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Life. Eclipsed.

An essay on authenticity and what that (or lack thereof) may cost you.

By Nica Breeze Published 2 years ago 13 min read
1
‘Babe’. The most recent character shot. Looks the way I feel.

Let’s be clear: these transitions did not make me feel like I’m shining; glowing in the dark — maybe.

I wanted to be a yuppie. A 16-year-old, born and raised in Moscow, Russia, dominated by my abusive ‘Titanic mother’ who taught me little but crippling dependence on her. Any attempt at gaining independence was severely punished.

Poverty was everywhere — scarcity of quality life and poverty of the spirit, fueled by envy towards those who had a new car, better furniture and designer clothes to wear. New churches opened everywhere like golden mushrooms after the rain of funding. At first I was excited that restrictions on spirituality had been lifted... but after attending a few services I discovered that they didn’t feed my soul. Only if I happened to sneak into an empty-ish church at odd hours and light a candle in semi-darkness, gazing at all the golden splendor and vaulted ceilings... that felt like something. Darn, I’ve always wanted my home to be as opulent and uplifting as a temple, not just a human-size dog house... cluttered and littered by other human beings I had to live with. And this is the base line of all my life’s turmoil and misadventure: the quest for my True Home. Dream Home.

Where is it? I was sure not at the place universal lottery had assigned to me. How do I get there? Which way would work best for me to make enough money to pay for it?

Back then I opted for science. Now that I look back at those lost years with pain and regret it’s easy to judge that scared and confused 16-year-old me who desperately wanted to use the best she had to get out of poverty. Especially if she failed.

Perhaps science was not my forte... But I had enough reason to know I’m not a born businesswoman so the straightest way to riches was banned to me. However I was told by my Grandpa that I’m very bright, just emotionally unstable. Okay, how do we handle that? Cut off the damn emotions. Who needs this stupid appendix? Does it bring money? Does it make me into Somebody? Nope and nope. Gone. I’m a scientist. I run on cold logic and facts. I get all straight ‘A’s at college in firm faith that I’ll hoard money the similar way once I graduate. I scoff at girls crying over treacherous boys... what do they expect? Why don’t they work hard for their future? I don’t cook, I don’t think about having a family... just work work work. Dream about the future discoveries in environmental science which will put an end to the destruction of the planet... and my misery. They will be recognized and rewarded because this is how it should be... but the problem is — it isn’t.

There were some hard facts I had to realize. First, the school I attended was founded by my mother. Yes... BAM! The same person who was beating and cursing me when I was little. Who didn’t give a shit for my true feelings and desires so I ditched them too... I know for a fact what a therapist might tell you: a child will do about anything to win their parents’ approval. And if those parents are sickos then that child is fundamentally screwed.

It was in my face but I was the last one to notice. Once I did and allowed myself to see the whole ridiculousness and tragedy of this situation... the futility of my effort... the way out was really long and hard.

Second, I wanted to prove to all of them out there that I’m not dumb. Science was not the call of love but rather the mask I wore over my pain. I had a horrendous math teacher in middle school. This bitch gave a hard time to everyone... you know some people have the mean streak in them and she did. I am just as bad at math as I am at business. Once we drift away from solid arithmetics into abstract algebra I’m lost... and she did a very, very poor job explaining anything. For her giving students bad grades and humiliating them was a sport; she fed on their tears and frustration. In all honesty, when I see the amount of damage this cunt had done to my psyche I wish there will be a personal hell made specifically for her. Even though I don’t believe in “hell” religion teaches us about. Neither am I keen on the idea of forgiveness: that’s for the sheepish. I will never forgive. I will never forget.

I suppose my authenticity “shone” when I was the only student who dared to stand up to her; the rest of them stayed out of the tornado’s way. I didn’t know better; I felt disgusted with the way she treated me and everyone. I paid dearly for it.

It was after she had failed me at the final exam that the sunshine lost its luster for me. I could no longer enjoy life and be “in the now” until succeeding as a great thinker and putting her to shame.

This is when my parents had stepped up and went straight to school to talk to her. I felt worthless and defeated. I had been staying after the classes to redo my failed test for her. Taking up extra work, doing literally everything to improve my grades. That must have been entertaining to her...

I’ve always worked very, very hard... because the more you work the higher the reward... eventually. Just be patient. Just work harder. Put pressure on your body, this lazy ugly thing. You don’t want to end up under the bridge because you didn’t stay up all night solving problems, or later finishing up a work project before the deadline! Then being up all day all hyper, then the next night because only idiots waste their time sleeping.

Where is my reward, I’m asking you?!

I feel like I’ve been had.

So I had wasted my youth immersed in studies... the school authorities called me stupid so I had to prove them wrong. My own mother called me fat... I had no energy left to love my body. I starved myself with diets and did some cruel morning runs in hope those will reshape this ugly feminine figure. I wanted to be skin and bones. I didn’t believe those men I might like would fancy me. And sadly there weren’t many likable men around. It’s hard to tell now... maybe some were but they hid behind fake facades just like me.

Thankfully I became friends with some of my college mates. I recall these friendships as the best part of my college years... not the stuff I tried to learn.

“Whoa!” they would say after maybe three of us had an all-night conversation. “We didn’t really know you!”

Thankfully my natural talents began to re-surface no matter how much I had tried to sink and disown them. And that’s the hard fact #3: I was born with artistic talents which could either be a blessing or a curse.

With this, I feel forever grateful to, and also very tender about my favorite rock musicians. They had played an instrumental role, pun unintended, in saving my soul. The kind of hell I mean is reality robbing me of my true self; at first it was forced on me but then the worst part would begin: I would enforce those bars around me, believing those keep me sane and safe.

Music is a tough topic to me since my rotten mother had fucked with me through it as well. I’m sorry for the strong language but if you walked some in my Spanish boots of parental abuse (heaven forbid), then maybe it wouldn’t sound extreme to you. She forced me to take piano lessons which I didn’t care about. I wanted to ride horses, write stories, paint and Dance. Well she told me, a five-year-old, that I’m “not worthy of wearing a tutu” and used the only argument she had to convince me to continue the musical ordeal: she beat me to death, wherever she was in a bad mood, or just because.

I can’t believe I had spent so much time trying to work with her and give us a chance to be friends. Trauma bond and Stockholm syndrome, hardcore. I feel ashamed and bewildered.

With this in mind, it’s amazing how the music had shown its better face to me and redeemed itself through those who became my symbols of love. More on that topic in my ‘Fan Girl’ poem.

Eventually I emigrated to the United States. It happened through my mother’s connections but I suspect the people knew what’s going on and secretly wished to help me. For that I am indebted to them.

But once here I was on my own. The job was hard for the reasons beyond this story. I will only mention that it was in education, which I never wanted to have anything to do with. But it was my only chance to leap out of hell. My colleagues and management didn’t know what to make of me. They didn’t know my story and how badly I needed a sanatorium, not a boot camp. I still worked very, very hard and did my job well. That one they can’t argue. But I was continuously blamed for “bad attitude”. Insubordination. Darn. Rings some bells huh? I can’t stand injustice and I can’t hide how I feel about it. I don’t want to sound ungrateful and cause myself more trouble... just leave it as is.

I have really learned a lot in the last decade and a half; I wish I didn’t. Long story short, with all the legal loops in the new country plus all the hardships caused by the betrayal of the man I used to love, I could not get any job at all, for years. Don’t ask me how one survives this unless you really want to know. (Nothing immoral or illegal, thankfully). But I was brought back to the very basics. My natural talents.

While at the homeless shelter I started painting on cardboards with cheap Salvation Army store paints. I dusted off my old stories as much as I could and been writing more. I resumed my Dance practice and obtained a new pair of pointe shoes... after all no one is to tell me my worth but myself.

I remember sitting at the soup kitchen with a friend of mine on September 1, 2011. I told her that on this day each year my mother would throw a huge party/conference to announce a new school year. That meant helluva lots of preparation, which took the whole month of August away from me. And I’ve always hated September 1st... and school for that matter. I had told her I was glad to be in a humble place like this, and not around that fakeness, created on borrowed money.

Speaking of which... my homelessness did not begin in America. Back in Russia my mother had presented me a nifty small apartment but didn’t bother to sign the legal papers in my name. She then would tell me she’d take it away if I don’t do as she says. Eventually she had sold my apartment for her debts. But by that time I already had documentation pending for the one-way trip to America. It was not planned that way but I ended up staying. And then cutting off all the contact with her and my whole family.

So here I am, in my mid-forties. Still unknown artist and aspiring author. Life is treating me to a new upheaval right now which is hard to talk about. Funny thing is, I’m about to become homeless again :(

So please tell me if you think authenticity is truly worth it. I have paid a humongous price for my freedom but I’m still not quite there. Would it be better to never have tried? To still be hated by my mother’s employees whom she ended up treating about as poorly as she did me? I believe not. It feels redeeming yet sad to remember that these people must had seen that I’m trying to seek my own truth, not what was force-fed to me. Some of them would come to me and complain about her — because they had realized I’m not the golden child and we were in the same boat. They trusted me to not go tell her. The last one who talked to me about my mother’s nastiness was my English teacher. The fact that I’m able to write poetry and prose in what’s not my mother (brrrrrr) tongue, leave alone survive in a different country is greatly owed to her. She said my mother had fired her in the most disgraceful manner.

I was actually calling her to say thank you, days before my departure to the United States. I felt devastated but I thanked her for telling me the truth... and wondered if that’s really going to be a one-way trip for me.

So here it is. I don’t regret leaving everything behind. But the hard facts are still not in my favor unless a massive breakthrough happens. Being good with words is what I’ve been praised for but my solid base is knowing that they have limits. My narration may have been as wobbly as my life. I’m still struggling. My despair had been so deep at times that life seemed nothing but humiliation and pain. Lately I’ve been living in the permanent state of a panic attack. I can’t wait to start LIVING.

All my life has been a hard fight, up to this point. My Inner Child feels really sad that she didn’t have enough time to play and to love. Just to enjoy today without being afraid that she would be punished for it.

Maybe someone would have done better if they were me. Maybe they would have done things differently. Maybe they’d have an idea I missed or they wouldn’t have done the stupid shit I did (aka loving the wrong people). Maybe they would have made better braver choices. Maybe they would have worked harder... lol.

I wish I was writing this from my Dream Home that I would own. I wish I had a thriving business and a blissful domestic life. You think I didn’t fight hard for those things?

Part of my authenticity is admitting I screwed up. Admitting reality is not what I want it to be. Just a question though: can you do better than screw up if you’re a space traveler stuck on some hostile planet? You just do your best... but I still feel guilty for not having an ice castle on Venus. Or a tropical garden on Mars. You get the idea...

I am open to new strategies (or stratagems) if the old ones aren’t working. And as stupid, unrealistic or entitled as it may sound — I am still open to wealth, dignity and love. I’m ready to LIVE on my own terms. Ready for the massive incredible magic to happen. Right now.

Nica Breeze.

November 2021. Montana, US.

fact or fiction
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About the Creator

Nica Breeze

I started writing fairy-tales before I could spell the letters right, at age 6. My fiction and poetry are about one’s private world and love-hate relationship with reality.

I emigrated to America from Eastern Europe, found home in Montana.

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