З життя
В 47 лет я утратил радость жизни…
Мне 47, но в душе — будто пепел.
Женщины в России не просто работают — они живут на две жизни. Сначала смена в офисе, потом — дома. Мы тянем на себе всё: детей, быт, стареющих родителей, бесконечные «надо» и «срочно». Улыбаемся, делаем вид, что справляемся, но в какой-то момент просто ломаешься. По паспорту ещё не бабушка, но сил уже нет. Внутри — пустота, будто всё выгорело.
Иногда думаю: пенсия — не просто так придумана. Вот только зачем ждать её так долго? Да и как на эти копейки жить, если даже с зарплаты в 50 тысяч еле сводишь концы с концами? А отдыхать хочется сейчас…
Читала, конечно, про женщин, которые «расцветают» на пенсии: учат языки, путешествуют, находят хобби и даже любовь. Откуда у них энергия? Не понимаю.
Мне 47. Есть семья, двое сыновей — Сашка и Мишка. Но ничего не хочу. Ничего. Не жду утра, не строю планов, не мечтаю. Мысли только одна: как дотянуть до вечера. Может, это потому, что родила поздно: первого в 35, второго — в 39. Сейчас одному девять, другому — уже тринадцать. А я будто старше всех.
Утро — гонка: завтрак, сборы, рюкзаки, школа. Потом работа. Торгую медицинским оборудованием — звонки, клиенты, договоры, вечные переговоры. И даже после работы покоя нет: телефон не умолкает. Вдруг пропустишь выгодный заказ?
Вечером — уроки, стирка, ужин, школьный чат, где каждый день: «Срочно сдать 500 рублей на подарок», «Завтра принести тетради в клетку», «Кто поедет на экскурсию?» Всё на мне.
Не помню, когда отдыхала последний раз. Отпуск? Две недели в году. Но они уходят на разбор долгов: то документы, то ремонт у родителей, то дела, которые копились полгода. Возвращаюсь с «отдыха» ещё более измотанной.
Муж — Вадим — не плохой. Не лежит на диване, помогает. Но главная забота всё равно на мне. Я — как ежедневник на ножках: в голове сотня пунктов «не забыть».
А ещё тревога. Устала. Денег вечно в обрез. Мы не нищие, но и не шикуем. Даже поездка на озеро в соседнюю область кажется несбыточной мечтой.
Родители — им уже за 70. Сами едва ходят, с внуками не посидят. Я им помогаю, конечно. И чувствую вину: все во мне нуждаются, а себя — нет. Иногда смотрю на маму: в её годы она казалась бодрее меня. А я? Притворяюсь сильной, улыбаюсь. Но внутри — ни капли сил.
Почему я так? Другие же радуются, путешествуют, выкладывают фото с Чёрного моря. А я — как выжатый лимон. Не умею расслабляться. Может, я просто не такая?
Или это не только у меня?
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