A YEAR LATER. SURVIVED Symbolism is deeply inherent in me. I remember significant dates, as they are associated with people who settled in the heart and events that determine the direction of the Path. Today there are many lines for the author himself. This is therapy. I hope she has come to her end. I am writing as a woman who almost died after a relationship with her loved one. As a person whose trust was betrayed. As a person who also causes pain. As a student who made a fatal mistake. As a psychologist trying to find a request .As a teacher collecting experience. As a writer reflecting on internal “prisons” and their inmates. Of course, from the outside you can condemn, pity, laugh, gloat. I am not ashamed to be weak and helpless, broken, for someone funny and stupid .It’s not difficult to admit your mistakes and illusions when your eyes are finally opened to them. It’s not shameful to ask for help when the world is collapsing, and you yourself, unconsciously, barbarically finish yourself off from all sides. It’s easy to apologize and be grateful to those who tried help, but I encountered terrible resistance and a storm of emotions. I want to allow myself to be myself. Perhaps my experience of surviving and recovering from ruins will help someone. I know, this is how life works. August 27, a year ago, became a dark day. On that day I stopped breathing, and eighteen days later I “died.” My friend thinks that I am too sentimental, emotional, vulnerable and sensitive, that’s why it’s so acute, for so long, she reacted so unbearably hard, not like an adult, to a banal situation. We have no right to make diagnoses. Everyone has their own disease. Of course!)) And romantic and despotic, and white and black and colored. What's the difference? Lively and real, loving, and here plunged into pain to its very black bottom. Bottoms. For a long time. Without a flashlight and an oxygen tank. Only after living through it do I have the courage to try to touch the pain of another person. Only after knowing myself, real, wounded, naked in front of an unfair world and my mistakes, was I able to recognize my own worth and recognize my own cheapness. Speech is not about other. It’s always better to start with yourself. A year ago, from my beloved goddess, princess, angel and the most beautiful bunny on earth, I suddenly became a nobody. My fairy-tale paradise turned out to be a fake doll castle. Experts say that she came up with it out of nowhere. The “death” of the relationship was sudden, without explanation, affecting very close and dear people and the entire organization. The game was played with masterful sophistication and was really worth the thunderous applause. I suffered from silence, injustice, and lack of understanding of what was happening , unfinished relationships, because the patient disappeared from the ward. There is no one, only an empty, still warm, smelling bed. The diagnosis was not announced, there was no patient. Where did the sudden death come from?! After unblocking it for a few seconds, they were notified about it by a voice message from the “other world.” It was said that: “I am a goddess, a princess, I remain one, I must always remember this!, people see this, you need to behave accordingly, all the words spoken are true, soon I will forget everything, the pain will go away very soon, I have those and those, they will help, they won’t abandon me, I’m strong and I’ll definitely cope, I’m sure I WILL SURVIVE, I’m cool, a lot of men like me, they want me, I’m a good person and I’m also dear, someday we’ll meet, drink tea and laugh at this situation “I’m a grown girl. As my friend and therapist says, many people don’t have time to live even ten percent of what happens to me in their entire lives. But I... was surprised... From head to toe. For a whole year. The inflamed brain began to play its games. I began to remember how I survived, while still a child, without drowning in a trolley, in a river, in the sea, I survived on “seventh heaven” in the nineties, in the world of thieves and special people, I survived in fear of cancer, survived depression after a difficult divorce and the loss of her missing only brother, in search of him, in the war, coming under fire in a hospice in Donetsk, in a terrible accident, after which the minibus went for spare parts, survived in a foreign country, while working with dying people and children, old people, and this list can becontinue and continue. She didn’t just survive. I was responsible for my family and my son. I became who I am. I have several educations, I am an expert in my professional field, a writer, a teacher. I hear words addressed to me about a powerful and strong personality. Sometimes envy, hatred, admiration. And then... I broke... Broke... Everything, starting with the war, converged into one gaping abyss of pain... Everything got mixed up, lost in it. “You’re a psychologist!”, they poked me. Yes. They say it's not bad. I teach, write books. So what? There was no farewell to him and to us, to bury, grieve and move on. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a psychologist or not. If you’re alive, you’re in pain! Strongly. “Killed” a man’s love. Saved by the love of family, teachers, friends, a beloved home, medicine, nature and journalism. I can’t count how much I’ve experienced this year. Twice, in the literal sense, I could have died. Pulled out with my last breath. It’s hard I got sick several times with serious consequences, with echoes to this day. I lost several people dear to my heart. I broke a contract with a very cool publishing house because I couldn’t write. I lost a colossal amount of money due to the inability to be full-fledged. I almost lost my job and my studies .For the first time I became a hooligan, for whom the police were called. I fell into hospitalism syndrome, which, like the mouth of a volcano, does not allow me to get out. I composed several practices for self-rescue. How many prayers, meditations, burning candles, more prayers. I came up with a “psychological funeral”, I laughed , when in a funeral service store I saw a flower that was always given to me. The symbol of tenderness lives both in the flower shop and in the cemetery. It’s worth remembering this. There are always two sides to the coin in everything. Only, despite everyone’s opinion, irreplaceable people memories, emotions are all there. Both of us, seemingly adults, hurt each other. The desired tenderness turned into poisoned cruelty. It’s a pity that in this “fairytale game” innocent heroes also suffered, becoming temporary pawns in the process of triangulation. We came to them nicely, didn't use them for long. I hope they experienced it less painfully. I sometimes wanted to support them, just as people who coped with a similar condition supported me. I wanted to say: “Don’t believe it. Run.” I understand that I wanted to say this to myself, to shout: “Don’t believe it. Run." Relationships were important to me. Losing something dear is difficult. Disappointment is painful. Recovery is difficult. It is difficult to see the hand of God who removes people who are not ours from our lives. We resist so much, we cling to the pain, refusing to take pain relief and get better. We get stuck. Dependent. Once we met, it turned out that we can make love without touching each other. Just don’t try it! The process is comparable to amputation of the entire body without anesthesia and going into space naked, in the light of cameras and without a spacesuit. The profession did not help much, rather it got in the way. I worked in a hospice, in a children’s hospice. Death was in front of my eyes every day. I teach the topic of grief at institutes. I understand all the mechanisms. But I didn’t give myself time, I rushed, scolded, got angry, didn’t respect, humiliated myself and humiliated myself, waited, hoped, believed in goodness and love. Where does a sick person get so much hope? Why is she? Why am I talking now and why is this important? As soon as I learned to write, I kept diaries. All my life. There was the only one who read them. I think I tried in every possible way to cut off all paths of return for myself. What a terrible woman I am)) From that very moment, I did not make a single entry for the entire year, except for the “Diary of Victories”. More than twenty years ago, I came up with it for the children with whom I worked, and, of course, setting an example, I started with yourself. It helps you hold on. The therapist strongly recommended writing so as not to tear yourself apart from the inside. I'm obedient. Moreover, writing for me is like breathing, and now my oxygen has been cut off. The diary has to some extent moved online in the form of therapeutic posts, for me. Someone will say that she brought the pain to the general view. But believe me, it was like that it sucks, the world is just