Dared To Survive - Olya Mancuso

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have the money for boots; it was worse than that. New shoes or required basic clothes were not bought for me. My mother insisted that Zhenya needed the money to get good things or get rid of debts he owed to people who could «kill» him if their money was not repaid.

      Mother was always making sure that Zhenya’s debts were paid. His life and well-being were precious. Mother said he was in the very sensitive age. Teenagers are sensitive, she’d insist. If he was deprived, he could get into further criminal activities to obtain what he needed. So, to protect him and prevent him from getting into more trouble, mother believed that his desires and needs must be met.

      Nobody would ever notice that I was wearing very old, worn-out shoes, inappropriate for the weather conditions. I obviously could not dare to ask for anything I needed because we constantly had to pay off Zhenya’s debts, so no one would kill him.

      I grew up with a nonstop agenda to help Zhenya as he was a «misfortunate». Our lives revolved around him and his issues. Mother has always made him out to be the victim of unfair circumstances: a bad employment market, his unstable health, evil people who influenced him.

      Even today, at seventy-two, my mother’s world seems to revolve around her dependent son with no room for me in her life. When I try to express concern about her enabling Zhenya, my mother gets angry and defensive, accusing me of being «jealous» of a «disadvantaged» poor brother.

      When the teachers and the principal confronted my mother about my inadequate clothing for the weather, I finally got the cheapest, out-of-fashion winter boots.

      I have absolutely zero memories of my mother cuddling me or holding me. I have no memories of her playing with me either or spending time with me or reading a book to me. I have many such memories of my father. So, I know that it’s not that my memory was faulty.

      Mother never paid attention to how my life was going. She neither knew nor cared that I was bullied at school. She never came to wipe my tears and never asked me why I was crying, why I was hurting, or if I needed anything. Instead, she would dismiss my sufferings, and my feelings. I was never allowed to cry, complain, or ask for anything. If I was in pain or if I had been bullied at school, and wanted to cry, I was beaten to be silent or blamed for it.

      My mother – ironically a fierce protector when it came to my brother – was never there to guide or protect me. She was never there to console or comfort me if I was hurt by others. I could never understand how could she ignore my pain and my needs when I was so little, so innocent, so helpless and needed Mom the most! She was never there most of the time. However, she was always there for her son Zhenya. As a matter of fact her, whole life revolved around him and his safety – when we were children and even today.

      I was often left by myself and I felt so lonely. I even felt lonely when Mom and Dad were in the house because, mentally and emotionally, my mother was completely unavailable to me. Dad expended a great deal of energy trying to settle her hysterical outbursts.

      My mother never gave me any advice on how to be a woman. She never taught me housekeeping skills. I spent a lot of my childhood hearing about all the things my mother had failed to do and the things my mother had lost because of me. I have always felt that there was no way out of the relationship with mother. Sadly, I also convinced myself that, without her, I would have nothing.

      My mother used a variety of strategies to make me believe I was evil. She would employ insults, name-calling, shaming, and public put-downs.

      In order to increase my dependence on her, she tried to cut me off from the outside world. I was not allowed to bring home nor even have friends. My mother believed that I would «contaminate» good children with my «evil».

      Growing up, I never believed that my mother wanted me. Never. Not for a moment. She always told me I was unwanted the moment she found out I was growing inside her womb. She said it was because she already knew I was too horrible. She always told me I ruined her life, her marriage, her relationship. She was convinced that her son went to jail and got on drugs because of me. Growing up, I believed this. I never could make that horrible thought go away – as much as I tried. No matter what scenario I could come up with, the truth always stared me in the face: I was an unwanted child, a child who ruined my mother’s life, and her marriage. I was to blame for all her misery and hardship.

      I remember growing up fantasizing to die throughout my whole childhood and youth. I felt I didn’t deserve to live or be loved.

      It is hard to admit, but I’ve been dealing with sadness my entire life. I was a depressed six-year-old, crying for my mother on my birthday. My mother abandoned me for months, leaving me in an orphanage and in a correction school for troubled children. I waited for her to start loving me all my life….

      Chapter Three.

      The Bike

      Scared and alone,

      I cry myself to sleep,

      No hand to hold,

      No one to tell,

      At night I weep.

      You killed my spirit.

      You damaged my soul.

      My foundations—

      My very childhood—

      You trampled on and stole.

      I dreamed to be taken to a place

      Where little girls didn’t feel fear,

      Where I would never have to cry

      Never shed another tear.

      I wanted to mean something to you

      But I know I’m not worth much.

      I wanted a loving role model,

      Not your cold, painful touch.

      I cry along the wall

      You caused with my fears,

      And whisper to myself,

      “Don’t ever fall.”

      I cry silently my sorrowful tears.

      I close my eyes

      And you still haunt me.

      This image I can’t bear.

      I hate that you still surround me—

      Even though you no longer here.

      I ran down the stairs, choking on my vomit and tears. I was beaten every day. It hurt so much. I was whipped, kicked, bitten – whatever – you name it. My body took it all.

      I smelled because I wet the bed. I was always dirty because mother was always too busy for me. She was usually hysterical because my brother ran up debts, conned people, and committed crimes.

      Mother told everyone—even my friends – how bad I smelled. My suffering never ended unless I was in bed. Every day, I waited impatiently for the night and darkness to give me shelter so I could hide inside myself.

      For me, there was no better tomorrow, no brighter future. My future was no different from the present where I struggled to survive to keep myself alive. Every day, I was bashed. Fear made my stomach cramp. This fear was all I knew. It was part of me, deeply instilled.

      I had problems sleeping even though other kids my age slept just fine. I often had sweaty hands. Almost every day, I had heart palpitations and nausea. I was six. But, I still wet the bed. I had dry mouth very often. Therefore, I always drank a lot of water. This did not help my bed wetting issues.

      I could

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