in red spots, I breathe deeply so as not to panic. He softens a little and tries to calm me down, although he stays away — I’m not going anywhere, I’m not dying, I’m not moving to another planet. I'm still right there. It's just that as a couple we can't be together anymore. We torture each other.
And he was right, but then I was greatly annoyed. I was wildly offended that it was not me who decided, but he. Do you understand? This is women's grief. We cry not because our loved one has left, but because we were abandoned, not us.
It is only later, in order not to admit this to ourselves, that we begin to look for excuses and come to the conclusion that, in fact, our beloved was a wonderful person, and there is no one better than him, and we should try to get him back.
No, to just spit and go your own way. No, this is exactly what we need. Even then I thought: “What if he takes all the money, the car, the company. And such a “beautiful” one will quickly find himself some clever girl, with whom the two of them will chirp over the fool Margarita, the greedy witch, who rightly was left alone and with nothing. And now she will be a lonely, harmful lady for a long time, because we will give her a reputation as a bad wife.”
— Stay at home for the night, we’ll discuss everything in the morning.
— No. I pack my things and leave.
— But you still love me.
— No more.
At this point I completely gave up. “Let him go,” I said to myself, but not to him (in case I killed the last chance for a reunion).
I didn't sleep a wink that night. I drank hot tea to warm myself from the inside, the lump didn’t get into my throat, just drinking. I didn’t need alcohol, nor did I need cigarettes.
I turned on the wonderful, uplifting film “Elizabethtown” and watched it with breaks to cry all night. I also did this interesting thing.
Girls, remember, just in case. When your soul hurts and you think that there is no way out, then take clean sheets of paper and a pen.
And start writing out all your secret misdeeds and mistakes, sins, whatever you want to call them.
Write what kind of offense it is. And then specifically WHEN? WHERE? WHAT HAPPENED? HOW EXACTLY? And don’t even allow the possibility of justifying it. Neither on paper nor in your thoughts do you allow yourself to transfer at least part of the responsibility to someone else in this incident and remove it from yourself.
Write the whole truth and only from the position of what harm you have caused.
At first it will seem to you that you are saints. This will pass.
You'll think, “Hmm. Yes, I threw the waist into that guy’s soup, but it’s his own fault. Even if he later went bald, he no longer cheats on his wife.” Do you understand?
Or “I had to spank that brat, otherwise he would have ruined my garden.”
Do you see?
This way you will never alleviate your condition. Only by returning responsibility to yourself, by becoming the cause, will you regain control and power, and with them your fighting spirit.
I regained my fighting spirit. By morning I was already at the parade.
I hardly cried in those first two weeks. Yes, I still didn’t sleep well at night, but every day I called my husband with an offer to talk. She was refused and lived again as usual.
I already clearly understood what I was doing wrong and where I needed to remain silent. I have become smarter and more cunning. I stopped thinking that I should live alone, because Vladislav, in general, is the same one behind whose back I am like behind a stone wall.
Money for education came into the background, because in fact, life itself taught me a lesson. The training took place at an expensive price, but not in the place where I thought.
The only problem was the apartment, which became unaffordable for me, so I moved in with friends and rented a bed from them for a couple of months.
Of course, then I lit a cigarette and reduced the amount of food I ate three times, it did me good, my waist became aspen, and I had enough energy to start writing new books.
That's what was painful. Yes, dear, I’ll remind you of something now, but don’t worry about it. All in the past.
My husband, girls, forgot for a while that he is a gentleman, and for some reason decided to pin the move on me. A large two-room rented apartment filled with our things remained with me. There were our common belongings: dishes, clothes, shoes, office supplies, decorative items.
And one fine day I gathered my strength and went there all alone. Just me and the empty haven of two broken hearts.
I could turn on sad music, touch every thing and cry over it, but I didn’t want to artificially force myself to suffer. I felt pretty good and bravely endured all the training. Four hours later, about twenty boxes were already waiting for the movers in the hallway. I drank my last tea in this apartment and sighed sadly and said to myself. “Yes, it was a great time, it was a terrible time.”
And then I smiled, because I didn’t like this apartment, the entrance, the area. Despite the pretentiousness of the decoration, the neighbor's cockroaches scurried around here a couple of times (apparently they got lost), and my neighbor, a drug addict, gave me a persistent feeling of disgust for this area as a whole.
In a way, the goal was achieved, the poor housing was abandoned, I
