Through Men, to Myself

Escape from My Friend’s Apartment

Two months passed. September. October. And I kept asking myself the same question: “What next?” I knew I didn’t want to live like this anymore. I didn’t love this life, my dependence on someone else’s space, or the feeling that I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. And more and more often, I caught myself thinking: *He’s a good person. But this isn’t my life.* And then I came up with something. I wrote to my third cousin and invited her to the capital—just for a vacation, for a week. She gladly agreed. I knew she also wanted to change something in her life. And suddenly I thought: “Why don’t we do it together?” She arrived. And that’s when I truly saw the capital for the first time ever. Before that, I had barely noticed the city. I worked. Constantly worked. I didn’t have time to just walk around, look at things, go into beautiful places, examine buildings, feel the atmosphere of the streets. But now I had someone with whom I wanted to do all of that. We walked every day after my work. We walked around the center. Looked at old buildings. Discovered beautiful places. Laughed. Talked about everything. And gradually, I started to see the city through different eyes. I suddenly realized: *The capital isn’t so harsh. People aren’t so cold. The city is beautiful. And there really are many opportunities here.* It was just that before, I hadn’t had time to see it. It wasn't the city I was missing. It was my own life within this city. And with my cousin, we simply clicked. And during that week, we made a decision: she would move in with me. She went home to work for two more weeks, quit her job, and finish her affairs. And I was left alone. And that’s when, I think, something clicked inside me. One day I came home earlier than usual. And suddenly I was scared. Not what would happen if I left. But that if I stayed now, I would change my mind again. So I didn’t think for long. I packed my things. Ordered a taxi. And left. I just left. Without explanations. Without long conversations. Without trying to bring things to a graceful close. I simply packed my life into my bags and walked out of that apartment. And in the evening, from my new apartment, I called him and said: “I’ve left. And I’m not coming back.” This was the first plan in my life that I didn’t just come up with. I came up with it—and executed it. And with that, I felt both lighter and more terrified. Lighter—because I finally did what I had wanted to do for a long time. More terrified—because now the decision was made. There was no turning back. Inside, there was anxiety. Fear. Overwhelming stress. And a total lack of understanding: “What now?” I didn’t yet know where I would live next. I didn’t know what I would live on. I didn’t know what would happen to my job. I didn’t know how my life would change. But for the first time, I knew one thing for sure: now this was my life. And, perhaps, it was from this moment that it finally began to truly belong to me.

Five Girls, One Apartment

When I left my friend’s place, I didn’t have an ideal plan. I didn’t have ideal conditions at all. I started living with four girls I barely knew, in a two-room apartment almost in the center of the capital. Five girls. Two rooms. One kitchen. One bathroom. And completely different lives that somehow had to fit into one space. While my cousin was finishing her affairs in her hometown, the apartment was crowded. The prices for decent housing were too high, and I couldn’t afford a separate apartment. So I had to live like that. Although, to be honest, I chose it myself. I chose freedom instead of comfort. I continued to work as a teacher. I came home to four almost unfamiliar girls, noise, conversations, other people’s things, and a constant feeling of crampedness. This was nothing like the beautiful new life I had imagined. But it was my life. And one day, something happened that I then perceived almost as a miracle. One of the girls was unexpectedly offered a job abroad. She had been waiting for it for a long time. And she almost immediately agreed. She left. And I looked at the empty space and thought: “God helped me.” Now my cousin had a place to come to. She finished her affairs, flew to me, and almost immediately found a job. And we started living together. On weekdays, we worked. After work, we sometimes went for walks. On weekends, we went to the center again. And gradually, I started to get to know the city. Not the one I used to see from the window of a school bus. Not the one I drove past on the way to work. But the real one. With its beautiful streets. With people. With cafes, squares, parks, and old buildings. With opportunities that I simply hadn’t noticed before. I started to feel not like someone who accidentally ended up in the capital, but like someone who truly lives here. Of course, I was scared. Of course, sometimes I wanted to give up everything. But every day I told myself the same thing: “Just work. Just keep moving.” There was no need to know immediately how this path would end. No need to have an ideal plan. I just needed to live today. Then the next. Then another. And gradually, from these ordinary days, a new life began to form. Not the one someone offered me. Not the one I got through a relationship. Not the one someone built for me. I started to build it myself. Even if it was in a two-room apartment for now. Even if it was with four unfamiliar girls. Even if it was with anxiety, uncertainty, and very little money. But this was my first real step into an independent life. And back then, I didn’t yet understand how important it would turn out to be.

Two Years

It took me two years. Two years not just to change my life on the outside, but to start changing myself on the inside. A new place. A new job. A promotion. New people and acquaintances. Books. Learning. Psychotherapy. And an enormous amount of self-work. I changed externally—completely changed my style, started to look different, to carry myself differently. But the internal changes were much more important. I started working on my speech. On my behavior. I learned to control my emotions. Not to throw tantrums. To listen. And most importantly, to truly hear. I learned to be empathetic. To observe interesting people. To notice how they talk, how they react to difficult situations, how they behave with others. And if I saw something good in a person, I tried to emulate it. I gradually stopped reacting to life automatically. I began to think. To observe. To choose my reactions. And one day I caught myself with a very simple feeling: I had grown up. I hadn’t become perfect. I hadn’t become a person who never makes mistakes again. I just felt whole for the first time. I let go of the past. Not because I forgot it, but because it no longer controlled me. Enough time had passed for me to be able to look at myself and other people in a completely different way. I started to read. A lot. A great deal. Sometimes, closing another book, I would sit and think: “My God… why didn’t I do this before?” I extracted specific ideas, tools, and thoughts from books that truly resonated with me, and began to apply them in life. Some of them I still use today. And the more I read, the more I understood one amusing thing. I once truly believed that I already knew everything: that I was old enough, experienced enough, that I already understood people, relationships, and life. How naive I was. But over time, I realized: there’s nothing wrong with that. Because what matters is not who you were. Not how many mistakes you made. Not how many times you chose the wrong person. And not even how much time you lost. The main thing is what you do after you’ve understood it. I kept moving forward. And for the first time in my life, I no longer needed to run from the past. I was simply walking towards becoming myself.

I Learned to Win

Gradually, the capital began to change for me. Or perhaps I changed. Because the city remained the same. The same streets. The same buildings. The same people. It was just that now I no longer looked up at the capital from below. I started to grow. First, I was promoted to deputy director for operations. Essentially, it was an assistant director position, but with an enormous amount of responsibility. But even that wasn't enough for me. I continued to study. Two diplomas no longer seemed sufficient, so I decided to get a third. I enrolled in a metropolitan institute for a specialty related to managing an educational organization. A year later, I graduated with a red diploma. After that, I was appointed deputy director for student affairs. Additionally, I oversaw the extracurricular education program at the school. My salary was increased. And I remember that feeling. I was proud of myself. Once, I had arrived in the capital with a small suitcase and two diplomas. And now I was a manager. I had a good salary. I was able to take out a mortgage on an apartment. I started furnishing my space, creating coziness in my apartment. I could travel, go to the cosmetologist, buy myself what I wanted without asking anyone for permission or explaining why I needed it. I was gradually becoming the person I had once imagined myself to be, sitting in a small village house. Back then, it seemed to me: if I could ever live exactly like this—then I had won. And I really did win. I learned to survive. I learned to earn money. I learned to work. I learned to lead. I learned to make decisions. I learned not to be afraid of a big life. And one evening, I caught myself with a completely unexpected thought: "And that's it?" I stopped. Everything seemed to have worked out. I had conquered the capital. I secured a good job. I attained a position. I earned a third diploma. I bought an apartment. I created a life I could only dream of once. I accomplished everything I had promised myself. But why did that question, "And that's it?" resonate within me again? Something was missing. I didn't yet understand what exactly. It wasn't ingratitude. There was no feeling that my life was bad. On the contrary. It was good. I just suddenly understood one thing: a goal that seemed like a summit one day becomes just another point on the route. I had achieved what I had been working towards for a long time. And now I needed to figure out: where do I go next? I didn't know the answer. But this time, it didn't scare me. I just told myself: "We'll see." And I continued to live. Because I already knew: sometimes the next turn appears precisely when you stop looking for it.

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