day was approaching when we had to leave for Riga. I found out that the first housing benefit will only be paid on September 20th. I went to the head of the orphanage and asked that they give me money to somehow make it until September 20th. But she answered: “No. You had money. You need to live on it.” I answered her: “But it was my salary. I spent it all.” To which she replied: “I don’t care. Live as you want.”

So, without a centime in my pocket, with a torn sports bag in which there were only a few things, full of hatred and anger, I went to Riga.

How did I make it to the 20th? I was supported by a girl who, on the very first day, offered to be friends. I was lucky again. Not for a moment did I think about turning to anyone for help or asking for anything.

In the first years of freedom, I seemed to have broken free - I drank a lot, tried different substances, forged a copy of my passport, went to night discos, got involved in eternal problems in the hostels - I was one of those aggressive ones, bad girls. On Mondays I regularly went to the carpet to see the head teacher about another night out. One day, the academic director couldn’t stand it and threw us three girls out of the dormitory. I had to spend one night on the street because there was simply nowhere to go. And all this time I was considered a ward of the state.

My self-esteem was below par, but I skillfully hid this fact under the guise of bravado. I didn’t tell anyone how bad I felt, how ugly I seemed to myself.

I always fell in love with guys who treated me worst and humiliated me. I humiliated myself. The nice guys who were in love with me, I couldn't reciprocate. Because I don't deserve it good attitude to yourself. I was always balancing on the edge - abnormal drinking in dens, on the one hand, and school and the goal set, on the other.

In your hometown I arrived with my head held high, having borrowed clothes from my friends. Everyone thought I was arrogant, but in reality it was anger. Anger due to the humiliation experienced.

When the first summer arrived, my mother and I realized that we could not survive on her small pension. And at the age of 15, I got a job in a cafe in Riga. Work began at 9 am and ended at four am. I needed to learn to talk to strangers. “Smile, Karina, smile,” my boss constantly taught me. But I couldn't control my first glance. When a person approached, I looked at him with suspicion, as if saying: “don’t come near me,” and a blank wall grew between us.

I got my first big money. I bought my clothes from the Bik Bok store. Before that, I only had pennies and I was bargaining at the market for Turkish clothes. That summer I started smoking expensive cigarettes... At that time I didn’t know how to handle money, I didn’t know how to save and save. One day I had money, but the next day I didn’t. There was complete chaos in my head, but there was always a person next to me who, without realizing it, gave me the strength to return to my goal...

Every year I see people get active on Christmas Eve and start collecting teddy bears and other toys for these children. Give them the most valuable thing - open your hearts to them, do not turn away from them, do not label them as “a child from an orphanage.”

I needed long years to understand that I am no worse than others, that I am worthy of love. In many ways, my trauma was connected precisely with the attitude towards the “child from the orphanage”.

Former “children of the system” can be divided into two categories: some are able to socialize, but carry pain and resentment within them for the rest of their lives. They usually hide their feelings and don’t talk about their experiences. The second ones come out broken, cannot pull themselves together and go the easy way, the way they know - they become drunkards, their children end up in orphanages, and they themselves end up in prison... And we cannot blame them for this. I was lucky because people constantly appeared in my life who brought warmth and love. I didn’t feel it then, but somewhere there, deep in my subconscious, it settled in me. And if you - " problem child" - they are afraid of you, they do not understand you and they write you off. No one will give you warmth, affection and care.

The system can only be corrected if you admit to yourself that the problem exists, and it is huge. And everyone understands well that this is very hard work and there is no clear solution. My proposal, as a former “child of the system”, is as follows:

1. provide psychotherapist services in orphanages - both for children and for staff

2. Prepare your children for life - don't throw them away. A person does not suddenly become an adult at 18 years old (in my case at 15 years old)

3. DON’T write off problem children.

4. criticize yourself and focus on problems. It is understanding the problem and solving it that will help improve the situation.

Today I can say with confidence - I am proud of myself. However, the work on oneself is not finished. Now all my energies are aimed at raising two kids and creating a successful career. But I know that the day will come when I will return to the therapist’s office again, because there are still many unresolved issues. And they wouldn’t have existed if someone had started talking and working with me in time.

At about 26 years old I had a successful career, stable income, twice a year I could travel. My brain relaxed and everything that I had tried so hard to hide all these years began to emerge from my consciousness.

I achieved my goals and didn’t know what to do next. I couldn’t pull myself together, apathy and depression appeared. I pulled myself together, left for another job, but then apathy appeared again. I was afraid of getting schizophrenia, like my mother, so I decided to seek help from a psychotherapist.

I went to a psychotherapist once a week for four years. Visits to the doctor have become part of daily life. My body protested. Every time I had to go to see a specialist, I started getting cramps in my stomach. My body was screaming: what are you doing? Put it all away. Don't reach outside. It took the doctor a lot of time for me to gradually start talking about my childhood, about my experiences, about my feelings, about what I saw. It was only during visits to the doctor that I began to remember not only the bad, but also the good.

I remember how I sat opposite her and talked about some good episode from my childhood, she looked at me and smiled: “You see, Karina, there were good things too.” And I thought: “Yes, indeed. There were some good things.” I realized this only at 28 years old. Before that, all the good things in my mind were pushed away by hatred, anger, fear and pain.

I remember the first time I came from Riga to an orphanage for the weekend. Me, a couple of other children, and the teacher, Solveiga, were walking through the woods when I told her how lucky I felt to finally be able to escape this nightmare. These words upset her. She looked at me and said: “Karina, come on. There were good things.”

Teacher! If you and I were walking through this forest again today and you asked this question again, I would answer you: “Yes, it was. And there were a lot of good things.” And we would remember how all the children went to your village, held a cleanup day, and fried potato pancakes over the fire. It was there that I learned the recipe for the most delicious pancakes, which I still use today. We would remember how you taught us folk dances, how we went to another city for a holiday and danced. How we went to the sea to swim, picked blueberries in the forest. I would remember how new manager the economic department secretly bought cookies and other sweets for my musical trips, so that I didn’t have to travel with only bread. We would remember the cook, to whom we ran into the kitchen and made such a mess that she threw us out of there screaming, and we ran away laughing, grabbing handfuls of bread along the way.

But then I didn’t see all this and couldn’t see it. I only saw this when I was 28 years old, thanks to a psychotherapist.

When I was little, the house in which I lived then and still live seemed huge to me. Large rooms, large windows, tall wardrobes... And our yard seemed endless to me! Walking along the path from the gate deep into the garden is quite a walk. My crib was a whole room for me! Now, remembering my old feelings and comparing them with reality, I understand that our house is very ordinary, and in some places it’s even cramped.

The house of my childhood remains in my memory as cozy, bright and warm. Delicious smells and conversations were always heard from the kitchen. Grandfather and grandmother were alive, and their friends often came to see them. I remember that on the shelves there were snow-white napkins that my grandmother made herself. They were inviolable, like a valuable museum exhibit.

The gray tabby cat Murchik walked importantly through the rooms. Thickets of my mother's indoor flowers towered on the windowsills. From spring to late autumn, some flowers, bushes, and trees bloomed in the garden. Cherries, sweet cherries, apricots, and pears produced generous harvests.

Like any child, I had a lot of toys as a child. There was a place for all of them in my room - I was given a whole sideboard with glass doors. I liked to arrange all my animals, dolls, cars on the shelves so that they could be easily seen. The walls of my room were covered with my artistic “masterpieces.” As I grew older, I took them off because they were very funny and clumsy. And my mother always praised me and hung my drawings on the wall!

The childhood home is a whole world in which everything was both mysterious and familiar at the same time. Favorite people lived there and things happened important events. It always felt cozy and good, like only home can be. And this is how I will remember him forever.

Grasshopper - Sphinx

Athlete - Black

Rex - Vulture

Max - Shadow

Boring - Larry

Crybaby - Horse

Vacuum cleaner -

Puffy - Solomon

Death - Red

Magician - Jack

Mole - Leopard

Questions that I would call purely technical. Most of them have already been answered by the readers themselves. Nevertheless:

The three-fingered man in black is Ralph. The child that the Rat brings to him is the former Godmother.

The waitress, naturally, is Red. Her son, naturally, is Fat. They are waiting, of course, for the Lord.

Man with a Crow - Humpback. Rat Fairy - Rat. The kids in the truck are unreasonable.

The Vulture has two legs. Skull was killed on the night of his high school seniors' graduation. The Wolf ordered the Macedonian to remove the Blind Man from the House. In the chapter “Confession of the Red Dragon,” Makedonsky says: “I did not tell him (the Blind) who I was ordered to put on a chain outside the threshold of the house. He could decide that he owes me, and I didn’t want that.”

Little Blind in the epilogue is taken by the Sphinx from an alternate reality. There was no way he could pull it out of his past, because it had already happened. He received the opportunity to change something in one of the realities (or even kidnap someone from there) thanks to a pen - a gift from Tabaca.

.........

“I confess that I like questions that arise not from inattention, but rather from the fact that the topic itself is not sufficiently covered in the book.

Why does Red wait for the Lord, although she loves the Blind?

Short answer: Red loves the Lord, not the Blind Man.

And the long answer looks like this:

The epilogue is divided into four parts. Appearance. An old, different appearance (or a different circle). Tales from the other side. “Fairy Tales” is the world of the underside of the House, where the Sleepers went, i.e. Jumpers and Walkers. There are only five Walkers in the House. Blind, Sphinx, Red, Rat and Lord. Perhaps there are even six of them, if the Macedonian is also a Walker, which I personally am not sure of. Walkers go to other worlds completely, without leaving real world body. In another world they are also called Guides because they can walk through worlds. The world of the underside of the House (a very conditional definition) has its own underside, a little more fabulous than our world, and it, in turn, has the world of the Forest - completely fabulous. And the guide can take someone there with him.

Red's love for Blind has a direct bearing on the fact that he is a Walker, and Red has been dreaming since childhood of a handsome prince who will take her with him to a fairy tale. And if you reread “The Redhead’s Tale,” it becomes clear that she found her prince. Only it turned out to be not the Blind Man, but the Lord. “The Redhead’s Tale” coincides in time with the Lord’s first “leap” to the inside of the House, after which he is taken outside. That is, with his story told on the last Night of Fairy Tales. Their meeting in another world occurs even before the Lord meets Red in the second book and falls in love with her. Therefore, the Lord does not recognize her in Klopovnik.

Red's childhood love for Blind is more of a self-hypnosis than a genuine feeling. She was too young during the time of Jonathan the Seagull and had virtually no contact with the Blind Man over the following years. But this is a long-standing and persistent self-hypnosis. All the people close to Red know about him. And naturally, she is ashamed to admit to herself that she has betrayed this feeling. In addition, like every old-timer of the House, Red is a snob, for her those who have arrived in the House relatively recently are second-class people. And Lord is just one of those. In addition, he is very handsome, for Red this is more of a minus than a plus. They are not connected by common childhood memories that old-timers value so highly. The Lord “without a week” (as Tabaka put it) who was in the House became a Walker almost immediately. From the first move. And I didn't even notice it. The redhead is mortally jealous of him. Hence their endless quarrels and showdowns. He is the one who can make her dream come true and the one who, unlike the Blind Man, will do it with joy. It's enough to ask. Or at least hint. Therefore, she will neither ask nor hint. And only at the very last moment it won’t hold up. Her “fairy tale” is both a declaration of love and a cry for help, which she funnyly concludes with the assurance that “she will never ask for anything.” Although I just asked. And the Lord immediately responds. He gives the wheel from the watch to the Vulture, and of course he will not only find Red on the wrong side of the House, but will also transfer her and Tolstoy from this world to that one entirely, as she wanted. In the chapter “Voices from the Outside,” Red will tell the Smoker that some of the Sleepers have “evaporated.” Those. Some of them were taken away by the conductor."

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The children at home have normal intelligence. Slightly above average, if you don’t focus on wheelchair users and the most well-read walkers. In the third, the Vulture has no one to talk to about either music or painting. The second one also does not leave the impression of intellectuals. And quoting Latin sayings does not mean that Pheasants know Latin. It’s just that closed communities have their own concepts about what is necessary and what is not necessary, and the most unexpected ways diversify life. The mind of any teenager requires food; the mind of a teenager with physical disabilities needs this food more than his healthy peer. In a place where entertainment is limited board games, cards, chess and a library, it is not surprising that there are a certain number of well-read people. In addition, in the 4th there was an additional factor in the person of the Wolf - a passionate reader who infects those around him with his passion. And even imposing it on others.

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When the Blind Man says that he says goodbye to everyone who returns for another round, does this mean that he himself will not be there? That is, did he go into the Forest completely, or will he still be Blind in that alternate reality where Stinky watches the arrival of the Grasshopper?

The fact that the Grasshopper comes to the House at the end of the book is a conscious decision by the Sphinx to return for another round?

Only Tabaqui remembers the previous circles or does everyone returning remember them?

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The blind man says goodbye to Tabaqui and the Vulture who are leaving for another circle, whom they will never meet again.

Circles are other lives. They do not appear sequentially, but exist in parallel. Only Tabaqui is able to move from circle to circle, retaining the memory of other lives. On another circle there cannot be the same Blind Man and the same Sphinx that were on this one. In the House where Stinky greets the Grasshopper, there must be another little Blind Man who will not greet the Grasshopper, because he has no idea about him. It is not a fact, by the way, that the Grasshopper will be called Grasshopper there, and not something else. So this is a conditional Grasshopper.

There can be no talk of any conscious decision by the Sphinx. His retreat into the outside was conscious. If he wanted to return to another circle, he would have asked Tabaca for a gear, like the Vulture.

Only Tabaqui retains the memory. After some time the vulture will stop remembering past life. Although he will still have some skills, habits and inexplicable phobias that are not characteristic of the young Rex. He will be different. More mature. More careful. And he will always be afraid of losing his brother. It's like the transmigration of souls. The soul of an adult has moved into a child and there will be no real child in that circle of life.

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The Rat and the Blind Man. Both are walkers. Both go into the same world, undoubtedly their relationship can develop further. Although they are loners and quite unpredictable, so it is difficult to make any predictions. It is also difficult for me to judge the degree of authenticity of their love. So far they have chosen each other, and what will happen next is unknown.

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The question is this: Red says that he knows which of the three daughters he loves, well, logically, the one who is not red, but who is this daughter from???

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Red loves more the one of the daughters who, it seems to him (although he agrees that this is rather self-hypnosis), is somewhat similar to Red. She is undoubtedly a redhead, but maybe lighter than her dad and has freckles. And her mother is the same as the other children. He told the Smoker that all his children were from one wife.

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What role did the smoker’s diary play in what was happening? The vulture's records have disappeared, so those who went to the next round are disappearing from the lives of those who remained? then why did some guy (white-bellied, it seems) ask the smoker to write about him in his diary? said that he was only on the first lap and he needed to fix himself wherever possible? why do it if it disappears?

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The Smoking Man's Diary plays a mystical role only in the imagination of the residents of the House, who are inclined to leave traces wherever possible. On the walls of the House, on the asphalt, on the trees... It seems to them that the more such traces they leave (are recorded), the more chances they have to appear in the House on another circle. But this is just folklore. After all, even Stinky Tobacco is not sure that the Sphinx will appear in the House again, hence his joy when this happens.

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Where did the idea for writing this book come from, what inspired or prompted its creation??? I’m looking forward to your answer :)

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It’s difficult for me to answer about the idea. It wasn’t like one day an idea suddenly appeared. Or I don't remember anymore. The first passage that was written on the House is the one where the Blind Man enters the Forest. He was then separate, on his own. He just smelled something long history. From many such pieces, the overall picture gradually emerged.

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Children abandoned by their parents grow up early. And eighteen-year-olds who have lived in another world for several years, too. The Sphinx is one of the few Jumpers whose age can be easily calculated. 18+6. Total 25. A little younger than you. The Lord's maturation takes place more clearly. At the beginning of the book he is approximately seventeen years old. The first jump lasts four months and I don't know how many more times he jumped, but by the third book he is older than the Sphinx.

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Gear - moving to another circle. A pen is an opportunity to get there and change something.

The Lord wanted to get to another circle before he got to the House on this circle. I wanted to be an old-timer. Live in the House longer than you have lived. I wanted to love Red from childhood, and to know her from childhood, like the Sphinx, the Blind and the Red, and not meet her at 18 years old. He wanted Red to perceive him as her own. This is a complex. He doubts her feelings. He wants more intimacy with her. The same as the former “Plague-Deaths” have. He is jealous of them all. The Lord expects that on another circle he will be in the House earlier than on this one, because on this one he became a Walker.

As Tabaqui told him, it is not a fact that once he finds himself in the House and forgets his previous life, he will fall in love with Red, but this does not stop the Lord.

The vulture will relive part of his childhood. Whether his brother will die, I don’t know. Probably no. This will be a different life.

The Feather and Stinky's meeting with the fictitious Grasshopper are in no way connected. The blind man will of course be in that other House, unless this is the circle from which the Sphinx pulled him out.

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A house in a dream most often symbolizes the person himself, his state of mind, satisfaction own life, thoughts and feelings. What does a house look like in a dream and does it mean something? real life for this person - extremely important for correct interpretation sleep.

What if you dream about a house from your childhood?

If a house from childhood appears in a dream, then it is really worth thinking about what this house meant for a person’s life, and what feelings he experienced in it. If childhood was spent in happiness and joy, in a loving family atmosphere, then the current appearance of this house in a dream indicates that a person is serious about creating a family, as bright and joyful as in the memories of childhood. A person himself may not be aware of this desire, but the dream directly suggests that for complete happiness and harmony with oneself, one should seriously think about creating one’s own family nest.

If you dream of a house from childhood, in which loved ones who died in real life are still alive, then such a dream indicates that a person cannot let go of his family and constantly clings to the past with his thoughts. It's time to let go of these feelings so that you can finally live in the present.

It often happens that you dream of a house from your childhood, in which in real life you experienced far from pleasant feelings and emotions, and you also have negative memories of this house. This dream also speaks of current state feelings, emotions and desires of this person.

In real life, such a person may experience strong dissatisfaction with the current state of affairs. Perhaps there is some strong fear in the soul, or inner loneliness has already led to deep depression. Such a dream is a sign to pay attention to your experiences.

What does it portend?

In psychology, it is believed that a person who often has dreams about childhood, who often sees his childhood home there, experiences strong dissatisfaction with his real life. There are problems that a person either tries not to notice, or simply does nothing to solve them. The only correct reaction to such dreams is to pay attention to existing problems and honestly try to solve them. Then your own satisfaction with life in the present will increase, and dreams of a house from childhood will no longer bother you.

Why do you still dream about a house from your childhood? If a person puts things in order there, or the house itself is very clean, cozy and brings only joy and peace, then such a dream can foreshadow the beginning of a very good period in this person's life. There will be good events and good acquaintances.

A dream where a house from childhood appears is not an empty dream. It is worth paying close attention to your state of mind in the present time. Something may be very disturbing to such a person, and problems need to be resolved as soon as possible for a calm and joyful life.