Brides of alcoholics - who are they? “I understood that he was dying”: a frank story of an alcoholic's wife Confessions of an alcoholic's wife.

I am publishing, without changing a single word, the diary entries of my friend and classmate, who lived a hard life with incurable alcoholics - her husband and son. My friend's husband also studied with us in the same group. A wonderful village boy, he was the constant leader of the group. Doros to the candidate of philosophical sciences, associate professor of the department. A writer whose works are still in manuscript (alcoholics were not published).
The son, who brilliantly graduated from the university, wrote good poetry, died of drunkenness at the age of 29. In the diary entries, it is mainly about the son, because. father was no longer alive. He died, having lived to retire, but did not have time to receive such a long-awaited money.
My son is also mentioned, who drank and continues to drink both for himself and for that guy.
And the author of the diary entries, having suffered two strokes, drags out his bleak existence with a 35-year-old son - a disabled person of the 1st group (cerebral palsy), born from a drinking husband. So the son of an oligophrenic with a non-functioning vestibular apparatus and a mother with a severely damaged memory and speech and a dragging leg live.

Our constant, daily (including phone), round-the-clock communication was interrupted every year by my long absence. My friend was very lonely, so on one of my trips she picked up the diary and handed it to me when I returned.

Although everything that is said here did not come as a surprise to me, I did not read these lines without tears. And how many such families do we have in Russia!? Russia is dying from drunkenness. What can we say about mere mortals, even if intellectual philosophers scroll through their lives like in a meat grinder. And my husband, being far from the last person, passed away on his own: he understood that if he did not leave, then a ditch awaited him.

Scary!

6.03.95.
Already longing for you, Fayunya. There is no home where Kolya and I would come without a prior invitation. Come soon.
We are doing the exchange with might and main .. There are tempting offers.
I mourn for Vladislav Listyev. Seven days have passed since his death, and the host of the Starry Hour is shouting and joking. It looks like it was pre-recorded.
Misha did not come home. Again, something happened to him or happened.

March 8, 1995
Congratulations, Fayunya, happy holiday!
You, so kind, disinterested, smart, talented, attractive, I wish you a better fate; I don’t want to wish something unrealizable in our years!
Fayunya, I feel such loneliness: no one comes, there is no one to go to. I'm going to the market now, to the faceless crowd.
Left half a salary. Kalya came in the evening. We drank tea with gingerbread. Misha was drunk. I read him another lecture on the topic "How not to".
Today is March 9th. 9th day since the murder of Listyev. I put his portrait in a mourning frame in a sideboard.

10.03.95.
I sit at my eighth grader and get irritated to a strong heartbeat, because. outside I am calm. I hammer out how to solve the problem (we’ve been procrastinating it for 2 hours already!), And he multiplies, divides, etc. all the data. at random. There are three more lessons to come. How long will I be with him? Fay! How tired! Live unhappy 55 years, so that you are surrounded on all sides only by ... you know who. To have no talent, no skills, no vocation, no professionalism - is this the meaning of life? I was given life, and I did not manage to use this gift. I am an empty flower, and you, Faechka, are endowed with such potentialities that it takes your breath away! And she couldn't use her talents either! Bitter and embarrassing!
I read Yurin the book "How not to!" He writes well: easily, moderately figuratively, with knowledge of psychology and the subject of description (reclamation).

Yuria's manuscripts are his silent call to us: to me, to my sons. Publish everything, at least with 50% editorial editing!
Sons are a disappointment. Sasha is ill, does not apply anywhere, something is sharpening him from the inside. Thin as an Indian. And Misha is the devil in the flesh. The sons are still young, but they live like old people. When we were young, we lived more interesting and joyful lives.

All my destiny, all unfulfilled is distorted by alcoholics. All life (the second half) was spent on a spiritual struggle with them.

03/12/95, Sun.
Today, the flow of those wishing to exchange. Tomorrow I'll go to some addresses. The bear is again "vdrabadan" (your term), wallowing with his classmate, exactly the same alcoholic. They fall, the neighbor is already drumming on the wall. Fayunya, where to get away from such a life?! At least you disappear to Germany from time to time, plunge into civilization, take a break from alcoholic muzzles.
Today I have a big wash. Soaked four basins the day before. Here is such a living quarters.

I read Beria's (monster) Diaries and the history of their publication abroad.
From great idleness, Fayunya, our freaks drink. They did everything for them all their lives. Now we are reaping the harvest. Misha's ugly lifestyle will kill me. Right now I feel a tight hoop around my head, because. he went somewhere completely insane.
Came. He shouted at my notation: "As soon as your dad tolerated you?!"

With great pleasure I watched the concert of Ek. Shavrina. The soul so lacks visits to performances, concerts, exhibitions.

03/13/95. mon.
Fi, by the way, around the end of February, Dima came. To Misha. With a bottle. Misha promised to arrange for him to Naumov as a loader on call. He hangs on by a thread and makes crazy promises. And Dima hopes. Today, Misha is probably already fired. This gives me a sense. Dima your skinny - skinny, only eyes shine.
When the apartment is drunk - no business, no work. So I decided to wash Kolya. Suddenly, Dima emerges from Misha's room and pushes me away to wash Kolya. Shouts at him, makes him stand, tells me to wash myself..a. Then he went for a walk with us. I returned home to bring him some bread. I realized that he was hungry. The money he gets at Tinchlik drinks it all up. Also - your grief, equal to mine.

Again I sit with the student and bastard from his stupidity. Irritation seethes in me.

15.03.95.
At the end of February in the State Concert Hall "Russia" there were concerts by V. Leontiev "Captured by Casanova", and my finances sing romances. Last night they showed a theatrical performance of Casanova.
The third day I can not get a pension. There is a sign at the post office saying "No money!"
The exchange business is going badly. Until we exchange, I will clean the entrance. Already seven times swept from top to bottom.

17.03.95.
Yesterday Dima came, sober. We handed over the bottles with Misha, bought one half-liter. We sat down and played chess. Thank God we didn't get drunk. Dima said that he talked to you on the phone.
He said that Yashka lost you and began to gnaw on the carpet and phone out of harm.

The exchange is moving slowly. Now I understand why you rejected one or the other option.
"Rush Hour" is hosted by different people: Lyubimov, Politkovsky and others, but they do not fit the role of Vl. Listyev. I like Molchanov more.

19.03.95.
Birthday of Valery Yakovlevich. Klavdia Nikolaevna left for St. Pete. to his concerts,
Therefore, we did not celebrate his birthday.

Renata arrived early in the morning, and we went to church for worship (there were many religious holidays that day). There were a lot of people, everyone prayed and bowed, and I, like everyone else, without any faith, and most importantly, the conviction that this should be done. You read Paradise to me, but I have a direct road to hell. Firstly, because of idiotic disbelief, and secondly, I am sinful that I gave birth to such children. It's my fault that Kolya is an invalid - a great martyr.
Once again about the impression of worship. There is a gray mass, unsightly, like a herd, sick, tired. They stand and earnestly pray until 3 o'clock. You can fall from fatigue and lack of air.

If there is a God, then why are there so many orphans, destitute people? Why do some have everything and others have nothing? Why do some people have a full bowl of goodness and health, while others have neither? Why are there wars? Why are there so many poachers? Why such an attitude towards ecology? Etc. and so on. What is God for then? I had mental discomfort from visiting the church all day, so I will only go there to light candles.

20.03.95.
So many broken things accumulated in the house:
1. Drowned TV buttons
2. The tape recorder does not work
3. The player has deteriorated
4. The handle came off the door
5. Water is slowly accumulating in the toilet
6. The door closes a little

21.03.95.
Twice it turned out good dough, but not according to your recipe.

22.03.95.
Klavdia Nikolaevna came from St. Petersburg. I went to 4 concerts of Valery L. One was on his birthday. We sat with her from 13 to 15 for a cup of coffee. She told in detail about everything and presented two photographs to V.L. But I paid for one (5 thousand), but she did not take the other. I also gave her an excellent portrait of V. from the magazine "Santa".

I enjoy watching Santa Barbara.

23.03.95.
Got your postcard from Austria. Once again I was convinced that we do not live, but simply walk slowly towards the last birch. I am very glad that you have at least a little European rest. I went to the dispensary, talked a little. Until they forget. They got their wages up.
The exchange stalled.

27.03.95.
We went yesterday to the Leninsky district for an exchange. Met with Angelica. Damn it lives too! Oleg is in debt. These are our sons!

In work Zhelka continues to burn, develops a new system of lessons on "War and Peace".

Misha began to settle down. Several times it did not reach drinking bouts. Polite immediately, and you can communicate with him like a human being. Naumov forgave him for the sobering-up station.

03/28/95. Tue.
It's too early for me to be mistaken about Misha's sobriety. Yesterday he begged for 5 thousand, allegedly for a stamp that he was not registered in a mental hospital. Yesterday I left with a friend at 15 o'clock and still he is not there. It's already 18:00 now. As long as tragedy doesn't happen. No rest! The exchange is not running. Misha does not connect, I have no time.

To calm my nerves, I am making a book - a miniature "Juna. Poetry and Painting".
Washed in the hallway. There are no rags. Whatever you can, I've already spent everything.

Tomorrow I'm going to the ballet Anyuta. Ticket 5 thousand. There is no special desire. It's a pity that I didn't go to Gaft, to L. Zykina, to S. Zakharov. With pleasure I would go to Igor Nadzhiev, to An. Minskovskaya, on Kartseva.

Misha came in the evening. Escaped from the sobering-up station. He pounded the ice around the building, at a convenient moment he rushed to a suitable trolleybus. Came swollen, disheveled. Well, just like in the song "What you were, remained so."

30.03.95.
Anna liked it. This is a production by Vl. Vasiliev to the music of Gavrilin based on the story of A.P. Chekhov "Anna on the neck".

In the evening Dima came, sober, calm. We played a game of chess with Misha. With a slight advantage, Misha won and praised Dima's chess skills.

3.04.95.Mon.
I haven't talked to you for a long time, Fayunya. The state of mind is such that one can say: “Everything seems to be fine, but something is bad” ... Constant anxiety in the soul, and there are enough reasons for that.

Yesterday, Kolya and I came home late from the party, Dima was about to leave. I asked him what mood he was in. He replied: "Sucks!" At Tinchlik they stopped giving him money. I would help him, as the son of my best friend, but I myself am always in debt, I can’t make ends meet.

I think you'll be back before June.

I called Perevozchikov Yu.S. (UdSU), to whom I gave Yurin the manuscript. He didn't do anything to her.

5.04.95.
A positive review was written for the manuscript of the novel. Today I will go to the Lenin Library to register the manuscript, which, it turns out, is "intellectual property". Shklyaev (reviewer) writes that with careful editing, the novel can be printed. Why don't I take on this job myself? The main thing here is not to distort, not to spoil the language and plot of the novel, but to reasonably reduce it by about one third. I'm glad that at least a little ice has broken.

Fai, an implausible, unequal exchange for a 3-room apartment on Votkinskoye Highway is pecking. But until you jump over, don't say "hop!"

Misha perked up, cheered up, and communication with him immediately improved.

04/10/95. mon.
Everything flew upside down! Misha drank in a black way Again swearing, mutual insults, unrestrained waste of money, a heart stretched like a string: it's about to burst! Misha drunk is disgusting, cynical. I tell him that I have a debt of 100 thousand rubles, and he: "If you receive a pension, you will pay it off!" Well, isn't that arrogance? Stand up, fall down.

10.04.95.
I came home from work, Misha is not there. He must have been back to his "home" again. Who will buy it now? By the way, Fai, your Dima is much more independent than Misha. For a month and a half of complete freedom and independence, Misha would have done a lot of nightmares.

S-P TV showed M. Sadchikov's interview with V. Leontiev. I wrote down almost everything. Again he was in a beautiful suit (black with sequins). Cleverly, with sense of humor answered questions. He appeared like this: unenvious (to colleagues), unpretentious (holding his birthday), does not like to talk about his personal, not creative life. For him, family happiness is in the people with whom he works. Doesn't drink, doesn't smoke. Hungry for doing nothing, loves to communicate with people "pleasant to the senses."

Turned off for 5 minutes. Kolya returned to real life, belching all over the room. And like this all the time: someone is sure to hit the head with a dusty bag, and everything sublime disappears.

Moreover, I read articles in AIF, like, “On the Yeltsin Way”, how he traveled by special train from Moscow to Ryazan. The station was painted, a new platform was laid out, the pit for the repair of diesel locomotives was filled up so that B.E. it was easier to go. Showing off 100%.

10.04.95.
Exactly midnight. I have two sorrows: Misha never came. Well, if in a sobering-up station ... And the second - Kuzya stuck his claw into my nose so that my whole face was covered with blood. All smeared with iodine. How will I be outside tomorrow?

04/11/95. Tue.
Misha didn't come. Morning. When leaving the entrance I met Dima. He went to Tinchlik. Absolutely sober, in a good mood.

She sewed a small book "V. Nabokov's Poems". I read on the tram on the way to the student. In his poems there is an inescapable longing for Russia, a dream to return to his homeland.

I'm sitting with a student. He doesn't stop talking. My head is full of buzz. Today we are reading V. Shukshin's story "Grinka Malyugin". It would be nice to have a volume of his stories on the bookshelf. For me, V.M. Shukshin is in a special row. I also got a folder with materials about him. For a long time in Moscow I went to the play "Men's Games" (according to his stories) "Characters".

I walk like a bum. I brought your coat and your boots to the holes. Everything old is old. And there will never be enough money to update ...

11.04.95.
The son came to "drabadan". Sick of his sight. Glasses broken. Demands (does not ask) for cigarettes. With this rudeness, he taught me to always have "Prima" or "Astra" and other cheap cigarette errors in stock.

Yes, he went to the sobering-up station again. Again, he didn't use his last name. Immorality rushes out of him.

12.04.95.
I gave Yurin the manuscript to the library. Maybe someday it will see the light of day.

13.04.95.
Dima came in the morning. I went to Tinchlik, they promised to give me money on April 17, on your birthday. I realized that Dima does not drink. We drank tea with Misha.

14.04.95.
I did not receive a pension. On the door of the post office: "13.04. no money." I owed 110 thousand. We have been sitting on a starvation ration for the third day. All cleaned up, all welded. I only spend money on bread. Sorry Kuzu. He looks at me wondering why I don't give him fish or meat. In such a situation, we at least drink tea. But soon the sand will run out. And I really don't want to borrow money. We'll have to check what hunger is. And the salary at the school began to be issued once a month on an indefinite day.

Crazy, crazy, crazy world...

I am reading E. Zola's novel "Page of Love". I like it.
Fai, with Michael chaos. Received a pension, from which there was zilch! And again Mishka snatched 20 thousand from me. It acts on me like a boa constrictor on a rabbit: everything inside resists, but I do it in spite of. And still soaked. I sold a baby stroller to Sasha for 50 thousand in installments. 10 thousand were given to him immediately, and he immediately drank them away, i.e. Sasha won't get a single ruble for the stroller! Naumov was tired of him to hell. Even Yura did not have such a pathological desire to drink. This one is a slacker and a jerk. He is completely isolated from everyone. Even his drinking buddies moved away from him.

April 17, 1995.
Happy birthday!
I come home, and Kolya gives me this congratulatory leaflet:
"Aunt Faya, I congratulate you on your birthday, I wish you good luck and Kolya's health"
All the best to you, my dear Fayunya. Come quickly. I can't live without you anymore.

18.04.95.
So the weekdays after your holiday began.
After classes with a student, I went to school and in vain, because. the salary will be tomorrow, and, secondly, I was instructed to arrange materials for Victory Day in the teacher's room at the stand. To refuse was blasphemy.

Misha calmed down from drinking. From Naumov left completely. Now all roads are open before him, “choose to your taste!”

21.04.94.
Misha is well-bred again. I left in the morning for testing (I decided to participate in the competition for a TV announcer).
Today I went to bed at 2-30 - I completed the task for Victory Day.
When are you coming? I missed your emotions, your sympathetic eyes.

26.04.95.
Black day - Chernobyl!
Bypassed with Misha all "Optics". Bought him the cheapest glasses (30 thousand)
In the evening I took Kolya to a psychic. Kohl did not suit her due to lack of intelligence. Yes, I myself am an unbeliever Thomas, but you must sincerely believe if you want success.

27.04.95.
Misha went to Pesochnaya, 13, to the casting of TV presenters. I rented a suit and tie, washed my hair with scented shampoo, smeared my face with my liquid cream. Hoping for good luck.
And I'm at zero money again. Guests arrived yesterday. She created the appearance of a "rich" table: she fried minced meat with eggs (the last one), cooked instant cocoa with milk (the last one), put a cracker in a vase (the last one), and candied chokeberry (the last one). There is still butter. Cooked rice porridge.

28.04.95.
Misha went through the competition, and, of course, celebrated this historic event. In the evening Dima came to congratulate Misha. Drank a bottle on my four thousand Dima said that you will still go to France and Italy. You, like Katrinka, move freely around Europe. I am happy for you and, of course, I envy you.

Tomorrow I will go to the village. All deadlines are pressed. I will sow carrots and beets, I will plant onions. Tickets are very expensive (12-14 thousand).

2.05.95.
In the village, thieves climbed in through the window from the yard. They took away all the duvet covers, sheets, pots, cups, spoons, a large can, a tank, all my clothes. Found someone to rob!
The day turned out to be very good. Stayed like in paradise.

In a dream I saw Yura, in the very morning, when O. Poskrebyshev spoke on the radio. As if we are listening to him and exchanging opinions about his work.

2.05.95.
Today is Mishin's birthday. 21 o'clock And again, of course, got drunk. And again I have a disgusting mood. Such a life will continue until the grave. Misha is firmly stable in this matter!

7.05.95.
Fayunya! I am under stress. The day before, the matchmaker came, and she acts on me like a vampire. She says, says the same thing 500 times, all in a circle - you are stunned by this! Misha came drunk and demanded that she get out of his room. He said he would call the police. M.E. she took out a bottle of vodka, sat Misha in front of him, and would he refuse to drink on someone else's? Two enemies sit and insult each other. Misha says: "I hate you!". She replied: "If I had a gun, I would have shot you!" Dismantling brought to the second bottle, both got drunk.

Nothing happens with the exchange.

Naumov fired Misha. He said that I would come for the settlement money, having previously called. And so I've been calling since yesterday (already 4 times), my wife picks up the phone and grumbles with displeasure: "Call me later!". This is such a humiliation, Fi! I won't call again.

I have 2 thousand in my wallet, for 2 loaves of bread. The head is squeezed by an invisible hoop. a week ago
Sasha gave 50 thousand. From time to time he forcefully gives me money. I have already given more than 100 thousand.
Enemy Yeltsin issued a decree on raising pensions from May 1, and from May 15, prices for all products will increase by 2-3 times.

The entire right side began to ache (arm and leg) from the pressure. During walks, I drag Kolya on myself, as if in tow.
These days I definitely go to the cemetery.

I called Naumov again on May 7 at 13-30. The wife replied rudely: "No!" Well, I will celebrate Victory Day with a starvation ration. The pension is far away, the salary is not given. This is symbolic: for such a "happy" life of his daughter, my father and millions of others fought and died!
She put portraits of fathers, tulips on the sideboard for Victory Day, put father's letters, the book "4 Years in Overcoats".

16.05.95.
We quarreled with Misha. In fact, we are no longer family. We'll hate each other soon. I - for his extortion and systematic drinking, he - for my abuse. I recently handed in the bottles along with the bag I bought for the village last year for 6,000.
What to do?! How to get out of the impasse? He has no intention of quitting drinking. God's punishment! I'm shaking all over after swearing. Where to go? For an apartment, he will soon gnaw through my liver.
An exchange option turned up next to you, but there is a wine glass downstairs. I'll have to give up again.

22.05.95.
Black day. Until 21 o'clock we were at Lyalin Ivan. (Nina Ivanovna would have been 60 years old).
In the evening Misha told the monstrous, tragic news. Smart, handsome Anton. The child prodigy you nurtured. How much did you invest in it! Like no one else, I know what Anton meant to you. You had a crush on him.
Fayunya, how many troubles are constantly falling on you! How will you survive this, my Fayunya?! After all, you sit ...

It is on such a tragic note that I end my correspondence conversations with you, my unfortunate girlfriend.

March - May 1995
S.Sh.

It was getting dark, I couldn't sleep, I was upset
I thought, I jumped
Feeling scared
Looks like a little drunk

Broke down, splintered, splintered
I wanted to, but I couldn't
Not glued, broken off
See a little drunk

Retired, divorced
Stolen and burned
Homeless and descended
Looks like a little drunk

Recollected, sobered up
It was treated, toiled, sewn up
Broken and drunk
I had to bury in the morning...
S. Trofimov (poems about the dangers of alcohol )

Poems about alcohol

Relieve tension sometimes
Alcohol helps us.
But more often than not, my friend,
He hurts and hurts!

No matter how much you talk about drunkenness,
It has long been known in Rus'.
The problem is with us, friends.
You can't drink without measure!

All these are just words
In fact, we drink as always.
And the result is known to all,
We have enough problems with drunkenness!

Weak is the one who drinks and drinks again,
Not understanding anything.
He is ready to give for vodka,
Your last good!

His whole family suffers
Children and wife suffer.
But he does not want to understand
That such a life is not needed!

Relieve tension sometimes
Alcohol helps us.
But more often than not, my friend,
He hurts and hurts!
(poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

A poem based on real events, this happened in Novosibirsk ...

“Listen, Fedya, where is the collective farm backpack?
Let's take the potatoes in the garage.
Let's go son before it's too late
And it's already 9 o'clock.
December - again all hands on deck with mom,
Two shifts from night to morning...
Let's have dinner today.
Yes, do not dig you - it's time!
He talked for a long time
About what the family feeds on:
Not a store, thank God
And that potatoes have their own.
Coming to the garage, father car
He stroked his hand gently.
Thought turned to his son
And he says to him: "Wait,
I came up with something, Fedya,
Stay here while inside...
I'll take a walk to the neighbor
And you pick potatoes.
Let's talk about tires...
I'll lock the door..." And he left.
To the neighbor - past the store.
So that there is something to sit at the table with.
… Woke up at home at dawn.
There is light in the hallway, the trellis is broken ...
Everything is quiet! The son is not at home!
And suddenly, like a butt: "Garage! ..."
I don't remember how, half-dressed,
He got to the garage.
He croaked like an animal: “Son, where are you ?!”
Teeth chattering and trembling.
Terrified earthy grey.
I groped for the lock with the key...
Not looking like an iron door
A bare hand froze
Ran…
piercing and thin
Frozen loops rusty groan ...
And in icy tears a child
Fell with a thud to the concrete...

... Creaking, the body swayed
In a belt loop on a hook.
And a letter flew to the "pischetorg":
“The plan has been carried out again everywhere”…
V. Lebedev. "Garage" (poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

Hangover poem.

Alcohol enters the body, with a light stroke, for the soul.
And in the morning, with a hook from the left, it hits the liver, to the point of nausea,
The head is buzzing like a tambourine, because of the mouth it stinks of shit ... om,
The green serpent is damned, be it, and filled with dry wine.

Having extinguished the hangover fire, thoughts begin to live,
Having resurrected a week-long binge, you will say - no, it cannot be!
And suddenly fragments pop up, like splinters of a ship,
In those terrible moments, you squeeze out with a groan - B..I-ah-ah!

Parallel consciousness, twists frames like in a movie,
Terrible memories, it gives you.
It all started so nicely, someone celebrated a holiday,
With the transition to booze, smoothly, vodka - slurped buckets.

Roofing felts for a dispute, roofing felts from grief, this is not the point here.
The sea became a generation, after taken on the chest,
Suddenly all the guests became angry, they poked a salad in my face,
I thought - here are the sick, after the first they don’t eat!

In general, did I eat anything? I remember a vinaigrette.
And I listened to someone else, like - are you my brother, or not?
Well, up to this point, everything went smoothly!
And then, the tape was interrupted, so where did the bruise come from?

Yes, and the jaw aches, fists are broken into blood,
Who will open the veil - did I fight again with someone?
A strange feeling - annoyance, imprinted in the soul
Me yesterday, everyone was happy, but today - the enemy already.

Guilty of this, a stack that was on the road,
The stop button turned off, the guests were shocked!
Someone began to resent, call for help, on the phone,
I, instead of saying goodbye, unleashed my vocabulary,

Rough words, it was not a pity, handed out like marmalade,
A stick was included in the dialogue, a selective checkmate followed
And from now on, it remains only to say,
The result of the experiment will not keep you waiting.

Vodka mixed with beer, which the people call - ruff!
Turns into gray drunkards, if you drink such a mixture,
So be careful before you wet your Adam's apple
With alcohol, a healthy BULL can become a tripod!
Farhat Saitov (poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

people drink
moonshine and vodka,
Alcohol, pepper, port wine, cognac ...
Moving Adam's apples like water
They drink - they can not get drunk in any way.
Don't worry
Do not drive away longing:
Just -
Gather and drink.
And they don't dance at all
They don't walk.
They don't even sing songs anymore.
They drink quietly
How they pray - earnestly,
It's even creepy
They don't break dishes...
Drinking artists and journalists
And the last mortals drink.
Just,
They just get drunk
No reason
No twists - none.
Just,
It's just the way they're going
In "Gastronomah" in the morning -
"For three persons".
People are drinking
All foundations are crumbling.
Whip to death
Not on the stomach!
All communities are falling apart
All collaborations
And matrimony
The drinking lives on.
(poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

Friend! Don't hide behind others.
It all depends on your decisions
And not from good intentions.

Wake up! Your Fatherland hurts!
Not a war, not a new horde -
The stench spreading alcohol,
Gradually trouble struck.

Everyone should understand this pain,
To suffer both in the heart and in the soul:
Millions of dying fellow citizens,
Millions have already died...

The idea is insidious, vile and labeled.
How Mamai walked through Rus' ...
Millions of unborn children
They pray from the future: "Save me!..."

Time to remember the Lord's covenants!
Don't fall into self-deception again
Cast a strong veto
On the drug of the enemy, on the dope!

The hour of deeds and accomplishments has struck,
Friend! Don't hide behind others.
Life depends on your decisions
And not from good intentions.
(poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

Where is my father, this drunk?
He again went to drink rubbish.
How much can I take
I give birth to look drunk.
Every day he drinks and drinks,
And there is no treatment.
I tell him "Let's go"
He told me right there: "Fuck off."
I've been in tears for a long time...
Who am I in his eyes?
I'm nobody to him!
He drank me for a long time ...
(poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

I don't know who will understand me, that vodka is the same poison,

And never rude. Lost father? I don’t know who will understand me, That vodka is the same poison,
And who will give me advice - I know about it.
What to do if dad drinks, No wonder the neighbors say:
And I'm twelve years old? "Unhappy family!"

I feel sorry for him when I write to you at home, and dad is sleeping,
He comes drunk, without removing his shoes from his feet.
After all, this is still my dad. The other day he was beaten somewhere,
And a former champion. Where, I couldn't say.

We went to the cinema together, He promised: "I will stop drinking!"
And I played the ball with him. But he did not keep his word.
But he had me for a long time When I could live alone -
I traded for vodka I would have run away from home!

But once he didn’t drink, It’s bitter for me to write to you
And in the past years But drunkenness has no end.
He was always affectionate with his mother, So what to do? How to save
And never rude. Lost father?
(poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

I will never forget
"Pastoral" of the Native Village -
Drunk mother down the street
Downcast, the daughter led.
And at the neighbor's well
Nodding, looking after them:
Already in an orphanage and even better Svetka.
And where does the village council look!
Nyurka completely drank away his conscience!
To exchange children for half a liter!
Previously, Sveta drove her father,
And now she brings her mother!
Boots in a rut
Tied up, slurry choking ...
Suddenly parted to the sides of the legs,
And the mother fell right into the mud.
Smiling, she lay
Her dress pulled up to the side
And obscenely neighed over her
The pub has a crowd of men.
And then the girl sobbed -
I ran out of patience towards the end.
And suddenly became a thin hand
Mother whip on a stupid face:
- You hear! I'm ashamed, mom!
Better die, but don't drink!
And her mother nodded in response:
- Kill me, daughter, kill ...
The cackle of drunks in the crowd became muffled,
And then it got completely quiet.
Something seems to have penetrated into the soul,
Their eyes dropped.
One was skewed
With a heart he threw out, contorting:
- God! Mother Russia!
What have you been up to!
(poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

In the colonies of orphanages and orphanages
Broken fates are similar
Because daddy drank everything,
Mother often drank
Grandma and grandpa also drank.

Alcohol… Alcohol
Everyone brings only pain,
The life of children is like flour.
In families, where dad drinks,
Mom drinks everything with him,
Where grandparents drink too.

And a groan goes over the country in a dull wave -
A child's cry, like a prayer:
They ask mom: - Do not drink,
They ask dad: - Do not drink,
They ask grandma and grandpa too.

But then only the childish soul is calm, -
Childhood is also like a fairy tale, -
When dad doesn't drink
When mom doesn't drink
Grandparents don't drink either.
IN AND. Nagaytsev(poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

The feeble-minded, not born,
What is your fault before God?
Mortified before birth
Doomed before conception
Drink a bitter cup to the bottom.
Already suffocating in the womb
From alcohol shit.
Think - heart breaks
And mom and dad drink, do not repent,
They are being held by a drunken plague.
Oligophrenics and morons,
There are more of them every year.
Ethyl vapors hit right on target,
Children's graves cry out:
Don't drink, father! Remember, mother!
N. Abramov(poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

The twentieth century. Forties.
Substituting a wounded chest,
Unconquered Russia
Fascist gets in the way.
And, having lost my sanity,
The executioner anticipates the end.
And under his fifth bloody -
Executions, torture, children's crying.
... On the corpses of corpses, looking at the sky,
And suddenly at the pit on the edge:
"Don't kill me, uncle,
And I'll sing you a song."
Trembling and stuttering, right
From a pile of uncooled bodies
Baby over sister and mom
The beast sang about the bunny.
…Eighties. peoples
the country was glorified by labor,
But it gets better every year
Not children's grief orphanage.
Why is a four-year-old boy
They give for conscience, not for fear,
The trouble of a great people
Carry on thin shoulders?!
Waking up, he cries at night
And - the thread of understanding is torn -
Don't give me to mom
I'm scared, my mother will beat ...
Wake up, people: children are crying ...
... Tell me, my great people,
For those orphans, the fascist is responsible,
And who is for the current orphans?
V. Lebedev(poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

And there is no war, and the children are orphans,
Longing during the day and crying at night.
And still the shelters are not empty,
Strengthening the seal of children's sadness.
And the color of the seal is bright purple,
And the period of sadness is clearly not for an hour ...
What good is it that the planet is spinning,
When did the fire in the native window go out?
And the dummy rattle is not red,
The harmonica with a bell is not cheerful,
When a pillow is not embroidered with mom,
And the first nail was driven in not with the father,
And the first perch is fished - not with his brother,
And the sweetness-pie is not shared with my sister ...
The child is small to see the guilty,
And the "big ones" are not in the plans of domostroy.
How the son will appreciate the high cost of words,
If mom drinks, and dad drinks and beats?
How will he call the Motherland Fatherland?
What will he call her Mother?
O. Fokina(poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

If I hear that a Russian peasant
Can't live without vodka - I don't believe it.
Drowning us in these devilish lies
Regardless of human losses.
They preach the Russian custom,
Lies pouring into our brains through our ears,
And become easy prey
Fragile children's souls.
They keep the truth a terrible secret,
Who will break this vicious circle?
And weaves its vile webs
Half drunk stinking spider.
Intoxicated by the thirst for profit,
Measures everything in specie,
All his promises are lies
Mothers, wives and children are crying.
Who is responsible for children's tears?
How to look into their eyes without pain?
People! Russia is dying, believe me,
Choking in wine and tears!
N.Abramov(poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

Railway station. Platform. Cold and damp.
Dressed out of time easily
She, I understood, saw off her son,
For a long time and, apparently, far away.
She stood in front of him in a blue scarf,
Low - he barely up to the shoulders,
And she asked for a son, she asked everything,
Write to her more often and take care of yourself.
- There will be mountains, there will be impassability ...
- Oh, mom! ...
- Okay, don't be shy...
I understand... But be careful!
And again:
- Snowstorms, you can hear there, and blizzards,
And you already dress warmly:
You'll catch a cold in no time - not in the south ...
And most importantly, do not drink, son, do not drink!
And again:
- There will be many of you there ...
Another, just a little - will stick like a burdock.
Do not argue with this, do not bring to a fight ...
And most importantly, do not drink, son, do not drink!
Don't forget your father when in company
You decide to raise a glass with vodka.
Don't forget... He was a good guy
And he became what - you know it yourself.
He himself, your father, dug the abyss-
She turned into a grave ...
Railway station. Platform. Cold and damp.
And red light. And the woman is alone.
Vikulov (poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

I remember a distant day
Children's memory illuminated:
The sound of rain, unshaven cheeks,
And, of course, more...
The smell of vodka, so nasty,
Memory fades, I lose track ...
From the table to my soul invitingly
Look at cards from previous years.
Parse them with mom for a long time,
I delve into her story
Here the father is crossing the Volga,
Snapshot in the form - the last time.
Again I look passionately,
All immersed in comparison
But at first glance it is clear:
I am reflected in a mirror.
Here my father is twice as old as me,
Broader shoulders, sharper eyes
Unprecedented infantry march
A soldier has reached Berlin.
In other photographs - peaceful
Not without wine.
Leaving, bottles like mines,
Our families were torn apart by the war.
It's hard to remember all this.
That terrible father's day was eclipsed,
I was looking for you, folder,
Among those who came to the garden for children.
I was your hope
Well, rejoice, justified.
I also drink regularly, at least
That's the problem, dad.
The morning settles scores with me.
I know: I have not been forgiven since the evening.
Irritating unshaven cheeks
And, of course, more...
Y. Ignatenko(poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

And for me, the road to my homeland -
Sadder than all my other roads.
What do I have there? Very little:
My uncle, my last island.
He can do everything - the support of women and grandmas:
And make a rake - everyone needs it in the summer,
And fix the oven...
And if not weakness
One -
He would have no price!
Can I get around
Him, repenting after: guilty.
My godfather, he is proud of me
And every new meeting, I know, glad.
The gate will open - only see ...
But more often it happens, what to hide! -
I go to the island, and he ... and he is flooded ...
Flooded with vodka, nothing to stick to.
At the bottom there is a hut and hut utensils,
And the uncle is also there, at the very bottom.
Bottle or tin can
Glitter side by side...
What am I to do here?
"Tell me - I stopped by" I ask the neighbors
And I go out hunched over the threshold.
Oh, how unreliable you are my last,
In the homeland of a distant island.
(poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

Uncle Mitya lived freer than free:
On weekdays he drank, and on holidays he drank.
Most voluntary tax
Understand Mitya paid.
How to hit the spree, it happened,
Piglet last on edge!
Mitya didn't lie when he was born
There is some goodness in the chests.
Everything went down the drain...

Uncle Mitya
It could be in connection with the merit of that
Monument to put on granite -
Bronze and even gold.
For the voluntary tax
It would even be a lot ...
But he didn't, good man.
Whether the scapula has been jagged,
Whether the stonemason fell ill ...
Mitya sleeps behind a dilapidated fence,
The wooden post has grown into the ground,
Decorated with a tin star,
Wrapped in withered grass...
Next to a bottle and glasses,
Rain filled with water.
Vikulov(poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

And who said that life will not be eternal?
And that there will be no heaven on earth?

Tell me why the laws of the universe
Are we trampling and waging war?
Wouldn't it be better to be creative?
As we wish, so we will live.

Tell me brother who are our ideals
Whom to believe and who to follow?
Perhaps foreign vandals
Will they indicate the direction of the path?

Or maybe call the dollar - dad, mom?
Perhaps he is our main ideal?
Sell ​​color. met, forests, scarlet flower,
Everything that once called the Motherland.

With the money they buy more beer,
Wine and vodka, whatever suits who.
Sit down with friends culturally and beautifully
And imperceptibly time will flow.

Someone take a puff on a cigarette
To whom a needle, to someone "a joint",
Relax your soul with this atmosphere
And don't care about everything over your shoulder.

Days will pass, years - in an instant,
And we will return to our real world.
Anyone will notice, not without regret,
How the real world has changed.

The "auto" is rotten, the wheels are all decayed,
Wife in wrinkles, ask: "Where have you been?"
- I drank beer. Yes, like, just sat down ...
"Go work," Bill will tell me.

What can I do? What are my goals?
In the eyes of the children there is a mute reproach.
I drank everything and the muscles weakened,
And there is no family, and the house is no longer mine.

Tell me, brother, why are we so careless?
Do we not believe in God? Do we believe in ourselves?
Who, if not we should with eternal love
Bring back our paradise on mother earth.
(poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

Thank God Fate and Chance
For knowing my way.
For the fact that I will no longer be fobbed off
Poison, sweetening it a little.

Thank you for not burning yourself
That he didn’t rest with poison in Bose ...
Thank you, relatives, friends -
Everyone who helped and taught.

Bow to Gennady Shichko
And to you, teacher, to you, presenter!
It's not easy to fight poison
But thanks to those who are waiting.

Thank you Thank you,
What managed to leave forever
With a stupid habit of poisoning,
Sick and cough in the morning.

Graduated from university
And the path without poisoning is clear!
But if a light is lit in the soul,
Shine on others without delay!
(poems about the dangers of alcohol)

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Poems about alcohol

MY HOUR HAPPENED, the meaning of life has returned,
Whom I have not seen drinking.
Lived aimlessly, without thinking at all,
Ashamed of myself and ... my gaze fell prostrate.

But life, it does not tolerate emptiness
Not in mind, not in heart, not in aspiration,
And if mired in drunken bewilderment,
That is the only way - to the fatal line.

And people drink... And... even have fun.
They sing and dance, cry, go-mo-nyat ...
Oh my God, deliver me from them...
Such people are scared to death!

I've seen a lot for forty-odd years:
Shalmans descended, worthless -
Plumbers, narcologists, scientists.
For everyone, wine is their sure misfortune.

A glass, cracker - often without it -
Manufactory sleeve for a snack,
A drunken homeless woman with a Russian obscenity,
Dry basement - his whole life goal ?!

No joy, no faith - on his own ...
Why was born? Don't regret it.
And even though you were not born a great poet,
To open non-drunk eyes to the world:

He is wonderful, and you are born to create!
And everyone needs it! Understand! And you rejoice
Like that autumn capercaillie, you will drown -
Rvanesh in the whole path of fate tore.

How little I ... victory over myself,
Who would be pulled out of the abyss with a trailer ?!
You can be happy without a reason
Kohl himself became a sincere judge.

Yes, I beat the Old with a scythe,
From under the fence to the sun made its way
And with a bitter essence he fought off the crowd,
Don't-pre-say-zu-eat? Exactly, I am.
(poems about the dangers of alcohol)

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Poems about alcohol

wine bottle song
- Bool-boo, boo-boo!
I know you,
I remember your speeches.
I was ripped off every time
You cap at the meeting.

And overturned to their heart's content
Above the lower lip
But then control and power
Lost over themselves.

I am hail, droplets, bul-bul,
No extra frills,
In your heads, like a hail of bullets,
Punched hundreds of holes.

Bool bool, bool bool
simple chant,
Heeding his sign
You then kissed, drunk,
And then they got into a fight.

Not hiding tears
cursing me
Foreheads bowed to the table
And become for me
Submissive slaves.

The chant sounded:
- Boo-boo, boo-boo, -
And the wives left
Sometimes from you, not because
that you loved me?

I'll give you more than once in a hangover hour
Fire poured into the throat
And sent many of you
For sober bars.

Bool bool, bool bool! -
flowing wine,
And how sad for me
What's with the wallets
Have you drunk your conscience?

It happened, they saw devils
You with goat horns
Scolded loyal friends
And clinked glasses with enemies.

A lot of victims
flying down the mountain
Carried away the stream cruelly
But took it to hell
I am more Victims before the deadline.

Bool-boo, boo-boo,
please pour
Down with what is not sung!
To love me is to destroy yourself,
But it doesn't scare you.
Rasul Gamzatov (poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

saw the light
- Much to you, comrade,
thankful
for a treat! Only I don't drink.
Seagulls, it seems, the hostess
brewed,
Here I am pouring myself a glass.
What, did you drink? Drink, comrade,
it was a thing...
Yes, how else! Well, he threw it all the same, sha!
And then - lived - did not live ...
Everything inside burned down.
The body remains, I feel, only the body,
but the soul evaporated completely.
No thoughts, no desires...
Cripple!
And the thief, moreover, -
ask your wife
what else to drink - one
cumecal...
And that only looked like
human,
that out of habit, know
wore pants.
And rioted!
It used to be an old mother
and wife - all from the house ...
and children!
For what?
For hiding the check...
And I'll go to bed - under
pillow
I put the ax: the house is full of devils.
Getting a hangover in the morning is all a concern.
It used to be that you turn out everyone
pocket...
The company is from the same swamp,
no money, but everyone has a drink
hunting,
pour it - a glass rattles against your teeth.
And you are terrible for everyone,
and pathetic.
And you have normal people
looks like a dog
what's in the landfill
timidly gnaws a filthy bone ...
You used to say that -
all zero attention
your nonsense in the calculation, of course,
do not take.
And now they themselves are calling for meetings
and even - I will report without
fib -
called by name and patronymic!
Now I go to the cinema and to the club...
Briefly speaking,
and I, like everyone else, saw a white light.
And I only repent
by the way,
that, flooding the accursed eyes,
I robbed myself for so many years! ..
Sergey Vikulov (poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

I was at a Muslim wedding
Chechen married an Ingush.
You, Russia, would like to visit
In that village, at that feast!

He kept his hand on the Koran
And he repeated: "Allah is great!
I swear to you: Mohammedans
Foreign speakers will bypass everyone!"

In a plate he crushed a cigarette butt,
And with the heel - a glass on the parquet.
He said, furrowing his eyebrows:
"Damn it! Let the enemy swallow it!"
Alexey Markov (poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

We don’t have fun, we don’t have fun -
Now do not burst into tears:
Look: a country with a severe hangover
In the shameful ranks, looking down, stands.
Behind what they call
"Russian".
The soul hurts, the soul is not the head;
After all, along with vodka
cowardice poured into us,
So that bold words are not born.
Great tongue, subject to flattery,
He lifted up false victories to the sky.
Isn't that why we ran on the spot -
They ran honestly, sparing no effort.
This is not the time to give up!
Yes, what you lost, you will not return ...
But we can all, if we save
Russia
From lies
and vodka is the same
LIE.
(poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

Darkness dissipated before me
Life has become easier and happier.
Before I was not a fool to drink,
And now do not fool to drink!
Y. Morozov (poems about the dangers of alcohol )

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Poems about alcohol

Young years with hammered glory,
I myself poisoned you with a bitter poison.
I don't know if my end is near or far
There were blue eyes, but now faded.
Where are you, joy? Darkness and horror, sad and insulting.
In the field, right? In a pub? I can not see anything.
I stretch out my hands - and now, I listen to the touch:
Let's go... horses... horses... snow... we pass a grove.
"Hey, coachman, carry with might and main! Tea, was not born weak
It’s not a pity to shake your soul over such potholes!
And the coachman answered one thing: "In such a snowstorm
It is very scary that the horses sweat on the way."
"You are a coachman, I see, a coward .. This is not with us!"
I took a whip and beat on the horse's backs.
I beat, and the horses, like a blizzard, carry the snow into flakes.
Suddenly a push ... and from the sleigh straight to the snowdrift I.
I got up and see: what the hell - instead of a brisk troika ...
Bandaged lying in a hospital bed.
And instead of horses on the road shaking
I beat the hard bed with a wet bandage,
Hands twirled on the face of the clock.
Sleepy nurses leaned over me.
They leaned over and wheezed: "Oh, you, golden-headed,
You have poisoned yourself with bitter poison.
We don't know if your end is near or far
Your blue eyes got wet in the taverns."
S. Yesenin (Yesenin's poems about the dangers of alcohol )

SOUL HURTS

The soul hurts ... pour that pain!
And it will be joyful, a little.
And if you don’t fill it up, then drink it again,
But this is not from God!

Where there is no will - Green Serpent,
With an iron grip holds the will,
And a hundred devils crap in the soul,
And there is no end to such grief ...

Don't you dare kill yourself!
And bury yourself before the deadline!
And if there is strength - do not drink,
Or at least fear God!

Shake off the carbon monoxide rubbish,
You are a man, a creation of God!
And your body is a small temple,
In which you need to save your soul!

Passing temptations, become stronger
To hell with it, go through the lessons
The Creator created us for
So that we defeat vices!

And everyone in the world is God's son,
Isn't the dirt stronger than you?
Remember: you are not alone here,
And God needs you the most...

DON'T LOSE YOURSELF

We are the creation of the Great God,
And our path leads to it,
The Guardian Angel will guide her,
Who will master - only the winner!

Don't kill yourself, don't kill yourself
Better look to Heaven!
Man on earth for salvation
And not for self-destruction!

Your life is a precious gift
You must become like God - perfect,
And to know his holy will:
"Don't kill yourself" - such a will!

What you sow, you reap in due time
And vices are a heavy burden
Destroy both the soul and the body, This is the worst thing!

(Lyudmila Arkhipova)

REHEARSAL OF DEATH

Characters: Drunkard, Death, Angel.

Came home drunk. Staggering around the room, collapsed into bed.
Snored. He has a dream that death came to him with a scythe ...

Wake up, drunkard! Get up, drunk!
And wipe your musty eyes!
You ruined yourself, you drank away your life,
Look, little soul - darker than the night!

I'll take you, I'll take you
To the realm of the demon, whether you like it or not
They are already waiting for you there, but they will not kill you,
They will mock only in such a way that there is urine!

What's happened? Really - the old woman is behind me,
Has it really been my time?!
- Yes, finished, my dear, your earthly path,
But you're here - not a big loss!
- What will happen to me, what will happen to my soul,
Where will my body be taken?
Shut up you fucking bastard and follow me
You made your own choice, damn it!

I didn’t fight with myself, I took the devil into myself,
He watered you to destroy you.
And now you're on the edge
Now you can't do anything!

And you can't escape punishment
How many vile sins will gather?
You will return to the sinful earth again,
You still have to redeem your lot!

You will be born a child, a freak like this:
Ragged mouth and crooked hands
It will be difficult and painful to live physically,
But you doomed yourself to torment!

You will be blind, because you flooded your eyes,
Speech will take away, because drunk, usually
When he wants to say, he can only mumble,
And shake your miserable head!

He cried out in his sleep: “Who will forgive my sins?”
I don't want an inglorious death!
- “To whom the church is not a mother, God is not a father,
Only there will you eliminate all the causes!”

Who answered me this? because I don't sleep anymore
There is no death, the sun is shining through the window!
- This is - I am your Angel, and I catch the moment,
To enlighten you again, at least a little!

You can't get up without God
Lean on mighty power!
Life is sacred to you, and it is not a trifle

Don't throw her back in the grave!

(Lyudmila Arkhipova)

HOSTAGES OF OUR VICES

Hostages of our vices
To the children of a huge country,
Lord, how long
To endure, so that we come to our senses?

After all, the slogan “All the best for children!”,
Not just empty words
More monstrous, no in the world,
Relatives, if the conscience is dead!

Serving fatal madness
We don't see children growing up
We will sow confusion in their souls,
In their hearts the jackals sing!

For a dead glass or a drug,
We are ready to give children
And the demon will come like a hunter
What is sacred in us - take away!

Do not be an executioner, and come to your senses
Who is ready to destroy?
And to awaken your conscience,
Come under the protection of the Church!

Only there will heal your soul,
Only there you will lift yourself,
And God will work his miracle
Forgive and encourage you!

(Lyudmila Arkhipova)

Sooner or later, each of them faces this choice. Continue to live as before, or change something, that is, leave. The dilemma is not only serious and responsible, but also very complex. First of all, you need to understand what is on one scale and what is on the other. It is not simple. Let's calculate today what a woman who lives with a heavy drinker loses.

Minefield

Received a letter recently.

“My husband is a drunkard. A smart, kind, talented person, but completely unbearable when he drinks. And he drinks often. It seems to me that I have already tried everything: both feigned indifference, and affection, and exhortations. We went to the doctors, coded for a year (in fact, it turned out for three days). What's next? I don't know. And I have no idea how I will live without him. I’ll have to change apartments, look for another job… I need to make a decision, but I need help.”

Sooner or later, this choice confronts every companion of a drinking person. Continue to live as before, or change something. It is not so easy to formulate it more concretely; at first, only emotions, affects, and verbal outbursts are seething in us - the cries of the soul. Anger, despair, a sense of powerlessness, fear, “I can’t do it anymore”, “I don’t want it anymore”, and also “I hate it” ... Everything is right. It is no longer possible to live like this - in this minefield, smelling of alcoholic fumes, completely unpredictable, where every step is filled with fear and pain, threatens to explode - be it a scandal, an ugly scene in front of the neighbors, real destruction and injury ...

Cross and escape

Attempts to re-educate, to force to go to a doctor, a psychologist, to be coded, to sign up for a self-help group, just to pull yourself together - if they are made, that is only for the sake of decency.

So, is there only one way out - to leave? There are two extreme points of view here.

“Carry your Cross,” some say.

“Run without hesitation,” others advise.

Like any extreme, both are dangerous. You can run away, no one knows where, and what you can wait for in the first case is sometimes scary and guessing. The misunderstanding in this case of the Cross was dispelled by the Local Council of 1917-1918, recognizing one of the reasons for the dissolution of a marriage consecrated by the Church, “an incurable serious mental illness”, which is alcoholism. In "Fundamentals of the Social Concept of the Russian Orthodox Church" (2000), "medically certified chronic alcoholism or drug addiction" is also mentioned as such reasons.

Only specifically

The choice we make is quite definite, if we discard emotions: between life with a loved one who suffers from alcoholism, and life without him - a different, new life. The dilemma is not only serious and responsible, but also very complex. First of all, you need to understand what is on one scale and what is on the other. This is not easy and depends on a lot of specific circumstances of life - the presence of children, financial situation, the size of the living space, relations with parents, etc. and so on. To weigh all the pros and cons, you need to think carefully, best of all calling for help a third, uninterested person: an experienced confessor (if you are lucky enough to have one), a good psychologist (if you are lucky to find one). In this case, a therapeutic group will help well, gathering people with a similar problem (“codependents”) - there is an opportunity to look at your own situation with different eyes, find out the continuation of one or another step, and most importantly, understand that you are not alone, that through such a choice very many pass and most come out of this test with honor.

In this text, I do not pretend to a detailed analysis (and this is impossible) and in no case do I agitate for the indispensable parting with the drinker. I just want to list, based on my own experience, as well as the experience of communicating with "codependents", what a woman who lives with an alcoholic loses.

Let's talk conditionally only about wives. The problem of children is special and completely separate. Parental alcoholism affects them differently than the parents themselves, and there are much more difficulties.

So, what do the wives of alcoholics lose?

They only dream of peace

First of all, of course, peace of mind. Anyone who walks through a minefield has no way to relax. If he is also a sapper (or considers himself such). The wife of an alcoholic is an unfortunate sapper, who is trying to mine the endless plain with improvised means, never knowing the path that her “ward” will take. She always expects an explosion, and it almost always happens - but not where she thought. She hid the money - her husband met an old friend in the subway, did not celebrate his birthday - her husband had a corporate party at work, drove the "friends" out of the doorway - he found a thousand in the entrance, etc. and so on.

At the front line, the shooting is not heard

As time goes by she loses hope that something might change. Disappointment is no longer an explosion, it is a background sound. So a person living near the front line, over time, ceases to hear the shooting and feel fear. This feeling is deceptive, the habit only dulls the feelings, drives them deeper, rooting them.

Days and especially nights pass in a vague expectation of trouble.

We play cops and thieves

Anxiety is the eternal companion of such a wife. Obeying her, she loses ability to think and act logically. After all, everything is subordinated to one goal. The husband is at home - you need to check him for "exhaust", sober - look for a hidden bottle, gone somewhere - no matter what happens. She is waiting for trouble even when everything is fine - and will certainly wait for her. Eric Berne in his book "Games People Play" describes this one: "Cops and thieves". Drunkards' wives play it all the time. This game becomes a style, a way of life. But there is no winner in it and cannot be. Having found the coveted trophy: an open bottle of vodka under the sink, the smell of fumes from the lips of the faithful, she only exacerbates her incessant pain. The exclamation of the exposed husband: “Well, glad you got your way ?!” not so cruel and irrational as it might seem at first glance. After all, the wife actually found what she was looking for, she won the game, but she doesn’t know what to do now with her sad trophy.

Holiday - what could be sadder?

The drunkard's wife does not know holidays. Red days of the calendar, birthdays, weddings - the next test for her. If all life is a minefield, then a holiday is one giant mine, which, although you can see it, cannot be bypassed. There will certainly be an explosion, and a considerable explosion. She will try to prevent him, as always, to take promises from her husband ahead of time that he is “no-no”, to count the glasses he has overturned, if there is a feast, to hiss “have a bite”, to try to leave before everyone else - but will not achieve anything. It will only spoil the mood - both for yourself and for others.

For the same reason, they have not received guests in their house for a long time.

minus friends

Most likely, she has long lost common ground with her husband. friends(before the visit, he asks not to bring anything with him, then he looks like a wolf, because, most likely, they will not come empty-handed) and even his girlfriends. Only a few friends of misfortune remained, with whom you can drink tea in the kitchen and discuss unlucky husbands. The rest have long been tired of listening to the same thing and are tired of family scenes, which you constantly have to witness.

Uncomfortable, tasteless and poor

The house where such a family lives is rarely comfortable. Who needs this cosiness? She becomes uninterested delicious to cook- the food will disappear anyway, here it’s not food that is in use, but a “snack” (at best). Look after yourself- is also redundant. In addition, all this requires funds, and material wealth- also a rare guest in such a house (we are talking about average families).

"I" and "we"

In fact, she loses herself your personality. Codependency has many definitions. The most capacious and short: “the desire to completely control the life of another person” (which, you see, also contradicts common sense and logic, since it is impossible). The wives of drinking people, like mothers of sick children, begin to say "we." “We lost our temper again, we were on a drinking binge,” states the “mommy” of a gray-haired man with a prominent belly. He nods ruefully. “And how much did you drink, Lena, this time?” - you are interested. “What are you, what are you! - waves his hands. “I don’t drink at all, you know, it was my husband who was on a drinking binge.” But next time she will say “we” again: “we decided to shut ourselves up”, “we promised not a drop more” ... It is very important to break this strange connection at least at this simplest level of pronouns. And it's not that easy. If you ask how you are doing, you will hear in response a story about your husband. Clarify: “How are you, personally, are you doing? What's new?" Think, shut up, there is nothing to answer. Her life is his life.

Like a sponge

You can “completely control” another person only by merging, completely imbued with his personality, soaked in it, like a sponge oversaturated with liquid - losing its ability to be a sponge, to absorb anything else.

Alcoholic wife cuts for herself the possibility of external impressions. Everything else becomes gray, faded and uninteresting - in comparison with her only Supertask. I know a woman who could not read, although she had always been an avid book reader - she lost her ability to concentrate, all the time as if anxiously waiting for something. The other literally went berserk from loud music, and from the one that she liked, she cried. Her husband, drunk, played rock ballads at full volume, this went on from year to year, and she simply could not stand the sound of music. It took her a few more years after the divorce to start listening to her favorite artists again. For others, primitive detective stories, serials, knitting, some simple Tetris, sudoku, walking down the street - everything acquires value not in itself, but only as a means of distracting from constant pain and anxiety.

Half a liter of a substitute for joy

After all the ability to rejoice She, too, has long since lost. And only from time to time forces himself to do this - with relative success. Approximately the same thing happens with the alcoholic himself, codependency is just a mirror reflection of addiction. “It seemed to me that I was living,” one “former” says, “and this life was passing me by.” Drinking is easier. For joy, gaining sharpness of external impressions, creating the illusion of the fullness of life, he has one proven remedy - alcohol. “When my husband bought a bottle, I saw half a liter of surrogate joy in his hands,” recalls N. “It was so visible and tangible that it even became scary ... And that would be half the trouble. Bought and bought. But it turns out that you need to pay for all this later: hangover depression, enduring longing, the suffering of loved ones. I saw directly how he took that joy away from me when he bought his endless bottles.”

Life for later

Very close to the ability to rejoice is worth the ability to live in the here and now. The expectation of future misfortune and past disappointments seem to push back and forth, preventing you from breathing deeply, enjoying rare moments of peace and joy - even if everything is fine now. She does not know how to rest, relax, because she is always on the alert. She does not notice how spring comes and summer passes. That is, he notices, of course, but trying to look back, as a rule, he cannot remember anything. “Summer is a small life” is not about her. Summer is just another endless day filled with anxiety and anticipation. Don't believe? If this problem is yours, try to conduct a small experiment and remember in detail the summer of 2012. Here we recall the unforgettable “engine from Romashkovo”, which forced passengers to smell lilies of the valley, listen to nightingales and look at the dawn so as not to be late - for spring, for summer, for all life. Wise, he knew the importance of living in the here and now, cherishing every moment of joy.

It's premature to talk about the whole life, but youth codependents lose prematurely - that's a fact. The wives of alcoholics grow old early, even if they do not poison their bodies with chemistry with their husbands, which also happens quite often, but that is a separate conversation.

This information is not only educational! Alcoholism is a family disease and we carry out therapeutic and preventive measures not only with the patient, but also with his relatives. We create individual treatment programs for each case. Free telephone consultations and individual work with a psychologist are provided. Seek professional help

About the wives of alcoholics in great detail: why won't they get divorced and change their lives?

Wives of alcoholics- sick people. This cruel phrase captures the meaning of codependency. The bride or wife of an alcoholic, having a mental trauma from early childhood, harbors the illusion that in a relationship with an alcoholic, she is needed, loved, saves him, which means she is smart and a heroine. Why is this happening?

To save an alcoholic with constant withdrawals from binge in clinics or ordinary prokakami at home and wait for changes? No, this scheme does not work, you continue to cover up his drunkenness - go through complex treatment and only then life will change!!!

Brides of alcoholics - who are they?

These are women, girls who deliberately choose flawed partners for themselves, whom they can regularly "drag", "save", "change" and so on. It is characteristic that such women will avoid normal and adequate men, since in competent adult relationships there is no need to influence someone, but you need to open yourself up. And that's what women do badly. Why - we will tell below.

In the meantime, let's say that the "rescuers", which are the future wives of alcoholics, are NOT interested in the person recovering from alcoholism. If the disease is chronic - alcoholism is such a disease - the patient must be helped to recover. And for this you need to do everything that doctors do: treat, do not get involved, do not regret. And the wives and brides of alcoholics do the opposite. They do alcoholics a disservice and also hope that they will cheat on their husband in the future. In the meantime, they are not married - they indulge his weaknesses and do not climb to him with corrections (if I get married, then I will make a man out of him!), But they suffer courageously.

Comprehensive problem solving: individual approach and consultation

In all relationships with alcoholics future wives are only focused on their partner. What is he? Why is he drinking? How to deal with it? These girls are silent about themselves, their plans, their needs. This happens for the reason that since childhood they have not been accustomed to conduct confidential conversations, to open their souls. Surely the family where the co-dependent grew up is a problematic family. And some women will begin to vehemently deny: they say, everything was fine! But it's not! It means that outwardly it was good, but the soul did not receive proper nourishment, either the father or the mother controlled and constantly expected something from the daughter, that she was used to “deserving” love, to be on the alert. And if her parents drank, then it is clear that from childhood she was used to controlling, keeping her finger on the pulse, eliminating the consequences of her parents' drunkenness so that no one would suspect anything. There was no happiness, there was pain, distrust of a man, and a desire, by all means, to do everything differently in my family, despite the problematic family of my parents.

But a positive binding, like a negative binding, is still a binding. And acting "on the contrary", in essence, the girl finds the same problematic man and tries to prove to herself that she can. And it doesn’t even occur to her that the only way to “prove” is to find a non-problem man.

She struggles to "make" a man out of him, initially seeing something flawed in him. A logical question arises: if he is such a "wretch", then why are you going to marry him. The answer is: I love him. But this is not love. Love is when you accept it as it is. But just the bride of an alcoholic does not want to accept. Her only desire: to correct. Control the situation. Control. Only then will she calm down, because she has known such a scenario since childhood.

At the same time, she is terribly, to the point of panic, afraid to be alone, because she needs a sense of rear again from childhood, but she doesn’t have it. Marriage, as a fact, becomes her rear and cozy protection, armor from the real world. I'm married, which means I'm successful. I'm like everyone else. I am no worse than others. And the last sentence plays the key role. To be no worse than others means to be equal. The very thing that never worked out in childhood had to be proved all the time. In the end, the girl marries her alcoholic. And ... discovers that she is even more alone than she was. She does not love herself and considers herself second-rate, unworthy of love. And her alcoholic does not give her the feeling that she is doing well, no matter how hard she tries. And her dislike for herself is only reinforced from the outside. Plus, she gets absolutely no credit for "trying so hard." And she cannot understand in any way that she is trying for herself, and gratitude on the part of the one who is being forcibly changed is impossible in principle.

Alcoholic wife. Marriage without love

No matter how codependents convince others about their feelings, there is no smell of love in their relationship. If there was even a drop of love in the relationship of such people, alcoholics would stop drinking. Because true love is expressed in a completely different type of behavior. Which provokes change. But the wives of alcoholics come to the opposite: their husbands become completely drunk.

Main feature wives of alcoholics- boundless, universal belief that they can change a person and decide their fate. But this is impossible! People do not change under pressure, they have such a property as resistance. This is a normal psychological defense, developed over the centuries and even, probably, for thousands of years, a mechanism.

Wives of alcoholics - often either the only daughters or the eldest daughters in the family. Either their domineering parents criticized them very much, demanding the achievement of some heights, or they did not praise them, forcing them to almost beg for affection and approval. In both cases, the lack of love gave rise to an internal unmet need. She did well in school, she was an activist, and all this was done unconsciously in order to be praised for something. And this is devastating for girls initially. This boys can be praised for something. Girls should be loved just like that, for what they are. Otherwise, such crippled co-dependents grow up. And it’s not a fact that they will find an alcoholic or a drug addict, but definitely some person who will underestimate them, and thereby reinforce their picture of the world.

Desperately low self-esteem does not even allow her to look towards those who she really likes. She will obviously choose someone who is not particularly pleasant to her, she will feel slighted, but still unworthy of the best. Receive from the "unworthy" pokes and slaps mentally (and sometimes physically), but will not even think about just stopping this run in a circle. No! She will try to please, try to be better. Because it's more familiar. Because this is the only way she knows, and therefore safe, way of life. And the danger of being yourself, to show character, means to scare away all suitors. And no one needs her anyway, ugly, bad and ... you can list indefinitely.

She married an unworthy drunk / drug addict. What's next?

As before, it would not occur to her that she was a worthy woman. And in general, her psyche has long been imprisoned for completely different experiences. To feel the fullness of life, she needs heroism. It is through these daily exploits that women, the wives of alcoholics, gain a sense of worth and worth. She lacks adequate self-esteem, and in order to feel like a normal person, she needs to “prove” to someone that she is. Here she proves it. Husband - emphasizing how he tries. Society - persistently creating a picture of an ideal family, even when everything is sewn with white thread. For children - even if the father beats them and vomits on their toys, mom will hide everything, clean it up, pretend that "dad is just tired."

This constant struggle with oneself does not stop for a minute. At the same time, she is not going to really take up the task of starting to treat an alcoholic, stop (at least!) Covering his sins. What for? And who then to save? Why does he need her then? And then - oh my! - He can leave her. And she won't take it. Then you have to realize that she is alone. And the fact that she is alone and with her alcoholic, she remembers only when he is drunk and insane. And she is completely alone and defenseless in front of the real world. And there is no one to bury in the shoulder, because a completely insensitive fat tail is lying nearby. Which also causes purely physical inconvenience (walks under himself, covered in vomiting, stinks throughout the house, and so on).

The realization that her life is an illusion is quickly blocked by urgent needs: to clean, wash, clean. Put the kids down. And there, you see, it will sober up, and again - as if it were an idyll. It seems to be a family.

Growing up in a troubled family, a girl retains for life the need to forcibly control reality. Of all, do not allow the collapse of your life. The root of this thirst is in childish impotence to change something. She was already weak! It's time to take the reins into your own hands. That's what lives...

Why are codependent women like this?

Women with catastrophically low self-esteem do not get married, but jump out. Who first paid attention, who caressed, with that and "love". Because who else will take it, who needs it? Only an alcoholic, and thanks for that. And she does not even give a report to herself.

Low self-esteem is a chic field of activity on the basis of which you can nurture your unfulfilled needs. “I’ll prove to him how wonderful I can be. And I am the mistress, and the wife, and the mistress! With me, he will become perfect and stop drinking, where else can he find such a wonderful one. And if a man has children from a previous marriage, even better: the need to feel like a heroine plays like a pioneer bugle. This is a field of uncultivated possibilities. Here you will show yourself as a nurse, and a super-nanny, and in general a smart beauty. However, the man is in no hurry to appreciate, he continues to drink, the woman's enthusiasm gradually fades, irritation grows. It's time to teach the mind-reason.

Moreover, the rule “from the opposite” becomes motivation, which has never led anyone to anything good. “If I don’t wean my husband from drinking, I am nothing and there is no way to call me.” And why? Because she believes from childhood that she is a nonentity. She was given this. And now she, wounded, lives with it.

And real needs make themselves felt. There is aggression, the need to scream. That's why wives of alcoholics scandalous, nervous, often overweight (as protection from the world), untidy (not up to me, I have to do it, and anyway he doesn’t sleep with me, that’s the point).

Considering herself an appendage of a man, a woman tries to command him, humiliates him along the way and makes it clear what a nonentity he is (and the longer the marriage, the more often this happens, because bitterness and resentment accumulate). As a result, the husband drinks even more, the wife suffers even more, and there is no end in sight until something happens, or the exhausted woman decides to divorce. But if she does not change herself, she will find ... another alcoholic.

What should the wife of an alcoholic do?

Before it's too late, the bride of an alcoholic, and even more so his wife, should ask herself two questions. The first is what I'm moving towards. The second is who is next to me.

Answer yourself honestly. And do not confuse questions in places! Otherwise, you will go straight to the hellish conditions of existence. More importantly: what you want, not who is nearby. Because whoever is there is pulling you down. And with him you are definitely going nowhere! And if you know the goal, then why do you need SUCH a satellite. How will he help you along the way? Nothing, let's be honest. It will only interfere.

Remember, dear women. An alcoholic is an irresponsible and infantile person. And if he doesn’t try to improve himself, didn’t try before marrying you, doesn’t try now, then you will find loneliness together, a difficult life, raising children alone, spending money on someone else, in essence, for you person. He will put all the blame for the "wrong" upbringing on you. You will always be to blame for his "crippled" fate. You will meet old age, at best, alone and healthy. And most likely exhausted, beaten many times by her faithful, and unhappy. And no one really needs it anymore.

WHAT TO DO?

It would be nice to start taking care of yourself. This is the first thing an unloved and unhappy woman should do. At a minimum, stop doing what you are doing now: do not take his problems on your shoulders.

Think about the limits, the limits that you cannot cross. What kind of humiliation are you not ready to go to. Gradually, it is important to reduce the boundaries of what is acceptable. Today you forbid yourself to beat. Tomorrow - call. It's conditional, but that's the gist of it. Move the border gradually. It won't work out anyway.

It's time to learn how to restore your self-esteem. By any means. From the banal repetition in the morning to myself in the mirror “I am worthy, I am no worse than others. Not the coolest, but not worse either. I deserve a better life. I'm just a decent person. And you can't treat me like that."

It won't work right away, and don't expect it. Just keep going. According to the estimates of those who were once in your place, at least six months pass before the consciousness begins to rebel against the difficult life in which you are. Step by step. Just go. The road will be mastered by the walking one.

Trust! There is psychological help. That's why she exists!

Learn to defend yourself without aggression. It's hard too. Unusual! But you really need to learn it! At least in order to save their strength.

Keep taking care of yourself. Spend time and money on yourself. Elementary: soak in the bath for 15 minutes! Also care and relaxation. Cultivate the woman in you with all your might. Worthy, good for no reason - by default, desired. The real you!

Forget about whether you were right or not. No mistakes. There is experience. Yes, this is how you lived. Well, what. It's never too late to live differently!

NEVER listen to those who say that you are to blame for everything. Listen to those who can help you get out and understand where you are going wrong, how it will improve your life. Feel the difference! Not “you are bad and you are to blame”, but you just did the wrong thing. Do it differently, life will change.

Steps to change for co-dependent controllers or how to cure an alcoholic husband!

As long as you keep your finger on the pulse of the situation, you imagine yourself to be God Almighty. Without which the world would collapse. We hasten to reassure you. will NOT collapse.

Victim wives are great at declaring how unhappy they are because of their bad husbands. They achieve feelings of guilt with tears, statements about their suffering, they know how to arouse pity for themselves. By combining hard control and command and soft tactics, they stubbornly hope that the spouse will stop drinking. However, he doesn't quit. It is convenient for him to drink to avoid responsibility and create drama. And it is convenient for her every time to feel herself almighty and a sufferer, from this she receives a kind of pleasure, since she sees herself as a holy martyr, and it is so pleasant to be better than others, “holier” and “kinder”. And higher! Oh, how sweet it is to be above others. In vain, despising her husband and needing him, because it is to him that such a woman proves how great she is. And so they live, grappling with each other "their problems."

And such people will not get divorced, they will suffer and at the same time need each other, until one of them comes to their senses and tries to do at least something with their leads.

Trying to take everything under control leads to invariable depression. Since control is distrust in the processes of the universe, the universe, God, if you like. This is self-destructive behavior. The controller is always exhausted because he is powerless. Mental pain is activated, the most hidden fears are activated, the feeling of defenselessness and loneliness, the emotions of distrust and rejection of oneself are intensified.

To get rid of the desire to control, you need to learn to believe in yourself and trust yourself!

You need to learn how to properly express your negative feelings. Now there are a lot of trainings, specialized classes. If you are afraid of these “terrible” words and think that all these are “sects”, at least follow the advice of our ancestors: aggression can and should be thrown off through work, sports, communication with nature, conversations with those you trust. And it is much more correct to turn to specialists. It is necessary to learn to work with aggression, otherwise the “naughty world” that you cannot control will destroy you with your own aggression, which you simply have nowhere to put.

1. Stop living the life of an alcoholic. Why are you wasting your time making sure how he feels? 2. 2. Let him act as he sees fit, he is not a small child. And even if something happens, it will be smarter. Stop babysitting him like a baby.

3. Remember that by saving someone who, by the way, often does not ask you about it at all, you simply continue to reinforce his behavior. He knows that he will be saved, you know that you will not go anywhere and you will save. The wheels are spinning. Life slips away like sand through your fingers. Where?..

4. Stop paying his bills and debts.

5. Stop "excusing" him in front of family and friends, explaining his actions. Find the courage to say honestly: "He's drunk." Let him be responsible for his actions.

6. Stop taking him, drunk, home. It will come by itself.

7. Stop looking for him if he is drunk somewhere. His difficulties!

8. Is it unpleasant to walk next to a man swaying from alcohol? Don't go! Are you being dragged?

9. Stop doing for him what he can do for himself when he sobers up. Why are you washing his clothes? Put it in a plastic bag so it doesn't stink. If it bothers you, just throw it away.

10. Stop making excuses for him in front of everyone and everything. Ashamed? For him? Why are you ashamed? Let him be ashamed.

11. Stop dragging a load of family responsibilities. Let him do his part.

12. Find the courage to voice your needs and wants. And don't expect to be heard, to do something. But at least you can say it! And you will understand what is happening and whether you are ready to meet halfway. And if you are not ready, will you understand whether you need it?

13. Stop blaming you for helping and he is ungrateful. It was your initiative. Have you been asked at all? What are you thankful for? Don't like that there's no gratitude, just don't do anything else for him. That's all.

14. Remember that the best thing we can do for others is when we stop being a victim and a controller. Give others the opportunity to take care of you, to show their qualities. You don't give! You do everything for the people. And you decide for them. Of course they get angry and feel inferior. Vicious circle.

15. Learn to love and respect yourself. This and this alone will solve your problems and nothing else. You may never reform THIS alcoholic in particular. Or maybe, God forbid, seeing your changes, and he will begin to change. But if you yourself change, you yourself will prefer a completely different life. And next to you is a completely different person who respects and appreciates you. And an alcoholic - has the right to change or become an inveterate drunkard further. It's his choice. Not yours.

© Katerina Janouch, 2004

© Publishing house "Chelovek", design, edition, 2011

* * *

Part one

He crawled on all fours. Blood was dripping from the nose onto the floor. Scarlet drops fell on the Persian carpet, soiled clothes. One would have thought that some boxer had broken his nose. Right hook. But everything was different. It's all about cocaine. He couldn't stand up - he couldn't. Tried and fell again. A little to the side, under the table, lay a crumb, a white grain on the carpet. It is clear that it could be anything. Bread crumb. The usual litter. A particle of dirt, washing powder... It doesn't matter. It could have been cocaine. Cocaine they dropped. I didn’t have enough for a snuff ... Come on in your mouth, baby! How the hell could this happen!? Meeting. An enviable position that he was offered. He burst into tears. Tried to get up again. The blood flowed non-stop. He remembered the children, he has four children. Then came fainting.

1

Alcohol and our lives are inseparable. We hurry to the "System" 1
Sistembolag is a chain of public stores in Sweden that allows the sale of alcoholic beverages, including strong beer.

Liquor store, gotta get there before closing. The restaurant will offer us a wine list. No party is complete without booze. As soon as something is celebrated, toasts are sounded and alcohol is poured. Where will we meet? Of course, in a pub. Or let's go for a glass of wine. Let's take a drink. Let's go to a cocktail party. With the girls for lunch. Someone says goodbye to a bachelor life and arranges a bachelor party - we need to celebrate ...

And in the life of our family, alcohol played a significant role. Food cooked with wine. Wine served with food. One bottle, as a rule, was not enough, because dinner should be properly experienced. On weekends, evenings were spent outside the home, often “for spirits” went during the week. Naturally, all roads led to a bar or tavern, where, of course, people drank.

What was used depended on the season. In summer, coffee is always accompanied by Calvados or cognac. Especially abroad, because everything is so much cheaper there! You can drink without worrying about the bill. And besides, abroad everyone drinks more than here in Sweden, which means that we only adhere to the general tradition of drinking. In winter, whiskey was preferred. Mountains, a hotel bar… First one glass, then a second, then a third. God loves trinity. Whiskey, they say, does not tolerate loneliness. And the beer flowed like a river all year round. Twelve degrees, with a white dome of foam. Misted glass. Big glass - that's beer! One more time, please.

A couple more glasses...

Being in society meant drinking. Without alcohol - well, in any way. It's like everything in this world revolves around drinking. Of course, the reference to secular life is just an attempt to justify oneself, a reason to get drunk. Or is one so intertwined with the other that it is no longer possible to distinguish? In any case, Richard did not succeed.

When we first met, we were both tipsy. We smelled of beer, wine, liquor. Noses were tickled by a sharp sweet aroma, scent molecules.

Richard's kisses tasted of wine, tavern, freedom, and I fell in love with him in such a way that it almost hurt. I have been waiting for him for so long, and the love he gave was pure, without a hint of falsehood. What happened to us on the day we first met was like a chemical reaction. My heart stopped for a moment, sweat broke out on my forehead, and I felt dizzy. I blushed and couldn't take my eyes off him, and he felt the same way and couldn't take his eyes off me. Something drew us to each other, and there was nothing to be done about it.

We smelled of alcohol and tobacco, and perhaps a little bit of body shop cream that wasn't tested on animals. How does alcohol affect animals? In Japan, sake is rubbed into the skin of cows to make the meat more tender. One day, a cat ate too much fermented cherries, got drunk and ran around with bulging eyes. Once on TV I saw a drunken dog - she could not keep her balance. But no one has yet investigated how much alcohol a squirrel can withstand before it stops picking nuts and falls off a branch to the ground.

And no one has written a scientific treatise about us. We were like guinea pigs without the right to a fee, the main purpose of which is to show how far you can go. Or maybe some people in white coats were watching us and our life from afar? Our reactions. Our feelings. Our condition the next morning.

Richard was drunk when I met him, and he came to our subsequent meetings drunk. At first I tried not to pay attention to it, but the fact is the fact. The first time he was drunk as hell. Drunk like a shoemaker, completely drenched, nowhere to go. Lyka did not knit. Drunk to the position of riz. Everything around, I suppose, seemed like a merry-go-round to him. Defocused eyes. A smile on his lips and incoherent speech.

And yet he was great. He shone with his drunken beauty. He was so delightful that he stood out noticeably from all the others. Richard, my Richard had such charisma that not even twenty glasses of beer could destroy it.

Natural instinct told me - no! This guy is no. I've had occasion to date people who drank. So to speak, I experienced how harmful alcohol can act. How hard it is when you lose control of him. It would seem that this is enough. But man is weak. It seems that he is reasonable and wise, and in a moment he is already on the way to trouble, not suspecting that he is standing on the edge of the abyss.

Richard and alcohol were an inseparable couple. They adored each other. Love till death. Wherever Richard was, alcohol followed him. Or was already waiting for him there.

The evening we first met, we barely managed to exchange a few words. But Richard remained in my memory. Left a mark there. That evening he left with someone else. I would thank fate for this and be on my guard. But I did exactly the opposite. As soon as we met again, love attacked me with all available means. Bach! I saw him. It was at some kind of a garden party at the Museum of Modern Art, where beer was splashing in paper cups. It's all about his eyes. At that moment, intoxication had not yet fully mastered him. I sipped my beer and met his gaze. The voice of reason was instantly suppressed, discarded. But how could I submit to a boring mind, looking into those sparkling light green eyes? Every normal person will understand that this is impossible.

I looked into his eyes, and we continued to drink beer. It was a warm May evening and some obscure orchestra was playing on the stage in the garden of the Museum of Modern Art, but I didn’t care what and how they played, because what was happening to me was much more important than any music, more important than beer ... And then everything took on a downright mythological scale.

I fell in love.

Our acquaintance had been going on for several weeks, and not once during the evening meetings was Richard completely sober. I drank a lot, I drank often. He called me and asked for a visit, and I tried to resist: it seemed to me insane to make an appointment with a drunkard. What did it promise us, what did it promise me? I was afraid that he would come to my house, I would open the door, and he would fall on me in the hallway.

And yet I couldn't refuse him. Is the reason in the eternal female pity? In an effort to save someone? Maybe. But there was something else - I loved him. I loved Richard as a person. He was an outstanding personality.

Sometimes he didn't show up, but he always called. Called often. He used to fall asleep in the middle of a sentence. He talked about how he felt, I was talking about myself, and suddenly - silence in the receiver. Hello? I heard his breath. Hello! He did not answer, and I sat with the phone in my hand. Sometimes I would listen for long minutes as he switched off on the other side of the city, plunging into an alcoholic sleep. I tried to imagine what he looks like. A flat stomach without excess fat and oversized slips. T-shirt, which he did not have time to take off. Lying on the couch or in bed? Covered with a blanket or sitting somewhere on the floor? Perhaps he called as soon as he entered the room. First of all - to the device. Call to hear my voice. Then he fell asleep and remained lying there, in the apartment of one of his friends, with whom he sometimes spent the night. Lying under the coffee table, among old newspapers and pizza boxes, between sweat-soaked sneakers and empty beer cans, with a telephone cord wrapped around his neck. I put the receiver aside, and a quarter of an hour later, putting it to my ear again, I heard his rhythmic breathing.

Didn't I see the symptoms? Didn't notice the warning signs? Beware, this guy is dangerous for you! Don't fall in love! Well, of course, all these boring warnings ... But I'm not a naive little girl. It is quite possible that it was these periodically flashing danger signals that provoked me. I wanted to prove to them that they had no power over me. That they don't scare me and I won't give up. I wanted to choose the man of my heart myself. I wanted him and no one else. Everything is so simple!

Love was stronger than any cause for concern. I fell in love with Richard, although we were so different. To be honest, we weren't right for each other at all. Maybe I wanted to "save" him? Bring back a lost soul? I do not exclude. I didn’t fully understand what motivated me, but what was said above could take place. The problem, however, was that Richard didn't really look lost at all. He was strong and handsome and seemed to have no problems. He did not look like a perpetually drunk beggar for whom you feel sorry. He was hardy and self-confident, always doing what he liked. And he drank when he wanted to. The question is, who had the right to dictate to him how much to drink? I considered him a rebel. A man who won't let anyone control him. To some extent, he was an integral part of my own protest. A protest that had no clear direction. Except against myself.

At first, Richard and I saw each other mainly in the evenings. The day was devoted to other things. I, a single mother, had little free time, and Richard, to be honest, did not suffer from its excess. I had to take care of my son Edward, I took him to kindergarten and took him home, wrote articles, ran the household, carving out only a little time for myself. Richard was the owner of a record store, and this required a lot of care, in addition, he wandered around clubs and parties. So young and already so busy. Mass of friends. Up-and-coming rock bands who needed help on their way to stardom, including his childhood friends in The Orphans, who actually made it. Every now and then new projects were born and a thousand questions had to be solved. During the day we each lived our own lives, and only the evenings and nights were ours.

He came to my house. Always. I stayed in place - he moved. Wherever I was, he knew how to find me. Distance didn't matter.

Like some modern god, he hurried over bridges, past high-rise buildings twinkling with lights, as if a harbinger of future misfortunes. He was the sun rising above the horizon, the sun, however, so far dim and barely visible, but still giving hope that it would soon become light.

He came by bike from the southern suburbs. Or from the west? He was wearing yellow checkered trousers and three T-shirts that were a couple sizes too big. His beard was cut so cleverly that I laughed heartily. Richard took off his worn-out sneakers and put aside the plastic bag from which the bicycle pump protruded.

“Listen…” he said, all saturated with the smell of tobacco and alcohol as usual. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail with a white ribbon, one strand of which had broken out and stood out sharply against the background of dark curls. My hair smelled of beer and freedom, youth, everything that I managed to forget.

He leaned over and pulled me towards him. I allowed myself to be hugged, only now, just for this moment: there was something irresistible in his behavior, something attractive. Life has stopped.

He touched my face. His hands knew what to do. His lips were a well filled with hundreds of liters of beer, but when he kissed me, I was ready to drown in him. He was impatient and gentle at the same time. And wanted me. And I wanted him. His tongue felt like that of an immature youth, but he was a man. Before me, he kissed already, of course, more than once.

Many things related to alcohol seemed romantic and funny to us. We could play pranks in different ways, for example, standing at the bar, betting who would drink more vodka. There were no problems with this. A clear liquid, resembling a disinfectant, oozed down his throat. That teasing oily taste. Intoxication. The head is both cold and hot at the same time. Sensation of warmth in the throat, in the abdomen. We had fun all night long. Let alcohol enchant us, influence us, seduce us. Calmly. Relax. Have a drink. You are a man - let nothing human be alien to you. We drank and were cheerful and free people without obligations. The night was ours, and the world of alehouses was ours.

Richard knew everyone. He decided to create his own club. I have acquired the right to receive everything out of turn. Sit in places of honor in various salons for VIP guests. Drink free bacardi, gin, campari - whatever your heart desires. Invitations to new parties that I had not attended before flocked to my mailbox. Who wouldn't love it? Richard was one of those guys that every girl in school dreamed of being friends with. This boy, if we were fourteen, wouldn't even look at me. But now he was twenty, I was twenty-seven, and he looked at me and saw. He saw and admired me. Loved me. I was his queen. Isn't it a miracle? It was easy to love him and easy to overlook such a small thing as excessive drinking.

I can't say that my parents were delighted with my new friend. No, I would be knowingly telling a lie, claiming that they were delighted when I introduced them to this dark-haired youth in shabby jeans and without a higher education. But didn't my mother say that all men are good as long as they are decent? Chefs in a pizzeria, traffic controllers, police officers ... The profession does not play a role. The main thing is that my friend was a nice decent person. It's probably not so simple when it comes to me. But it was already too late. What could my parents say or do to make me give up my love for Richard? Nothing. Parents don't mean anything. They can only watch as their daughter chooses her own path. And they didn’t notice Richard’s addiction to alcohol at all. I think we both did our best not to give ourselves away.

Richard doesn't drink, does he? my mother once asked me.

I looked at her and laughed.

“No, of course not,” I said. I don't even know what made me lie. Maybe I was not sure that I could defend my choice? It was easier to hide everything. I didn't want to get into a position where I would have to fight for Richard. Because he will surely stop drinking soon. Take control of yourself. Growing up and drinking are somehow related, it's just a custom, nothing special. He is still so young. Everyone around us drinks, and they drink quite a lot. How can you stay sober? The time for sobriety will come. In future. May be…

In fairness, I must say that Richard did not drink deeply, twenty-four hours a day. Used to drink on the weekend like the rest. Then there were weekdays. As our relationship developed, we sometimes met in the middle of the day, and Richard became a member of my little family. We played dad and mom, together we solved practical matters. On the whole, we lived soberly and decently, one might say, calmly. Richard began to take the baby to the kindergarten and pick him up, and I sometimes wondered what the teachers thought of his young appearance and indomitable behavior. He was shopping. Vacuum cleaner. It seemed that he liked the not too burdensome life of the average father of the family. We dined at the same table and didn't even always buy wine for dinner. They talked about the most ordinary things and laughed at stupid jokes. We were glad that we were together. That, despite the theory of probability, our union was a success. Everything looked right. Wonderful. Wonderful.

I never imagined that the time would come when parties would become a vital issue.

But everyone drank. That is life…

When did I realize that Richard was drinking too much? This question must be asked sooner or later. At what point does suspicion turn into certainty?

When is alcohol consumption risky? What are the signs of this? Like many others, I was afraid of making mistakes. Am I overly suspicious? Maybe the fact that he drinks at work is in the order of things, and I needlessly behave like a hysterical moralist. For a long time I was afraid to say anything, to blame him. I hesitated for a long time. I couldn't pinpoint exactly where the border was. But it had to be done.

In fact, everything is very simple.

If you think someone is drinking too much, chances are they are. If you feel in your gut that not everything is in order with alcohol, your premonition is justified. Alcohol is already out of control. If you are worried and nervous, then there are reasons for this. And point. Someone close to you is in danger. If you get tense when it comes to drinking, watch out! - you already know everything. You know for sure, because the inner voice that tells you this is never wrong. He cannot be deceived. You may be delusional. But that little voice that lives inside you and asks for words every time is right. You can't fool him. He is unpleasant, but he does not lie. And I should have listened to him more often. Then I could understand everything much earlier.

At parties and in pubs, Richard drank more and faster than anyone and, of course, he was drunk the most. It soon became clear to me what those evenings look like when he is not at home. In most cases, he went to a cafe to have a bite, to swallow, for example, a hamburger. Then there was the beer. Half-liter glasses, which he knocked over one after another, defeated him, thanks to their pumped-up muscles with beer foam. Beer ruthlessly rushed to the attack, a victorious march penetrated inside. Then it was time for the whiskey. Finally, he remained on the battlefield in splendid isolation - and drank. The table was filled with empty glasses. The smell of beer was omnipresent. Whiskey poured from heaven. And he continued to drink with some special courage, tirelessly. Never stopped before the deadly drunkenness set in.

At the very beginning of our "family" life, I used to abuse alcohol. Intoxication seemed to me a beautiful oblivion. I could say things out loud that I would never say when I was sober. Feel sexy. Borders and barriers have been removed. It was not a well-thought-out strategy, but I believed that alcohol could very well be present in my life. I drank because drunk at parties, a person feels relaxed. The men looked prettier. Sometimes I drank to forget, other times to remember something. But in the very process of drinking there was no direct conscious goal.

I wanted to be free. Don't hold back your emotions. Laugh. I liked to drink the way men drink. Fall under the table after drinking a sea of ​​tequila. Then I would throw up in a snowdrift, and I swore to myself, to my mother and to the Lord God that I would never take a drop in my mouth again. But oaths sometimes have a short life. Tomorrow was a new day.

I don’t remember exactly when the break happened, since when I began to perceive alcohol as an enemy, not a comforter. From some point on, its “aroma” became disgusting to me, it reminded me of punishment, the smell of carrion. I had stomach cramps whenever a drunk passenger on the bus breathed into my face. One day, I couldn't help myself when a woman appeared next to me in the subway, spreading the smell of yesterday's booze. It poisoned the air around me and I couldn't breathe. I don't know when this fracture happened. But it happened, and it continues to this day.

2

For a single mother, all men are potential candidates for the Chosen One. But if someone had told me that it would be him, the guy I met that May evening and who looked so young and frivolous ... I would have ridiculed him. A single mother is looking for support and security. And most importantly, she does not need new problems in addition to the existing ones. But how could I know that I met my fate? Well, well, that sounds so stupid. But, unfortunately, that's how it happened.

Edward, who was already four years old, and I lived near the center in a seventy-five-square-meter apartment on the first floor, next to a small courtyard. The apartment was a bit dark, but I loved it. Edward slept in a little room that had been occupied by the servants. Across from us lived a crazy taxi driver who changed women every night. The house consisted of small apartments in which people lived without a partner, single mothers and fathers and various strange personalities. Sometimes there was such a din in the house that I got tired of it. Bytovuha bulged outward, reminded of itself, sometimes quite unsightly. Gam made me understand that a person in life should be ready for anything. And adapt.

Getting things right is a real marathon run. I needed to shake myself off the daily tedious worries. It seemed that my destiny was a bifurcation. On the one hand, the children's world: kindergarten, games with Edward, moments of peace on the couch and "Good night, kids!" at the TV at six. On the other hand, stress, because I was actually pulling the strap alone. Edward's father helped very little, or rather, did not help at all. Formally, the son was given to the care of both of us, which in reality did not oblige my ex-husband to anything. I divorced him because of his incessant drinking. He could never forgive me for this. Of course, I knew that the attachment of many men to their children depends, first of all, on their relationship with their wives, and if they go wrong, that is, the wife says: “Thank you, I don’t want to, goodbye,” then this will affect the husband’s attitude to their common child. I think that my "ex" wanted to punish me, but punished only Edward and, probably, himself. During the divorce proceedings, my lawyer warned me that the fight for the child could continue until Edward came of age. Various disputes and misunderstandings could smolder latently for years, only to suddenly flare up for some reason. And if the ex-husband is also an alcoholic, then he could quite easily disappear who knows where, and later appear as an unpleasant surprise and start litigation again.