Under control

I do not know what to start with. I am sure that many people will not understand me. Not long ago I talked to Marina, my mom�s friend. It�s been a long time since we have had trusting relations, and nevertheless she also concluded aloud: �Nonsense!�. While talking to her, I attempted to explain that I felt like a criminal who had been convicted to the death sentence. Guilty without guilt. Without lengthy trials, convicted to live in the bondage. For some reasons it just suddenly seemed to me that it would be Marina who would understand, and that everything should change. That will be exactly she who will become the commission empowered to change �the conditions of detention� and, perhaps, even "grant a parole". I told her what bothered me and that that could no longer continue like that. Like in the best Hollywood movies about brilliant lawyers, I was both a prosecutor and an attorney. I think that if I were in court, the jurymen and the spectators would give a standing ovation. Marina did not applaud; she was listening attentively and looking through the �material� for the last x-ty years of my life. And so, at the final interview, all documents were heavily stamped �Denied�. Only in my case, that word was �nonsense� and the commission was a person who, as it seemed to me, knew me better than anyone else in the world. In the documents, which are stamped with an indelible seal � is my entire soul and my previous, well, my entire current life.

CP stands for cerebral palsy, an awful disease, which I would not wish to anyone. Although my doctor says: �There is no type lighter�. Plus a couple of quite complicated other illnesses. And in addition to all that �tasty stuff� there is an introduction, which is exactly the pretext for sadness.

A flat in which I live consists of five large rooms, well furnished; a balcony, a telephone, etc. And nonetheless I cannot say: this is my flat. I have a big light room with windows looking at the Neva. I like to spend time staring into these dark mighty waters.

My parents are skilful and clever people, each of them has succeeded in their own field.

My mom has built a career of a manager. During the daytime she manages subordinates at the office and in the evenings, at home, she manages me. When I was very little, mom would place child�s furniture for me, put my favourite dolls and my stuffed toys around. Having set me down on a warm carpet and having always put something soft and warm under my butt, she would say: �Play!��. And would go to her room to finish writing papers or drink a glass or two of cognac with coffee.

Then there would be something different. But it would always be neat, cosy, nice, with a sense of taste and with the knowledge of how to do things: �Draw!�, - �Walk!�, - �Read!�, �Study!�. I studied at home. Once, having visited my school, my mom came home with one of my classmates. �Make friends!�, she said and went to serve the table on the occasion of the beginning of our friendship with Lenka. Amusingly, but we indeed became good friends and are friends up till now. So that�s why I�m telling: with the knowledge of how to do things: no blunder, no other option. And if I need proofs of her soundness, my mom can offer them in an instant, making, depending on a situation, half a step into the past or a step into the future. And I can not reproach her for that. Because in childhood there should be someone to tell you that this is black and this is white, and this is, well, - grey.

But the childhood ended, and because my illness did not go anywhere, I was and I still  remain weak. And the fact that I grew up was not noticed by my mom. If I am ill then I need protection from the world and from myself. But for some reasons it did not occur to this smart woman that I had to learn to live with what I was destined to.

Mom is my most favourite demanding and strict warden.

I can tell and write a lot and for a long time about my dad, but will try to keep it short. Everything is easer and simpler with him, and also more complicated.

Some time ago he used to teach at one of the universities and now works hard and a lot at various articles for journals and writes scientific papers. He works rarely with students and spends the major part of the time at home. This way it is very convenient for me, mom has decided, and he did not argue with her: this way it is also much calmer for him, indeed.

He knows and is able to do so much that at times I cannot believe that he is my father. He taught me to read a lot, so afterwards a finished book would rest in my memory for a long time. Obligatory visits to theaters and patient interpretations of what the teachers �forgot� to explain, lessons of German � that was also him. And even the talks at the kitchen table about rights and wrongs of this world. He told me what a sweet word �freedom� carries with it, what the independence and the responsibility were, what the difference between intellect and knowledge was and what happiness meant. He was the one who once proved to me that I could fly, and with what kind of strength a wind to your face could fill you. This is all dad� And he was the one who firmly locked the flat�s door, putting the keys into his and mom�s pocket. I do not need keys � I am not good at walking and do not go out myself� Not prescribed without an escort.

But what am I � a damsel who has been given everything that a person in my situation can only dream of? There�s not enough fresh air for me�. I want too much, you�ll say? I don�t know, I�m just writing what I feel, and I feel that I am deprived of something.

I am no longer twenty and not forty yet. At birth, the Creator endowed me generously with various sores, but at the same time did not forget to gladden. I have a cute face, high breast and pretty long legs. Graduated from school and then from an institute. I freely translate from two languages and that�s how I earn my living sitting at home. Although with such parents it could hardly be different. But God sees, I did work hard to get the knowledge and the diplomas certifying it.

I have girlfriends with bunch of problems and it�s a pleasure for me to chat with them over a cup of coffee. But I cannot share with them something that bothers me. To understand me is not in their power. And actually, what I grieve about - freedom, independence, responsibility - they have it in surplus, and that�s from where their problems originate. Poor girls do not have road signs or instructions suitable for this or that situation. And then, can one grasp something that is ordinary and habitual?

For instance, can one understand a situation in which they find themselves every day, and me � for the first time in twenty years. It happened so that I found myself alone on the street. Completely alone! Even now, after years have passed, I recall that moment with agitation and jealousy to myself.

In an instant my legs weakened and I almost choked with air. Frankly speaking, I did not have such an agitation even when for the first time the man�s arms have touched me. Hot air, smelling with warmed asphalt, people, hurrying to their businesses� I've never noticed so many different faces! Before that I was able to catch only well dressed silhouettes out of the crowd. And not because I am ill with snobbism or with something else, but because there would be somebody with me, somebody who would tell something interesting: distracting, amusing, drawing attention to something which was considered to be necessary. In a nutshell, I followed the one who, according to the prescribed order and instructions was my �convoy�. Or, as it looked from the side, my companion or companiesse. 

And here I was standing and dazzling at everything, ready to sob because of how great it was to walk along the road fast, carrying concerns and a heavy bag behind the shoulders.

And I started to walk.

A little while after that occasion I fixed a date with my friend at the opposite side of the Neva and firmly announced to dad that I was going by foot and by myself. He agreed and opened the door. Not understanding why freedom was given so freely to me, I started my way and immediately noticed that a familiar car was going slowly behind me. I thought that I would be able to escape the control on the bridge: seems like slow driving is very harmful for a car and pisses off drivers around. But the warning lights were turned on and the car kept creeping behind me. Until the driver was sure he passed me to the safe hands of Dima, my loyal bodyguard and without two hours a husband, who instantaneously firmly picked me up at the waist and led in the direction already selected by him. He got it hot, by the way, from my mom. �Couldn't you pick her up?� And never again would he violate the established rule: "the duty is yours" � "the duty is accepted"!

People who are pleasant for me to communicate with, under a pressure of some superpower, turn into my escorts, expeditors, nurses or, at worst, simply into an additional source of information about the state of soul and intentions of a prisoner without an ID number. According to the prison�s Statute.