I got hurted

I was hurt or i got hurt?

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A complete search of the internet has found these results:

I was hurt is the most popular phrase on the web.

More popular!

I was hurt

6,710,000 results on the web

Some examples from the web:

I was hurt, and it made me nasty.
Because I was hurt and angry and way too drunk.
And you didn't know that I was hurt.
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At the time I was hurt that Lyn hadn't taken me with him.
I said and did a lot of things, mostly because I was hurt, but I'm better now.
Before I was brought here, I was hurt. I was bleeding, and then this man came.
I was hurt, not angry.
I was hurt pretty bad.
I was hurt, okay?
I was hurt pretty badly.
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No, but I was hurt you didn't tell me.
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i got hurt

2,260,000 results on the web

Some examples from the web:

I got hurt once... pretty bad.
Since I got hurt, we've been on SECNAV's radar.
Since I got hurt, we've been on SECNAV's radar.
I got hurt at work, and I had to...
But the vest tore and I got hurt.
I got hurt... and bandaged myself.
We had to pay off Barry Word to delay the fight when I got hurt.
Wait, that was where I got hurt.
Okay, I went out, I got hurt.
I got hurt, but I'm not done. I can still fight.
No doubt I'm appreciative, but since I got hurt, we've been on SECNAV's radar, and I want to prove that recent events haven't influenced things around here.
And I got hurt and hurt some people before I finally found someone who could stand the life.
No doubt I'm appreciative, but since I got hurt, we've been on SECNAV's radar, and I want to prove that recent events haven't influenced things around here.
I got hurt in a war that... nobody wanted or seems to care about.
No, I got hurt.
I got hurt while running.
I got hurt, Dad.
But I got hurt.
When I got hurt.
Not long ago, Because of helping a shaman girl, I got hurt.

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10 Happiness Tips for People Who Have Been Hurt

“Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.” ~Unknown

Maybe someone hurt you physically or emotionally. Maybe you’ve survived something else traumatic—a natural disaster, a fire, an armed robbery. Or maybe you’ve just come out of a trying situation, and though you know you’ll eventually recover, you still feel pain that seems unbearable.

Whatever the case may be, you’ve been scarred and you carry it with you through many of your days.

Most of us can relate on some level to that feeling. Even people who excel at taking personal responsibility have at least one story of having been hurt. Though some of us have endured more serious situations, you really can’t quantify or compare emotional pain.

To a teenager who just had her heart broken, the pain really seems like the end of the world. In fact, Livestrong estimates that every 100 minutes, a teenager takes their life—and that the number of suicides in high-income families is the same as in poor families.

Presumably, not all of those teens have suffered incomprehensible tragedies. What they have in common is pain, born from different adversities and circumstances.

When you’re hurting some people might tell you to “let it go,” as if that’s a valid solution. They may say “it’s all in your head” and assume that reasons away the pain. But none of that will help you heal and find happiness from moment to moment.

Like everyone, I’ve been hurt, in both profound and trivial ways. I’ve had to to acknowledge my feelings, process them, and then find ways to work through them so I could let go and move on. Here’s what helped me do just that.

1. Define your pain.

It’s not always easy to identify and understand what’s hurting you. Some people even stay in abusive relationships because it’s safer than acknowledging their many layers of pain: the low self-esteem that convinces them they deserve abuse, the shame over being treated with such cruelty, and the feeling of desperation that convinces them there’s no real way out.

The first step toward finding happiness after having been hurt is to understand why you were hurt, to get to the root of everything that makes the memories hard.

2. Feel and express that pain.

There’s no guarantee that you’ll be able to communicate how you feel to the person who hurt you, and if you can, there’s no guarantee they’ll respond how you want them to. Say what you need to say anyway. Write in your journal. Write a letter and burn it. Get it all out.

This will help you understand why you’re hurting and what you’ll do in the future to avoid similar pain, so you can feel empowered instead of victimized.

Research has actually proven that people who focus on lessons learned while journaling find the experience more helpful than people who don’t.

3. Try to stay in the present.

Reliving the past can be addictive. It gives you the opportunity to do it again and respond differently—to fight back instead of submitting, to speak your mind instead of silencing yourself. It also allows you to possibly understand better. What happened? Where did you go wrong? What should you have done?

Regardless of what you think you should have done, you can’t do it now. If you have post-traumatic stress disorder, you may need professional help to avoid revisiting the incident. If you don’t, you need sustained effort. Fight the urge to relive the pain over and over. You can’t go back and find happiness there. You can only experience that now.

4. Stop rehashing the story.

Sometimes we tell a sad story over and over again as a way to avoid moving on from the past.

It may seem like another way to understand what happened, or maybe it feels helpful to hear someone say you didn’t do anything wrong and you don’t deserve to hurt. And it’s okay if you need that for a while.

But if you do this for years it keeps you stuck living your life around a memory and giving it power to control you.

No amount of reassurance will change what happened. You can’t find happiness by holding onto a painful story and letting it control your life. You can only find happiness when you let it go and make room for something better.

If telling your story empowers you and helps other people, then by all means share! Only you know where you are mentally and emotionally and whether telling your story is hurting or helping you.

5. Forgive yourself.

Maybe you didn’t do anything wrong but you blame yourself. Or maybe you played a role in creating your current situation. Regardless of what happened, you need to realize that what you did is not who you are. And even if you feel immense regret, you deserve to start today without carrying that weight. You deserve a break.

You can either punish yourself and submit to misery, or forgive yourself and create the possibility of happiness. It comes down to whether you decide to dwell or move on. Which do you choose: anger with yourself and prolonged pain, or forgiveness and the potential for peace?

6. Stop playing the blame/victim game.

Maybe you were a victim. Maybe someone did horrible things to you, or you fell into an unfortunate set of circumstances through no fault of your own. It still doesn’t serve you to sit around feeling bad for yourself, blaming other people. In fact, it only holds you back. You can’t feel good if you use this moment to feel bad about another person’s actions.

The only way to experience happiness is to take responsibility for creating it, whether other people made it easy for you or not. You’re not responsible for what happened to you in the past but you’re responsible for your attitude now. Why let someone who hurt you in the past have power over your present?

7. Don’t let the pain become your identity.

If everything you do and all your relationships center around something that hurt you, it will be harder to move on. You may even come to appreciate what that identity gives you: attention, the illusion of understanding, or the warmth of compassion, for example.

You have to consider the possibility there’s a greater sense of happiness in completely releasing your story. That you’d feel better than you can even imagine if you’d stop letting your pain define you. You can have a sad story in your past without building your present around it.

8. Reconnect with who you were before the pain.

It’s not easy to release a pain identity, particularly if you’ve carried it around for a long time. It may help to remember who you were before that experience—or to consider who you might have become if it hadn’t happened.You can still be that person, someone who doesn’t feel bitter or angry so frequently.

If you want to feel peaceful and happy, start by identifying what that looks like—what you think about, what you do, how you interact with people. Odds are this process will remind you both how you want to be and how you don’t want to be.

9. Focus on things that bring you joy in the moment.

You don’t have to focus on completely letting go of your pain forever; you just have to make room for joy right now. Start simple. What’s something you can enjoy in this moment, regardless of what pain you’ve experienced? Would sitting in the sun bring you joy? Would calling your sister bring you joy?

Don’t think about the totality of the rest of your days. That’s a massive burden to carry—haven’t you hurt enough? Just focus on now, and allow yourself a little peace. You’ll be surprised how easily “nows” can add up when you focus on them as they come.

10. Share that joy with other people.

We often isolate ourselves when we’re hurting because it feels safer than showing people our vulnerability. What we fail to realize is that we don’t have to feel vulnerable all the time. We can choose certain people for support, and then allow ourselves time with others without involving our painful stories.

You can share a meal, a movie, a moment and give yourself a break from your anger or sadness. You don’t have to carry it through every moment of your day. Don’t worry—if you feel you need to remember it, you’ll still be able to recall it later. But as you allow yourself pockets of peace, shared with people you love, you may find you need that story a lot less.

***

To be clear, you have a right to feel whatever you feel. And you don’t have to rush through your sadness or anger. We all need time to process our feelings. But there comes a time when we need to consciously choose to heal, let go, and move on. It’s a process, and it won’t be easy. But you deserve it.

Everyone deserves to feel happy. Everyone deserves a little peace. One more thing we all have in common: we can only provide those things for ourselves.

Photo here.

**This post has been expanded to clarify a few crucial points.

About Lori Deschene

Lori Deschene is the founder of Tiny Buddha. She’s also the author of Tiny Buddha’s Gratitude Journal, Tiny Buddha's Worry Journal, and Tiny Buddha's Inner Strength Journal and co-founder of Recreate Your Life Story, an online course that helps you let go of the past and live a life you love. For daily wisdom, join the Tiny Buddha list here. You can also follow Tiny Buddha on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

See a typo or inaccuracy? Please contact us so we can fix it!

When I Was Hurt | Author Katya Malaya

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Reviews

The book struck me. 1. It's hard to believe that this is the first experience of a very young leftist, and even a dancer. Apparently, there is a stereotype that, by the way, is mentioned that dancers are not deep introverts capable of such specific work. 2. Another stereotype about "Women's novels" that are supposed to be similar to soap operas, shattered to shreds. And here is a brilliant witty find of comparing the primitive plot of the Mexican series about the love of Pedro and Anteanetta with a real story.3. The diary reads like a whole novel. And another brilliant find, the titles of the chapters are the chronology of the development of the daughter by months from the onset of pregnancy. Well, what man knows what motherhood is, when your life is really inextricably linked with a child, whether you like it or not. Nothing to do with the usual literary clichés and enthusiasm.

First person growing up story based on real diary entries - It's amazing. The first entries were written by a real girl, the last by a wise woman. And this is not a literary device, but a reality.

I am a psychologist, it was very interesting for me to read how our techniques really help, change lives.

I have long been annoyed by the way male writers speak on behalf of their literary heroines. Even such brilliant men as Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky.

The Strugatskys have practically no women in their novels, at least actors. Only shadows. They did not know how to understand and did not turn on. They did it right.

A world that does without a female literary statement is, in my opinion, like a flux. The time has come.

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Irina Shifanova, psychologist, Israel

About the Author. Katya Malaya

Katya Malaya, 32 years old, dancer by profession. Katya was born in Eastern Europe (Chisinau), grew up (she graduated from school and served in the army) in the Middle East (Israel), and grew up in the Wild West - in California.

Today Katya lives in Israel and is engaged in dancing - performs and teaches, is the author of several unique dance and movement projects. “I really love my job, because it gives joy not only to me, but also to people around me, and I believe that dance makes the world a little better.”

The novel “When I was in pain” is a personal diary in form, it is a fiction based on the author’s real experience, which contains childhood years spent in post-Soviet Moldova at the beginning of 90s, school years and youth in Israel, career, early marriage, pregnancy and motherhood in Los Angeles.

A series of emigrations, difficult relationships with her father and husband, a difficult path in the profession - these are the parts in the formation of the personality that the heroine of the novel needs to go through in order to overcome herself and find her own path in life.

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Author's Autographed Book

When I Was in Hurt is available in paperback.

Today Katya personally signs each book and you have a unique opportunity to order a book with an autograph from the author!

Within Israel:

The book costs 60 NIS + 14 NIS postage.

Outside Israel:

Book price $18.50 + $8 shipping.

You think it doesn't hurt me

It's been half a year since people in Russia get used to the war. Someone emigrates, someone begins to support the state and divide people into friends and enemies, someone closes in on himself and lives as if what is happening does not exist. But the daily life of people has changed little: violence, as it was a familiar environment, has remained. Journalist Yana Kuchina explores how tolerance for pain turns into tolerance for violence.

This is the third column of the cycle. The previous ones can be read at the links: “I start with myself”, “Be patient, my love”

The opinion of the author may not coincide with the opinion of the editors.

Dad said: "Okay, let's get you a kitten."

Waited for me to smile and introduce my kitten. The same, gray and fluffy. I played with him at Uncle Serezha's in the morning, but dad said: "No, don't even think about it. "

“But hit your mother first. Hit - you will have a kitten.

I looked at my mother. Mom smiled. I looked at my hand. The hand was five years old. The hand was small, and my mother was big.

I hit, with the palm of my hand, with a light, loud clap.

Dad laughed, mom quickly got up and went to cry. I told her in the back: “Mom, well, I don’t hurt! Well, tell me it doesn't hurt! Dad, I don't hurt!".

Dad laughed. He was pleased. Mom believed that I would never hit her, but he was right.

He joked about the kitten.

I then cried for a long time, hiding in the pantry.

My mother seemed like a traitor to me: she cries, although she is not in pain; cries, although we were at the same time: both wanted a kitten and could not persuade dad. She cries, although when she beats me in class, when she teaches me to walk, so that I raise my legs higher or try harder, I don’t cry. I believe that she "makes me better." The kitten is better for both of us, so why couldn't she be patient?

I also cried because my hand hurt. And my head hurt. And belly. And I was sad that I didn’t look like my cheerful dad at all. And I will never have a kitten.

The Legend of the Skateboarder

Now my makeup bags and backpacks are full of painkillers. I know I don't have to endure the pain, but still sometimes I don't take them until someone next to me says: what the hell, Yana? I answer absently: but it doesn't hurt enough yet. I can endure.

As a child, I used to hide plantains in my pockets, in my sleeves and under my socks. About stock. Remember, teenage plantains are best kept on the wound. Small ones quickly fall off or tear, older ones bristle and tickle. Before sticking a leaf, you need to lick it.

I sculpted them on wounds, tied them to my legs with blades of grass or shoelaces, scotch tape, electrical tape, just so as not to be “driven home” for being covered in blood again. Broken legs are embarrassing. It means you didn't walk well. Pain is weakness. This means that other children at home will get that they played with you and you fell. Plantain stops the blood in a few minutes, and the pain does not matter. If it hurts, my mother said, then everything is fine. If it still hurts, then you're alive.

I have cerebral palsy. To put me on my feet, my mother did Soviet therapeutic exercises with me, in terms of stretching, multiplied by the great and ruthless ballet. It almost always hurt. The pain made me feel hot and cold, tunnel vision appeared. When it got dark in my eyes, I said: "Enough." Mom nodded and pulled a little higher or straighter. Only this "little" counts, she explained. Only that you could "through I can not."

I said, "Yes, of course." After class, I felt nauseous and dizzy. I lay down on the couch face down, my mother said: “Don't lie down. Get up, walk. Let the body remember what it's like to walk with straight legs." The body remembers that walking hurts.

There was a legend about a Skateboarder in the hospital where I went for rehabilitation.

There was such a boy, they said, he walked even worse than you. In general, we can say crawling. On the half-bent. But he and his mother did not spare themselves, but worked. Mom put on splints for him at night - such a removable plaster that they make as if for your leg, but already straight - and he slept in them. Then he had a fever from pain, straight 39,9, it rose right under 40, and then my mother unwound it for half an hour. And when the temperature dropped, he himself asked: "Mom, come on again." And she wrapped it up, because she knew that it was necessary. And the boy knew. And a year later he had completely straight legs, and he walked quite imperceptibly. You do not trust me? Then listen: he won the skateboard competition . Among the healthy, yes.

You can't do squats fifty times. And you feel sorry for her, mommy!

Skateboard, of course, finished off. It is as if someone somewhere has learned to fly by jumping a hundred times. The story of the Skateboarder has always been told as an example: mothers passed it on to children, and physical therapists to mothers, so that they would not let go.

Over time, I began to snap at the storytellers: "Show me that boy, he probably didn't survive." I was sure that this was fiction, but when I turned 16, I met him by chance. Everything turned out to be true, even the skateboard.

Now I know why the pain in the stretch marks was so unbearable that it led to fever and dark spots in the eyes. I had a brain injury, and spasticity was inherited from it. Spasticity is a breakdown. The spasticity that they tried to overcome with ballet stretching is a constant command from the brain to the muscles to contract to the limit. It only increases from pain, because if the body is in pain, it must tense up and be ready to fight, to escape death. When spastic muscles are pulled, the pain is as if they would be torn. The body reflexively pulls the muscle in one direction, to become shorter, someone else's hand in the other - to become longer.

Mom always said that in class you need to think about movement, wide and smooth, so that the brain strives for it. I remember how I clung to the couch with my fingers and thought: this is mom, mom, mom, you can’t fight back, you can’t break out, you have to let it hurt, let it hurt me, it hurts, it hurts.

Mom said: “The face should be relaxed with a half smile. Do you like ballerinas? This is how we were taught in all classes. Imagine how it was for me!”

Once I found documents with the date when I was issued a disability. I was about two years old. I asked what time the rehabilitation began: a year and seven months.

Mom, I say, in a year and seven months, children cannot be taught sand not to eat, how did you teach me to do gymnastics?

I didn't teach, I forced, my mother says. Yes, it hurt, but I could have made it worse. And you understood everything, did everything, always. You were so smart.

I was so smart and I was lucky to have my mother.

My mother cried if I cried. And she cried, hurting me too much.

I remember how I consoled myself on stretch marks, tied up, in tears and snot: my mother, who tightened the belts, is worse. I'm in pain, but she's worse.

I think that ultimately saved me. I remembered that it is possible to hurt others: for their good, health, for the sake of a kitten, a sweet bag with bones and fluff that will love you, even if you walk crookedly - you can. But it hurts, it hurts a lot for you.

First Dressing

I was 11 years old when I learned that someone else's pain can be fun.

I had another operation, strange according to my current knowledge, but it seems that they did not want to harm me then. Doctors lengthened the tendons: they cut out a piece, sewed it a little higher. At least, this is how they explained the operation to me and my mother, shredding the leaves into a box. After the operation, it was necessary to lie in plaster splints from thigh to ankle for another three weeks. I don’t know what would have happened with normal rehabilitation, but after three weeks of immobility, my muscles weakened, partially atrophied, and spasticity increased significantly.

But I didn't know any of this, I waited like a fool for the promised ease of movement. I thought: I will beg my mother to teach me to dance. A little. A little bit. A little bit, but I will try so hard, with such a half-smile, that there is not far from the machine.

On the operating table, the surgeon, a cheerful womanizer, the love of the whole department, gently said in my ear: “Do you know what I always dreamed of being? Veterinarian. Cut the cats however you want. The cat died - and no responsibility! Well, go to sleep."

I was naked, lying on the operating table with my legs apart. I would have been scared to death - but the anesthesia worked.

The first day after the operation, the pain was unbearable. I lay down and tears rolled down my face. They rolled quietly, because the vocal cords strained at any sound, and behind them all the muscles in the body - and the places of the cuts too. I was anesthetized every four hours: two hours out of four there was no pain, two hours out of four I wanted to go back under anesthesia.

On the second day, I realized how not to strain anything at all. If you do not look anywhere and do not hear sharp sounds, you can rest from the pain for several minutes. It became tolerable.

On the third day I had my first dressing.

You know, there are events that are recorded in life with a capital letter. Here is my first dressing.

The doctor who did it was so short, with narrow bones, almost feminine features. In the department, his name was - Ptenchik. He was a junior surgeon - I think he was about 30.

I was naked again. There was a 40 cm clean cut on my legs: two holes on one leg, two on the other. The legs were taken out of the plaster, I was put on my stomach, and the Little Bird began to squeeze out the liquid that had accumulated in them from the seams with his fingers. He put two fingers and squeezed, as if bursting an air bubble inside each bundle.

I was screaming.

Never in my life, before or since, have I screamed like that. Help, help, mom, mom, mom, help me, why, why, no, no, no, no, mom, mom!

I was sure that someone was holding my mother, maybe even two people, or maybe three. That she will appear here, literally in a second, defeating everyone.

I also thought that it wouldn't be scarier for me, but when they put me on my back, I saw that the Little Bird was smiling. I saw on his face a pure, endless pleasure that I had never seen before.

I shut up. He laughed.

He continued, at some point he stopped and asked: "What, doesn't it hurt anymore?"

I couldn't answer, I was afraid to open my lips.

They finished everything, tied me back in plaster, put me on a gurney, and took me out. I saw that all the doors were open, and my mother was sitting alone on a chair and listened to me calling her. I cried.

I thought, "I need to say something to comfort her."

I couldn't say anything. She shoved into my hands a small lilac-mint dog, with whom I slept in intensive care.

I thought, “I'm older than my mother. You have to pull yourself together and say something." I said, "It's all right."

When they brought me to the ward, Little Bird said: "Tell the doctor (him, that is) thank you." I was silent. Tell. I was silent. “If you ask me well, I won’t do anything to you tomorrow, but if you don’t ask, I will.” I looked at my mother. She was silent.

And I - I'm still ashamed of myself - began to thank him and beg him not to touch me. Please, I said, I beg you, please.

Why didn't you help me to ask, I asked my mother later. Dressings are done every other day, my mother said, I knew that he would not do anything tomorrow. Why piss him off again.

Then my mother found out that the doctors had to be given money to give them pain relief before bandaging. The next dressing was done by another doctor, for money, it didn’t hurt at all.

We flew down

Someone else's pain still seemed sacred to me, my own - it stopped. It became a natural feeling, like hunger and thirst.

The swallow is not in pain, the cat is not in pain, mommy is not in pain, but Yanochka is healed. Everything that is bandaged does not count.

Then a brother was born, with common prayers - healthy. Boy. I was disappointed: red, rough, can't do anything, and everyone loves him. He can't do anything, but he'll be able to do everything. My brother loved me, I sometimes played with him. I humbly waited for him to grow up and become interesting. One day he went. Once he jumped up, pulled himself up, stood on one leg. I was not envious, but it seemed strange that all this was given to him, but not to me. It was easier to come to terms with the successes of other healthy children, but then my mind gave in: the same mother, the same father, the same room, the same carpet under my feet - and then a crack was heard in my head, and I tried not to think anymore.

When he was two years old, he fell down. And hurt my knee. No fracture, no blood, slightly torn skin, to a smooth pulp. This heals in two days like it was not. He wept bitterly and called for help. Mom kissed him and rocked him, circled and carried him in her arms. Lulled in bed. When he refused to get up on his feet, she picked him up again and carried him like that, passing it to her father, then her grandmother, all day. I followed them like I was tied. I looked at my crying and kissed brother and did not think about anything. I still remember the empty head and the ringing in it, like the sound of a bell. For the first time I felt hatred and didn't know it was her.

So pain began to have exceptions. Everyone should not be hurt, but I can. Brother can. If not much, maybe. (Anything that does not bleed for more than a couple of minutes is nothing.) One day my friend burst into tears, stabbing her finger. She waited for me to take pity on her. I did so, but with difficulty, suppressing a wave of contempt.

Naturally, I thought that I was all right, better than all right. Difficulties, I thought, hardened me. I'm strong. Yes, like this. I prided myself on the fact that few things can piss me off. Others seemed to me weak, children.

After an unsuccessful operation, I forgot how to walk on my own, without support. For five or six years I walked, leaning on two canes and not raising my legs above the entrance step. I refused to believe that I was now slow, helpless, weak. I couldn’t even force myself to leave the house, investing twice as much time: everyone gets to Pushkin Street in half an hour, which means I can too.

Naturally, I was late everywhere. The canes slipped on the ice and mud, got stuck in the snow, and were taken away by the children, teasing. I walked, as my mother taught, with a half smile. Once there was a heavy snowfall and snowdrifts were up to my waist. I walked to the tutor through a small field, usually it took about five minutes to walk there. There was a good, hard path, but narrow for a person. I was a quadruped. I couldn't walk without walking sticks, the walking sticks didn't fit on the path. Time after time they fell into the snowdrifts, I pulled them towards me, almost falling. Mom was seven minutes away, leading a dance class. Calling her and asking for help seemed like a shame. Weakness. In the end, the cane sank so deep into the snow that I fell after it.

I wasn't scared at first. I have been playing in the snow since childhood, building fortresses, skiing down the mountains. I couldn't accept that everything had changed. Strange snow, I thought. Like concrete, liquid concrete. My legs practically did not move, although I twitched like an animal, furiously, with all my might. Soon my classmates should have caught up with me, who will go this way in an hour. And they will see me sitting here in the snow. What a shame, I thought as I felt my shorts getting wet. What a disgrace. Better take a breath.

The glade where I was floundering was on the top of a small hill, the place where I needed to was at the foot. There was also a roadway at the foot, but from my point it was not visible. I threw my canes down with one throw, and, listening for cars, crawled on my hands to the edge. And then she threw herself down the hill, along with her non-walking legs. She didn't even bother covering her face with her hands.

Later, when I was sitting on the curb, not feeling the icy hands and feet, I thought: what did I do? What if there was a car? At the same time, I felt relieved. As if I could punish myself for not being able to get out of the snowdrift, and you can forgive yourself for that. Until the next weakness.

Today I think a lot about general tolerance for violence. I understand that everyone has a different level of knowledge, different outlook, different access to information. I still remember how I came to my hometown as a student and my peers, 20-year-old people, began to prove to me that a search on VKontakte is a search on the Internet. What is not there, does not exist. In the meantime, I was told at the university that searching in one language is unreliable, that you need to drive requests from different IPs, and so on. I understand that many people, for their own reasons, turned out to be helpless in front of propaganda and now the world in their head is built up with laboratories with chemical weapons, and US nuclear missiles are looking directly into the window of their kitchen somewhere in Ryazan.

But all this knowledge would not lead to the acceptance of war, genocide, if the society did not accept violence as a permitted norm. Violence for a good that someone older understands, not necessarily you. Violence for a purpose. Violence for the feeling that you are strong. That you are a good guy.

And it seems, of course, that what is happening in the world and what is happening in an apartment with a carpet on the wall and cups with polka dots in the sideboard are very different things, but in their essence they are one. A crime against love and humanity. A person wants something, stepping over another.

Yana

Trembling dog

I went with an outreach palliative service to small villages somewhere in the taiga. Giant pine trees, azure blue skies and minus 35 degrees. Houses were heated by stoves, in each house we pressed our palms and cheeks to the hot stove sides, breathed, warmed ourselves. The locals laughed, the kids crawled on the icy floors in their shorts. Doctors were rarely seen there, my guys in one corner looked at a palliative child, and in the other - an ill grandmother. On the evening of the second day, we arrived at the apartment, rich by local standards, with heating and running water.

A neurologist examined a girl with severe cerebral palsy. The girl was 13 years old. She did not speak, she sat with support, crawled on the floor. The neurologist prescribed corsets and splints to keep her legs from deformities for two hours a day.

No, my mother said, I'll tie her up properly so that our legs are straight. Will live in them.

And so, all the appointments are made, we are about to leave.

Wait a minute, my mother said. Wait, you didn't say the main thing. When will she start walking, at what age? Not the fact that she will be able to walk, we said softly. But you can buy a good wheelchair and a chair with a support through the fund, so that it would be comfortable for her to sit and study at school. She goes to school?

No, my mother said, that won't do. Now I will show you, I have it, I taught it. From the next room, she dragged out a verticalizer - an iron simulator with supports and straps that fixes a person on his feet, even if he himself cannot stand. And so she puts her in these supports, tightening the straps with all her might. The girl straightens up with difficulty, her body is bent almost at a right angle, and her legs are brought together knee to knee so much that a hand can hardly fit between her thighs. Mom squeezes the belt in there and tightens it as tight as possible, the belt cuts into the crotch.

The girl hangs in the straps with her head down and groans. Her tears are so large that you can see how they fly to the floor. Don't be lazy, mom says, show me what you can do.

Don't, says the neurologist, we believe you, get her out.

First tell me when she will go. And you stop, study!

I knelt down in front of her and began to beg. Please untie her. She can’t stand like this, the spasticity is too strong, it gets worse from pain, it hurts more and more every second, let her go, I beg you. We believe that you are engaged and not lazy. True true.

She jerks the straps loose and the girl falls to the floor. I get up.

I am crying. The girl crawls up to me on the floor and strokes my legs with her palm. Thanks.

Her mother begins to choke.

And then the door opens and a tiny dog, a terrier, flies into the room. She licks the girl's face and jumps into her mother's arms, presses her whole body against her, trembles. Lick, lick, lick her face and she starts to breathe again.

Allows her daughter to watch cartoons. He walks us to the door.

Why don't they understand that children shouldn't be hurt, I sob.

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