Foreword
Under tyranny it is much easier to act than to think.
Hannah Arendt, philosopher
WHO AM I?
I am a capricious, selfish, critical and permanently dissatisfied little bitch. I’m a materialistic, opportunistic animal, always calculating a few steps ahead. I’m a bourgeoise. At least, this is what I was assured of right from childhood, extensively and persistently, and, I must admit, very successfully.
But once, to my great surprise, my husband told me he liked the fact that I wasn’t some spoilt little European thing, but a steely Russian with a good (albeit a little strange) sense of humour.
I was 39 years old when he proposed to me, and I thought it would be dishonest on my part to unite my life with a person without telling him about my past, about my childhood. I wouldn’t be able to keep silent about this all my life, and if I told him it in snatches, then he might have formed an incomplete or even wrong impression of me. That might have been fine if he was Russian – Russians aren’t fazed by most far-out stories. But he is Norwegian, and he was raised in a decent family, in the sort of abundance I never dreamed of, and, most importantly, surrounded by love and care. A decent environment gave him moral guidance; wealth fostered his severe self-discipline; and love and care made his heart responsive. Therefore, he became not only a reliable partner and a rich man, but also a good father, husband and lover.
I had to go a long way before I found myself.
After all, when adults raise children incorrectly, the children cease to love not the adults, but themselves.
I wrote my story especially for my intended husband. And I was preparing myself for him to change his mind about marrying me after reading it. But that did not happen.
Could it be that if a person is able to coherently describe a situation, it means they have coped with it?
A CULT WITHIN A CULT
I used to get annoyed when friends and acquaintances questioned me about my childhood. Every time I started to answer, someone would immediately interrupt me, and from their very first question it was clear they didn’t believe me. Or the question was so painful that I got angry and snapped at them. And sometimes I myself began to doubt whether I was telling the truth: maybe I had embellished it, maybe my memory was distorted over time under the influence of emotion. More than once I tried to check by asking someone else who was in the cult with me as a child. Unfortunately, not only did everyone I ask confirm my memories, but they also added their own.