“What’s the name of that Irish comedian of yours, you know, the one who “and you’re fat, i love you, here, eat this”? Was it him who said something about chewing beds from boredom?”. Yes, that’s how one of my best friends, Sasha (do not confuse with Dasha – they’re two entirely different individuals. and truly existing, by the way, i didn’t make them up) remembers one of my favourite comedians, Dylan Moran. Continue reading
Hello. My name is Nica and my father is an alcoholic.
He’s been drinking for about a week now. Honestly, I thought he had overcome it. But no.
This time, it all started on my birthday again. The 23rd of July. I hate that day, frankly speaking. In summer, everyone in our family is always so stressed and tired because of spending too much of their precious time with their nearest & dearest that it’s always the day I was born when everything reaches its climax.
This year, my dad claimed that he’s fallen ill and will not go with us anywhere to celebrate. The whole program of my birthday failed up, and we spent half a day sitting in a café (the only place with free wi-fi available) helping mum with her work (she had to send an article to one of vorkuta’s papers), then we went to my Nana’s to listen to her bitchin about my hair, and the rest of the day was wasted in a recreation park. the whole thing went rather gloomy, frankly speaking.
When we finally came home, dad was not just pissed, but much and much and much more than that. All through the night we had a rare opportunity to hear him shouting, swearing, singing, and having an extensive discussion with someone (probably himself). The last half of the week he seemed rather sober, but I suppose it wasn’t quite so.
Sunday was the Neptune’s day, a holiday celebrated in south places in russia. As the village we live in is one of such places, there was a show by the seaside, and I, nica, appeared as the Neptune’s favourite daughter, the Little Mermaid. The performance was spectacular and they all seemed to quite like it. Unfortunately, for the time being, there is no photos, as all of dad’s five billion cameras suddenly stopped working or something. And that’s what worries me, as he always has thousand of extra-batteries and cameras and details and is always prepared (just as this goatee animal from the hoodwinked!).
On Monday morning he (dad, not the goat) all of a sudden sets off to Krasnodar to see a bloke he went to school with to discuss the process and perspective of building something in where we are suffering. For the rest of the day we hadn’t heard from him anything but the fact that he’s gonna sleep at the bloke’s.
The next day mum and dad were supposed to go to the doctor’s (they had an appointment at three), and but it was only late in the evening when our dad finally presented himself all brahms and lizst.
July, 30 was their anniversary. Can you imagine? 20 years of marriage and 25 years of knowing each other. I had been attempting to organise something special for them for the last two months, trying to persuade them to at least go out to a restaurant or something, to spend at least an hour or so in some kind of romantic environment not arguing with each other, but talking about something more intimate and non-mundanic. I dunno. To watch their favourite film or something. I really do believe that all (or, at least, most of) our family problems come from two of them not spending enough time together. But no. Bye-bye, love, bye-bye, happiness, hello, loneliness.
Dad’s all drunk again. Mum’s in shock. Really. They were about to start something completely different, to literally build a new life (or, at least, a house they could live in without embarrassing themselves in front of neighbours, relatives, friends, colleagues etc) and he’s just shit-faced or just completely unreliable most of the time.
I honestly don’t understand how my mum is still able to stand it. There’s been thousand of situations when the five lives of ours were endangered because of his predilection. I myself nearly died in the age of three when dad and some guys questionably related to our family and just as drunk as he was decided to take to a ride on a motorbike. The vehicle turned over, and all I remember is a grain crop field, then a blur, then my dad and the guys all in a plaster. Dad still doesn’t know I was there.
And that’s only one of many accidents that have happened because of him drinking.
And that’s talking only about physical injuries.
And that’s not even mentioning an approximate amount of times when mum wanted to divorce him because of his abuse, but stopped as she didn’t want us to be half-orphans as well (both of our parents had fatherless childhood – mum’s mum was all hysterical – still is – and broke up with mum’s dad because of something not really mattering, and dad’s dad was a coal miner and died in an accident in a mine).
Thanks to dad’s alcoholism, I presume I now have mist of the phobias/mental diseases ever invented by the mankind. Afraid to speak loud and without permission, too introverted for a naturally outgoing person, instantly desiring to fill an empty space inside myself with just as much food as there only is on this planet, disappointed in everything, with no wish and willing to make any effort to look after the state of my face and body and everything, having suicidal thoughts since the age of eight and self-harming from time to time… not quite a person today’s rough and tough world of my young and successful and beautiful and rich and happy peers wants, is it?
Who cares, though? They’ll never know whatsoever. They’re too dull and shallow to know anything.
I need somebody
Not just anybody
You know I need someone
Beccause I’m so tired I don’t know what to do.
I suppose that’s all for now.
Take care, (or car)
(an AA-ish applause)
Yes, it’s my birthday. I’ve been waiting for it for so long. Almost a year, to be precise.
Today is the day. The day when Daniel Radcliffe and Jo Brand and some other great guys and events came to life. The day when me and my family always have fun (it’s not my fault, really, but, as I was born in the middle of the summer – and in summer we always happen to have a slightly bigger lack of money than we usually do – my birthday is one of the several chances to allow ourselves spend a bit more, while other’s birthdays do not attract such attention); and – this year only – the day when my “you’re sixteen, beautiful and mine” turn into “she was just seventeen, you know what I mean” (then, of all the other beatles songs, there’s only “when I’m 64” waiting for me, as far as I remember).
As you can see, this is also the day I finally got to be online, which is, undoubtedly, awesome. Maybe even more awesome than the other things happening today. My family and I went to Eysk, a town the village we live in territorially belongs to, and are now sitting in a café. Later on the program, there’s going to the cinema to see some cartoon about the Wizard of Oz, and then visiting a recreation park until it’s nine p.m. – time to go back to our village.
Um… What else?
The passing year was quite generous to me for friends and events. A year ago, I couldn’t even imagine things that have happened, are now happening, or are due to happen in the nearest time to me. A huge thank you to everyone who has taken place in my existence throughout this period.
I love you guys (if anyone’s reading it at all) and I hugely miss you. Please, do contact me. I’ll be extremely happy to communicate as there’s no one to talk to and I think I’m going slightly mad. You can send me an e-mail to email@example.com, but I hardly have any internet connection, so there’s no actual use of an e-mail, or a real letter, you know, paper, stamps and everything, to the lovely miss Nica Sharafoutdinova (that’s me), The Universe, Milky Way (not the chocolate one), The Solar System, The Earth, Russia, Krasnodarskiy kr., Eyskiy r-n, st. Kamyshevatskaya, ul. Morskaya, d. 41, 353651. Once again, I’ll be happy to reply.
I suppose that’s all for now.
Happy birthday to me and to anyone else who was born on the twenty third day of the seventh month.