З життя
Заручниця чужих обітниць: батьки вимагають допомоги, а моя сім’я на межі краху
Я стала заручницею чужого шлюбу: батьки вимагають моєї допомоги, а моя власна родина розпадається на очах.
Іноді краще розійтися вчасно, аніж роками мучити одне одного і руйнувати життя близьких. Але мої батьки обрали інший шлях — триматися за шлюб заради «пристойності» та «дітей», хоча цим дітям вже під тридцять. І що в результаті? Вони не лише тягнуть один одного на дно, а й мене, свою дорослу доньку, давно втягнули у цей нескінченний родинний пекельний вир.
З самого дитинства я спостерігала їхні сварки. Спочатку дрібні — через брудний посуд, невиключений телевізор, недосолений борщ. Згодом воно переросло у крики, взаємні звинувачення, биття дверима. Мирилися, немов нічого й не було. Але осад залишався. І так по колу — ніби в затертій мелодрамі, де я, здавалося б, не головна героїня, але чомусь завжди в кадрі.
Коли я підросла, вони почали використовувати мене як перекладача. «Скажи батькові, щоб не пив», «Перед матір’ю, аби не сварлась». Я була буфером, щитом, вишиваною хустиною, в яку витирали сльози. Кожен виливав на мене своє, а в результаті я відчувала себе наче вичавленим мішком. Здавалося, що тільки я відповідаю за те, щоб їхні стосунки хоч якось трималися.
Я мріяла втекти. І втекла — поступила до університету в іншому місті. Не заради освіти, ні. Просто хотілося тиші, свободи, простору без вічних докорів. Я не любила приїжджати додому. Бо це був не дім, а постійний театр скандалів. Мати казала, що я така сама безхарактерна, як батько. Батько — що істерична, як мати. А я просто хотіла жити.
З часом я створила свою родину. Вийшла заміж, народила дитину. Здавалося б, почався новий етап. Але батьки так і залишилися у своєму напруженому союзі. Замість того аби розійтися, вони трималися за звичку. А я, як і раніше, оставалася між ними. Тільки тепер — з дитячим візком в одній руці та телефоном з материними слізьми в іншій.
«Приїжджай! Мати знову влаштувала істерику!» — гукає батько.
«Твій батько знову напився, лежить на дивані, рятуй!» — шепоче в трубку мати.
А якщо я не приїжджаю — образи, докори: «Забула нас! Ти ж наша донька! Як ти можеш?!»
А вдома чекає мій чоловік зі стомленим поглядом. Він усе частіше мовчить. Каже, що почувається чужим у власній сім’ї. Що я завжди десь, але точно не поруч. Що з таким життям він не може бути щасливим. І я розумію, що втрачаю його. Втрачаю те, що з таким трудом будувала. Бо мої вічні від’їзди та розмови з батьками у коридорі серед ночі — це ненормально. Це крах.
Я намагалася говорити з ними:
— Розійдіться вже! Ви ж не живете, а мучитеся! Це ж не сім’я!
Але у відповідь — страх і відмазки:
— Ділити квартиру? Ти що! Хто нас на старість літа прихистить?
— Нас же сусіди обсміють! У нашому віці розводитися — ганьба!
Але жалітися мені — не ганьба. Використовувати моє життя як безкоштовну психотерапію — не соромно. Мати вимагає підтримки. Батько — співчуття. А в мене вже нема куди тікати.
Я втомилася бути мостом, по якому вони йдуть, щоб остаточно не впасти. Мені 32. Я доросла жінка, у якої є чоловік, син і право на власне щастя. Але мені не дають жити. Мої батьки використовують мене як привід продовжМоже, треба просто перестати бути мостом і дати їм нарешті впасти.
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