Eyes: The Mirror of Tragedy.
A Message in the Wake of Darkness.
INTRO.
In USA, they don’t use the word "Victim" when referring to those who have survived a tragedy. Instead, they prefer to say "survivor."
I find this approach very close to my heart, because that's how I feel today.
For the second time in my life.
Now, I am a two-time Survivor, and I am not ashamed to call myself that and to write the word with a capital letter.
Has anyone ever looked at you as someone who has endured a great tragedy?
A person who climbed out of a deep black pit, breaking their nails and scraping their elbows, sliding down a cold wall a hundred times, shattering into pieces when reaching the bottom.
A person who picked themselves up piece by piece, holding their own heart in one hand and their soul in the other, deciding which one to stay with today, and then every day making that choice.
This person lives in two worlds and has learned to balance between them, sometimes managing to slap death in the face with a resounding blow.
They are accustomed to one scenario in their dreams – the scenario of rescue and survival – and have become friends with these dreams, knowing that they will survive them no matter what. In the end, this person pulls themselves into the light and faces the eyes of others.
The bravest people’s eyes are full of fear, sympathy, and tender support. But these are open eyes, full of readiness to engage.
The eyes of the cowardly ones are filled with arrogance and devaluation. These eyes are nervous and obsequious. These eyes whisper behind your back, "Stop wallowing in your grief."
All these eyes will stay with you forever. If you’ve survived a great tragedy, people will always look at you in a special way. Mostly, they’ll see you as a victim with the stigma of loss on your forehead.
Today, this is how they look at Ukraine.
I fight this by standing tall, brushing my hair away from my forehead, lifting my head, and saying that we are strong and will manage.
And that we are Survivors. Not victims.
But enduring this mixture of sympathy, pain, and compassion directed at me is very hard.
KEY PART.
A few days after crossing the border and settling in Poland, I decided to continue documenting my experience here and keep a sort of "War Diary" on Instagram. When something interesting happens that I want to share and know could be helpful for others, I record small stories with my comments and impressions. And since almost every day something new and interesting happens to me here, my stories have started to accumulate.
About a week later after I wrote those posts about our flee from Ukraine, I started receiving hate. It came in the form of “nips” from some friends and former colleagues. Nothing was said directly or openly, but it came across indirectly and ambiguously through strange questions and veiled reproaches.
It took me about three days to cope with this. Thank you to my psychotherapist and to the friends who support me, despite the fact that I was “the one who made the right decision with the car” on the morning of February 24 – to gather my family and go wherever the road would take us.
In the beginning, it hurt a lot because you don’t expect this from friends with whom you’ve carefully nurtured and valued a relationship, and who write things like, “So, how’s life on the other side?” or “Anyone still speaking Russian is our enemy now.” From former colleagues who see my stories as "showing off" and bragging. From coworkers who say, “Well, you left, so everything’s fine for you. I’m not leaving Ukraine.”
The level of stress we faced is beyond even the most experienced psychologists’ understanding. I’m a psychologist myself, so I can see the deep, black holes I occasionally fall into.
The pit of alienation and homesickness.
The pit of my children’s trauma and deprivation of their home, both literally and figuratively.
The pit that I’m not volunteering or shooting the scum with an automatic weapon.
The pit of the direct threat to my children’s lives.
The pit of total vulnerability and the inability to resist.
The pit of self-aggression because, out of the three stress responses – Fight, Flight, Freeze – my "Flight" response was the most shameful. Running away is always shameful. I’m used to fighting.
The pit of sadness that my younger son didn’t finish his 1st grade, and my older son didn’t finish 3rd grade, and that the program Intellect Ukraine, which I loved so much, has now been interrupted.
The pit of challenges I overcame alone, and now it all feels like it’s been flushed down the toilet.
The pit of feeling indebted to the Polish people for how they welcomed and cared for us. The pain of that feeling can’t be put into words.
The pit of seeing how much older my mother has become.
The pit of how much older I’ve become.
The deepest pit for me today is how some Ukrainians now treat each other.
Especially those who left.
Instead of unconditional unity and support, some people try to convince me that…
If I’m in Poland, I deserve hate, and that’s normal.
Our country will inevitably split, and that’s just how it will be.
“You’re abroad, so automatically everything is fine for you.”
OUTRO.
I know what it’s like to lose children.
Perhaps that’s why on February 24, I, like a zombie, dragged my loved ones out of the apartment, not knowing where or for how long we were leaving.
Perhaps that’s why I’ve learned to quickly jump out of each of the above-mentioned pits that I fall into every day.
Perhaps that’s why I can now say “Goodbye” to those I built and treasured relationships with.
Perhaps because I love the phrase “Judge not, lest ye be judged,” I don’t judge anyone’s decisions today, and I tell everyone, “You’re doing the right thing.” I know that it’s hard for everyone. Is that still not clear to someone?
Perhaps because I too have a white coat in my closet, which jumps at me from time to time.
Now I have two milestones: BEFORE and AFTER. I’ve been through hell twice.
And if anyone ever dares to say sarcastic words or make bitter comments about me and my decisions, I’ll turn your words into medicine, just like any poison. And I’ll take them according to my family doctor’s prescription.
In the photo, I am one day after arriving in Poland.
March 14, 2022.