Blogger Olga Savelyeva talks about family, relationships, men and women.
Confessions of a bad good girl.
One day it happened to us… watermelon.
It was at the very beginning of the relationship. When still passion, multiplied by youth, adds hops even to morning coffee. Living without each other all day is unthinkable. Passion is such that beds break and elevators get stuck.
Youth is a burlesque of feelings and a firework of emotions. I am painfully jealous, unreasonably touchy and completely unbearable. In a word, I am young and objectively good. Misha then led a youth organization near Moscow. He had a busy schedule of activities. Some schoolgirl graduates constantly curled around, touched his elbows, asked nonsense. I made scenes. Just. She marked her territory.
It was an ultimatum: either together or all. Misha got drunk on me, I suppressed his will. I physically felt my power over him. We got on the bus and went to the sea. There was a lot of youth, a lot of laughter, a lot of drive, a lot of happiness. One evening, the organizers of the camp called the youth to the fire right on the seashore. There were about 40 of us. Three watermelons were brought to the beach. For 40 people this is very little. Someone definitely won't get it. A crowd formed around the watermelons. I didn't go into it. I had Misha, he will decide everything. Misha took out two large, smiling, red and juicy pieces of watermelon, and, pleased, handed me one. We wanted to sit on the sand and eat sweet prey in an embrace. We sat down.
And then I saw a girl. She was also in this camp, she came from another city. She was small and fragile, completely defenseless. She didn't even go into the crowd for a watermelon. Apparently, she was afraid that they would trample. She just stood aside, wrapping herself in a jacket and feigning indifference.
My heart sank. I had everything: boyfriend, love, sun, sea, happiness. She has loneliness. I stood up resolutely, went up to the girl and gave her my unbitten piece of watermelon.
- Hold on!
- Oh, - she was confused. She took a watermelon with two palms. - Thank you very much.
I returned to Misha. Sat nearby. I took a bite out of his piece of watermelon … That's all. This is a great image. He opens me completely, as if peeled.
My husband constantly tells me that “you are somewhere out there”, “you are for everyone”, “you are not around”. There I am elegant, flying, in heels. And at home - tired, in slippers. The husband, as it were, asks: why should I get you a watermelon if it is not for you? If I want to do charity work, I will do it myself. I don't need an intermediate.
- Why not me? I wonder. - Me.
It's just a gift, and with a gift I can do whatever I want. But Misha is outraged. It's time to collect the stones. He seems to be asking for all his watermelons back. And I gave them away. There are none.
I've lived with latent guilt all these years. For what I am. And I can't help it. Sorry. I have to leave today. But I'll be back home tonight. I'll change into slippers, yes. But I will hug you. I'm making borscht. I'll take the kids. I'll go to bed with you. Is this not enough? But Misha is not enough.
I love my family very much. Truth. That is all I have. And I give her the maximum of what I have. And even if I go to work, this is also for the family. The husband says: everything that you do, you do for yourself. No need to lie to yourself, it's for the family. I think he's right.
I do everything for myself. WE ALL do everything for ourselves. We are all selfish. You get us a watermelon for yourself. So you feel like a man. For the sake of the woman you love, you want to get watermelons, don't you? And I give. I am like that. I don't want to make excuses for it. I want you to understand that if I don't do this, it won't be me. You can eat your own watermelon. But it won't be you.
Child psychologists have a test to identify a child who is experiencing domestic violence. Suppose there is a suspicion that Uncle Borya is a bastard. The child is told a fairy tale in which there is a kind princess and a kind prince, and an evil woman Yaga and Koschey. After the fairy tale, the child is asked:
- Here's mom - is she kind, like a princess? “Yeah,” the kid says. - And dad - kind as a prince? - Dia. - And Uncle Borya? Kind? "No," the kid shook his head. - He's as evil as Koschei…
Everything is clear, suspicions were confirmed.
Children are simple: there is good - there is bad. And no more. We are all grown children. In fact, we also have this: there is someone good, and there is Uncle Borya. Good is me. The bad one is the other side in the conflict.
When two close people got into a crisis, it is very important to remember that they remained close people, they just got into a crisis. But at that moment it is difficult to understand that the second person is not your enemy, and if he behaves like an enemy, then he simply wants to tell you something important by his behavior. For example, ask for help. He himself does not like to be bad, but a broken vase is an element of attracting attention. Whose vases should he beat, if not yours?
For example, during quarrels, my husband screams. Waving his hands. There are fists on the hands. They scare me. His eyes fill with anger. I defend myself from his cry - mine. As a result, we throw (sword?) at each other with spears of loud accusations, injure each other with darts of insults, and in this struggle we lose the desire to find the truth.
My function in the dialogue from now on is not to delve into, but to extinguish. I wholeheartedly agree with everything. I nod. Yes Yes. Yes Yes. I nod but don't listen. Yes Yes. Irritation and disappointment spills inside. I don't want to be treated like this. They screamed. I forget that the husband is not an enemy, but a friend who feels bad. For many years he has been my best friend. And if suddenly he changed a lot, then something happened. And you need to understand what. And not yes, duck on "Fuck off."
But through the scream - and the scream is psychological violence, and nothing else - it is impossible to hear what he wants to say. Only calm is the key to a successful dialogue. The raised tone is the deliberate clothes of the enemy. One must defend oneself from enemies, and not listen to them carefully, outlining thoughts and insights.
But my husband no longer has the strength to calm down. The boiling point has long been passed.
I didn't know husbands broke down. That they are alive and can get tired. That they can get sick without warning, go out of the race and turn off the outlet. I've never experienced this before and am very surprised. And a scream is all he has to ask for help. He seems to be wounded and, as if with the last of his strength, reaches out and pushes my favorite vase off the shelf. And I notice a broken vase, sort through the pieces and get terribly angry at him. And again, I don’t notice him, my husband, who is much more broken than a vase. I just can't. Not used to. Didn't teach me.
And he just wants to shout that he is bad, and I have the most direct relation to this "bad". And I look at his swollen veins on his neck and think: “I'm such a smart girl. Why am I putting up with this?” And from this I feel even more clever: there I am, patient. I even engage in narcissism in a quarrel and please myself with my selfless service to the family.
When the storm passes, I ask my husband: - Why did you scream?
I am very generous. I am ready to forgive him.
- You can't do it any other way, - the husband says wearily. - You don't understand.
Listen, that's why I don't understand. I begin to analyze the conversation in fragments of phrases that are imprinted in my memory, only later, when everyone has calmed down. I go over everything he said. I put aside those that offended. Let's say he didn't want to. I'm looking for the ones that make sense. And that's where insights happen.
Maybe he yelled, not because he was a rotten scoundrel, but out of desperation? Because he was tired of talking calmly. He spoke, spoke, spoke … And I ate watermelon. The second one is the piece that is essentially his. I already gave mine away. And here I am eating a piece of it. And he remained hungry. All these years. Hungry and angry. And this anger spills out in quarrels.
I'm great at dissecting everything he says. I understand why and why this or that phrase sounds. When I brought home fives, my mother said: "Olya is all in me." When I brought a three, my mother said: “Who are you like?” While I justified her expectations - I was her daughter, and any jamb immediately demanded a test for the definition of motherhood, because she could not raise such rubbish. I'm the same.
Men break down most often because of internal dissatisfaction with their results. Because of the broken sights. Because of disappointments. Lost inspirations. Broken wings. Interrupted flights. An ordinary person in a crisis begins to keep a register of other people's shortcomings, which are full. This work is very important to him, which reconciles him with his own inner dissatisfaction, in this way, as it were, he forgives himself for imperfection. This must be endured. Live. Help. Save. A good person does not become bad from a good life. Men get hurt too. And they scream. And my husband is screaming. I didn't scream before. And I'm surprised and offended.
Who is this horrible person? Why is he angry, screaming and not building a house for me? Why didn't he buy me a car? Why isn't she babysitting my children? He promised.
Everything is clear - he is Koschei. Evil Koschey. And I am a princess. Kind, unfortunate, unappreciated. And who else? Recognize Baba Yaga in yourself??? No. I'm good. Well, isn't it true? Every time they tell me on the blog: you are good. People are more visible. People who don't live with me always know better how good I am, yeah. But a good wife, one who is "both in grief and in joy" - she does not leave her broken husband. She fixes it. Must fix.
And where and how to take them, and even to your share - I don't know. The easiest way now is to hide in your cry. Scream - villains. You are a villain. I must say: "goodbye, villain, I'm selling for divorce." And go into the fog. Or… Or… Or still…
Men go through a tough transformation at a certain age. A fracture happens. And how it will grow together - the devil knows. Everything depends on the people themselves. Will they be willing to endure the unpredictable turbulence of relationships and cast fractures. Or is it easier to disperse, reach a new level in the transformation, and go further each in his own way.
There are no right answers here. Only choice. He is alone if there is love. He is different if she is not. It is different and always correct. Sometimes flying into the abyss together is right. Sometimes letting go is the right thing to do. Sometimes waiting upstairs is right. Sometimes waiting downstairs is right.
Now I can get the watermelon myself. I can do everything! I know how to get and feed my children. But the one that the husband gets is always sweeter. And riper. And happier. I don't believe in perfect marriages. Well, when people meet - and breathe in unison "until death do them part."
My friend tells me that her parents have been together for 40 years and have never quarreled. I am silent, I do not comment. But I think that this is not about the absence of contradictions, but about the ability to process objections silently. People from different sandboxes sculpt different Easter cakes. Two different people cannot always coincide in everything. I believe that any quality and long-term relationship deserves a crisis. Crisis is good. And very cool. This is an inoculation. Vaccination to improve immunity.
I wrote this post because I got 12 emails this morning about how nice I am. “Olya, thank you, you are perfect,” people write. "You are my hero. You are my example." I sigh. I'm tired. Being a hero and an example is very expensive. I want to open my coat. That's what I am. Seen? I am packed with sins and shortcomings to the eyeballs. I am normal. And my family is normal. With problems and crises inherent in any ordinary family. The only difference is that I can and love to write.
God probably chose me as a trainer. I live in difficult situations. One by one. Since childhood. Since I can remember myself.
And I process this information, analyze, realize and bake my insights and insights in the form of ruddy and simple stories. In which each of you can sometimes recognize yourself. Precisely because I am ordinary, and we are all essentially alike like loaves. By the way, I love eating a fresh loaf with cold watermelon. Yummy.
Wishing everyone a delicious sweet watermelon world.