When Men Shout

What can I share about myself? The first thing is probably that, ever since childhood, I’ve been convinced that I was, frankly, ugly. I had hearing problems, and from a young age, my mom would tell me I was defective, unattractive, that I’d never amount to anything, and that I’d never have a family. So when, at 19, I was told I’d soon be getting married because Kostya had proposed, it never even crossed my mind to argue. After all, I truly believed everything my mom said—that I was ugly, that I had no prospects, and that this was my only chance to get married.

We had the wedding and moved to the city. Kostya’s factory provided him with a dormitory, and that’s where we started our life together. I got pregnant the very next month. Six months after giving birth, I found out I was already three months pregnant again. The doctor didn’t notice earlier because my uterus was still enlarged from the first birth. They sent me for an ultrasound, and there it was—14 weeks along. There were even complications because I hadn’t registered with a doctor before 12 weeks. The OB-GYN had to explain to her boss that she had missed it.

In two years, we had a boy and a girl. After the second birth, I had my tubes tied because my husband and I were completely incompatible. To give you an idea: even when I bought something for the kids, like a jacket, I had to say it cost 75 rubles instead of 90. Then I’d have to cut back somewhere else to make up the difference because Kostya monitored every penny. He was constantly dissatisfied—nothing was ever good enough for him.

My patience finally snapped when the orthopedist prescribed a corrective belt for our younger child. It cost about twenty dollars in today’s money. Kostya threw the belt at me and started shouting, “You’re a burden! You’re wasting money!” Something inside me just broke. I grabbed a water pitcher and smashed it against the wall near him. It shattered. And for the first time, I told him everything that had been building up inside me.

That incident became his favorite story. He told everyone—neighbors, relatives, coworkers—that I was crazy, smashing dishes, screaming. “Deaf and yelling,” he’d say. It hurt me even more. So I started telling people about how I had to borrow money just to buy clothes or school supplies for the kids because their father wouldn’t help. Eventually, when our youngest was five, we separated. It just happened naturally—we both reached that point.

By then, I’d gotten used to the idea of managing on my own. Worst case, I’d move back in with my mom in Stradets.

When our second child was born, we got a two-room dormitory. His mother even tried to file a claim to have us evicted, even though her only grandchildren lived there. Fortunately, the management was reasonable, and we were allowed to stay. My daughter still lives there today, though I’ve moved out.

After maternity leave, I got a job stocking products—officially called a “merchandiser.” I traveled to stores, organized shelves, and took photos for reports. It was just enough for the kids and me to get by.

Then, one day, I took my youngest to a masseuse named Elizaveta. She came highly recommended, and I wanted to address my daughter’s scoliosis. I explained my situation to her, that I was raising my kids alone and didn’t have much money. I asked if she could show me some massage techniques I could do at home. She agreed, and I started practicing on my daughter, checking with Elizaveta at every session to make sure I was doing it right.

By the third visit, she asked me to demonstrate a massage with maximum pressure. She realized I had incredibly strong hands. At the time, Elizaveta was looking to expand her business, so she offered to train me. I jumped at the opportunity. After work, I’d leave the kids with a neighbor and head to her place. I’d sit beside her and watch how she worked with clients.

What surprised me was that most clients didn’t come for spine issues but for lymphatic drainage or sculpting massages. After about a week of observing, she let me start massaging clients. I began with hands, then shoulders, and within a month, I was doing full-body massages.

We started working in shifts: I’d work mornings, and she’d take evenings. A few months later, she admitted my hands were even stronger than hers (laughs).

The reactions from clients were funny too. At first, when men saw a young, petite woman asking them to undress, they’d often make lighthearted comments. But once I started working on their muscle tension, and they felt the strength of my hands, they’d yelp and scream. By the next session, they’d behave like completely different people—calm and respectful. It’s funny how men rarely endure pain as well as women. Women lie still, but men squirm and cry out. I do my best to comfort and distract them, sometimes by explaining what I’m doing to help them bear it.

Now, two years later, I work for myself. My schedule is almost always fully booked, and it’s hard to even take time off. I’m currently trying to clear my July calendar, but every day, I have to explain to people why I won’t be available.

I dream of a day when I can move back to my parents’ house. I want clients to come to me in Stradets because that’s my place of strength. Whenever I visit my mom, I head straight to the flower garden to trim, water, and tend to it. I hope to save more money, further build my professional reputation, and get to a point where people will be willing to drive 15 kilometers for a session. When that day comes, I’ll finally return home.