Do you realy love me?

No one noticed them from Earth, But the evening twilight was bright, At that hour, as they are above the Earth They flew, covered in mist.

K.D. Balmont

My mother seemed to suffer from prolonged postpartum depression, which only worsened after my father left. She drank endlessly and did not get out of bed at all. Grandma took care of us. In the sixth year, my mother was finally able to stand up. She got up and handed me over to the orphanage. I hope she feels better at least. I never got used to the team. Grandma came, the first few years she visited me — the last light in the window. But she soon dropped the case. I was left all alone. There were guys who tried to make friends with me, but they weren't enough for a long time either. Everyone who was dear to me, to whom I could get even a little attached, all abandoned me. I understood that it was difficult for them to deal with me. People don't like it when there is someone who is better than them. I learned to read early. I read a lot and with indescribable pleasure, which helped me cope with loneliness. I learned to write early. I wrote letters to my mother and asked my grandmother to give them to her when she still came to me. I wrote letters to my grandmother when she stopped coming to me, I asked the teachers to pass them on. Later I realized that they were not transmitting anything. I wrote them for seven years after I ended up in an orphanage. And the teachers put them in a drawer. I started to guess much earlier, but I kept writing. I went up to the teachers and asked, and they told me not to worry and that they were passing everything on. I've never received a reply letter. Mom probably couldn't write anything, but I really hoped that Grandma was reading them to her. I stopped writing them when the children found these letters and laughed out loud while reading them. They made fun of me and commented on every word I wrote. I stopped writing altogether. I haven't written another word since that day. I couldn't even be forced to write at school. I was taken to a psychologist. I refused to talk to the psychologist and completely denied everything. But they still managed to get me to pick up a pen. I was angry at first. He was angry at both the children and the teachers, but then the anger turned to complete devastation. During this time, I have accumulated a lot of words. I almost never talked to anyone except paper, and then I stopped altogether. But I didn't write any more letters. I wrote poems and short stories, wrote personal diaries, which I hid with special diligence. When I wrote, my heart felt lighter. I understood how hard it was for my mother to be with me. But I was angry at her for getting rid of me that way. He was angry that I could no longer communicate with my grandmother. Although I tried not to get angry, because I understood how hard it was for her. But this anger was only from the beginning — the first days, or maybe a week or a month. And then she came at me sporadically only in rare moments. But by the age of fourteen, after I had already realized that she had never received any letters from me, although through no fault of her own, I had an inexplicable permanent resentment against her, accompanied by constant bitterness and a lump in my throat. At night, I almost constantly sat in the toilet and cried. I have never disdained even thoughts of suicide. I have thought many times how it would be better to kill me: they had an abortion, threw me in the trash after birth, drowned me like a kitten. That's what Mom wanted, she talked about it many times, and I remember it very well, but grandma wouldn't let her. Then I was very afraid and cried, but now I understand that it would have been better. When we were sent to camp in the summer, I tried to drown myself in the river many times. They didn't give it to me every time. Then I tried to run away at night, but they caught me. They started putting me in the counselor's room to be sure. It seemed that someone needed me, but you don't need to believe him, because it's deceptive. They're just being paid for my life. But this "obsession" quickly subsided. It's good that I came to my senses in time. At some point, it came to the realization that everything in the world is not just like that. And if I were as useless as I thought I was, I certainly wouldn't have survived. If I wasn't needed, everyone really wouldn't be so worried about me. People just don't like it when there is someone who is better than them. In Ancient Sparta, sick, good-for-nothing children were thrown off a cliff for a reason, and if I survived, then I am needed for some higher purpose, no other way. When I was nine, my mother committed suicide. She opened her veins. I didn't know about it. I found out only nine more years later, at graduation. I've always been alone. But now I was especially lonely. Lonely as never before. I did not expect that I would ever return to her doorstep, but the realization that the image that I had been cherishing in my head all this time had simply not existed for half my life. I still don't know anything about my grandmother. After school, he enrolled in philology, lived in a dormitory. Neither at school nor at the institute did I manage to find an object of communication, much less mutual sympathy. A lot of girls were attracted to me, but I couldn't understand their true intentions, so I tried not to let them get close to me. And I wouldn't say that I could feel anything for them. But he studied well, did not go to work, lived on a scholarship and government payments. And after graduation, too much space opened up in front of me. I have been waiting for this all my life: I will study, I will become free, all doors will open in front of me, and we will go to meet each other with great achievements. In fact, I almost went towards unemployment, drug addiction, alcoholism and remained homeless on top of everything else. I have been alone for a long time, but I have never been completely alone, however, the streets of St. Petersburg could not be called deserted. But it was really the first time I was left without food and a roof over my head. I changed homeless shelters and workhouses like mittens, but I didn't have mittens for a long time. Later he settled down: he found a job in the library and after a while was able to rent a room in the attic. But even though the contingent in homeless shelters was even worse than in the orphanage, irritated me with their constantly sour faces, at least they didn't care about me, which, in principle, was quite fine with me. It was difficult to leave a warm place, but it was necessary to develop. I took a part-time job as a waiter, I hated it terribly, but I had enough money at least not only for rent. He got a promotion at the library and was able to quit the cafe. Now I have already started to settle down slowly, I take lessons at school, as I always dreamed of. Finally, I feel that life is getting better. End of the message.