З життя
«Вихід на пенсію: як старість виявляє роками накопичену самотність»
Щойно я вийшла на пенсію — почалися проблеми…
Мені шістдесят. І вперше в житті я відчуваю, що мене нібито більше немає — ні для дітей, ні для онуків, ні для колишнього чоловіка, ні для цього світу взагалі. Ось я є. Живу. Ходжу до аптеки, купую хліб, підмітаю подвір’я біля вікон. Але всередині — пустота, яка стає все глибшою з кожним ранком, коли біть на роботу вже не треба. Коли ніхто не дзвонить просто запитати: «Мамо, як ти?»
Я живу сама. Вже багато років. Мої діти — дорослі, зі своїми родинами, у інших містах: син у Львові, донька в Києві. Онуки ростуть, а я їх майже не знаю. Не бачу, як вони йдуть до школи, не в’яжу їм шарфики, не оповідаю казок на ніч. Мене ніколи не запрошують у гості. Ані разу.
Якось я спитала доньку:
— Чому ти не хочеш, щоб я приїхала? Я б допомогла з дітьми…
А вона відповіла, стримано, та холодно:
— Мам, ну ти ж знаєш… Тебе мій чоловік не любить. Ти завжди втручаєшся, та й у тебе свій спосіб спілкування…
Я замовкла. Мені стало боляче, ніяково, гірко. Я ж не лізла нав’язливо — просто хотіла побути поруч. А у відповідь — «не любить». Ні онуки, ні діти. Мене ніби викреслили. Навіть колишній чоловік, який живе у сусідньому селі, не знаходить часу на зустріч. Раз на рік — коротке вітання зі святом. Ніби робить ласку.
Коли я пішла на пенсію, гадала: ось воно, нарешті час для себе. Почну вишивати, ходити на ранкові прогулянки, запишуся на курси малювання, як мріяла. Але замість щастя прийшла тривога.
Спочатку почали мучити дивні напади — то серце, то запаморочення, то раптовий страх за життя. Я ходила по лікарях, здавала аналізи, робила ЕКГ, МРТ, але все було в нормі. Один лікар сказав:
— У вас це все від голови. Вам треба з кимось говорити, спілкуватися. Ви просто самотня.
І це було гірше за будь-який діагноз. Тому що немає такої пігулки, яка вилікує самоту.
Буває, іду до магазину просто, щоб почути голос касира. Інше сиджу на лавочці біля під’їзду й вдаю, що читаю — аби хтось підійшов. Але люди поспішають. Усі кудись біть. А я — просто є. Сиджу, дихаю, згадую…
Що я зробила не так? Чому мої рідні від мене відвернулися? Я ж виростила їх сама. Батько пішов рано. Я тягнула двох дітей, працювала у дві зміни, варила борщі, прасувала шкільну форму, сиділа вночі, коли вони хворіли. Не пила, не гуляла. Все для них. А тепер — непотрібна.
Може, я була надто суворою? Може, занадто контролювала? Але я ж хотіла як найкраще. Щоб вони виросли гарними людьми. Не пускала їх у погані компанії, не дозволила зіпсувати собі життя. А в результаті — лишилася одна.
Я не шукаю жалю. Просто хочеться зрозуміти: я справді погана мати? Чи може, це всього лише наслідок часу, коли у всіх свої клопоти, кредити, школи, гуртки… і немає місця для мами?
Інше мені кажуть: «Знайди чоловіка. Зареєструйся в інтернеті». Але я не можу. Не довіряю. Стільки років сама. Вже немає сил знову відкриватися, закохуватися, впускати в дім чужу людину. Та й здоров’я вже не те.
Працювати теж не можу. Раніше хоча б колектив рятував — побалакаєш, пожартуєш. А зараз — тиша. Така оглухла, що я вмикаю телевізор просто, щоб хоч чийсь голос лунав.
Іноді думаю: може, зникну — і ніхто навіть не помітить? Ані діти, ані колишній, ані сусідка з третього поверху. І стає страшно. До сліз.
А потім я встаю, йду на кухню, заварюю чай. І думаю: може, завтра буде більше. Може, хтось згадає. Подзвонить. Напише. Може, я ще комусь потрібна.
Поки живе надія — живу і я.
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