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Laskowa—a small village hidden deep in the Beskid Mountains, tightly guarded by mountains and overgrowing forests. Laskowa—a village of three thousand inhabitants, a world where people don't lock their doors at night. My world. For the young, a place of buried ambition, for the old, the seclusion of a peaceful retirement. Yes, yes, time passes slower here, but contrary to appearances, this is not the fairytale land from Leśmian's poems. The beating of hearts quietly measures time. It's night. A scream. He quietly enters like a shadow. You can clearly hear his heavy, yet very controlled breathing. He blindly selects a few defenseless, young minds and, after a moment, says warmly, "Follow me..." But it's not the voice of Christ—it's the whisper of an inconspicuous addiction. "Follow me"—and they follow like a herd of possessed pigs. Then, the sand of words pours down. Family speaks, the priest speaks, friends speak—the words fall like rain. They flow helplessly from my face. They sink into the ground. It's useless, because I'm still hurtling with all my might into the abyss. My wild thoughts race and vanish—it's too late. In the morning, I wake up in a cold sweat, and it's different than ever before... From today on, I belong to Him. It wasn't a bad dream. This is how my story begins. A story full of vague joy, the taste of youthful madness, all the way to the piercing pain of playing with death.

I've been keeping a diary for a long time. I've never read it in its entirety, because reopening old wounds is too painful. Just because I write down my thoughts doesn't mean (as some might think) that I'm soft and can't cope with my psyche. I'm not looking for a fairy tale in life, and I fight to the end—that was the case this time, too.

As I mentioned, the specter of drugs caught me practically in my own backyard. Why did I let his dirty hands touch me? I don't know! Maybe it was a desire to impress my friends, maybe I wanted to forget about reality, or maybe the soda just went to my head.

Let's start one step at a time. I was a happy girl. I never complained about missing anything—well, maybe I missed my father a little, who was almost never home. I grew up without him, but I could accept that because I knew he was working away somewhere in the world so I could eat and wear clothes. I was—well, I'm incredibly grateful to him for that. I was bursting with happiness. How could a child with a loving family, a big, bright house, and so many ambitious, often unrealistic dreams be unhappy? I had two sisters, but we rarely played together, due to the significant age difference. My mother was busy with work, but she always found time for me. I loved it when she took me on trips, or when we worked together in the small garden. She taught me how to tell beech from hornbeam, how to pray, how to behave at the table like a "little lady." I love her. She was my role model, and I tried hard to emulate her in everything. She helped me see that happiness lies in a thousand everyday little things, and to achieve it, I simply need to believe in its power. Often, when I got a "F" in school or felt sad for some reason, she would say, "If you want your dream ship to sail, you must first build a harbor for it." I didn't understand her words, but I knew I had to get to work, and I studied hard to improve my grades. I have very fond memories of my childhood. Everything was wonderful, but there comes a time in every person's life when everything turns upside down. That's how it was for me, too.

It was going to be a beautiful day. But it wasn't an ordinary day – I'd been waiting for it for a long time, because my class and I were putting on a Father's Day play. My grandmother took me to school. Just above the door hung a large banner reading: "All dads welcome, fourth graders." Well, the teacher wasn't exactly original. I wasn't particularly important – more of a cameo character, but I was very keen on how I turned out. The clock struck ten. The teacher greeted the arriving fathers at the door, and we peeked from behind the curtain to see what was happening. We were getting impatient… Finally, the curtain fell, and we began singing the song. I looked around the room helplessly. Dozens of bearded faces smiled at us. All the dads were there except mine… I felt terribly sorry – how could he have forgotten?! I'd just handed him the invitation yesterday! It was my turn. Right after Kasia, I was supposed to step to the front and recite my poem. A complete flop. Halfway through, I stopped and returned to my seat. I didn't even feel any regret. I didn't care about anything anymore. I was furious. After the performance, I returned home. There was no one there. Well, yes—my sisters were at school, and Mom had mentioned something about going to Gliwice to visit Uncle Andrzej, the doctor. But where the hell was Dad? I thought to myself. Oh well! I'll take advantage of the silence and do my homework. I sat down. Suddenly, I heard the door slam slightly. It was Dad. He calmly took off his coat and went into the bedroom. Everything wasn't okay. He didn't say, "How are you, young lady?" as usual upon returning, and he didn't even look at me when I followed him.

"Why aren't you explaining yourself? How could you not come?!" I shouted, furious; I think I blamed him for my failure.

He turned and looked at me. He remained silent. The silence was penetrating, I admit, even irritating in its very essence. After a long moment, he said dryly,

"Sit down.

No!" This is too much, maybe he'll at least apologize?!

- I was in Gliwice with my mom. We didn't go to visit at all. She had to stay in the hospital for additional tests. Uncle Andrzej will take care of her.

- Why? What happened?

He looked into my eyes with a meaningful look. For a moment, I thought a tear welled up in his eye. It was the first time in my life I'd seen him like this.

- Mom... Mom has breast cancer...

- Cancer? What is it?

- It's a disease, but don't worry, everything will be fine.

I wasn't moved, perhaps because I didn't realize the gravity of the situation. Besides, my father hadn't told us everything. I thought my mother would be back tomorrow, or two days at most. The hospitalization turned out to be much longer. Finally, she came home. I don't remember how I reacted. However, the constant check-ups at the hospital consumed her completely, and the whole family focused mainly on this. I didn't resent the fact that we weren't going for walks or that she had little time for me (she was still weak and often in bed), because my father explained to me precisely what was happening. I had lost that carefree life. I had more responsibilities—I even had to learn to cook, but somehow I managed.

And so time passed. A month passed, then a year... I matured and understood the meaning of independence. But problems were not far from me. I had problems with school because I couldn't balance taking care of the house and my younger sisters with regular studies. My exemplary student days were now just a memory. May arrived. The weather was so beautiful, it would have been a sin to stay at school, especially since I was in danger of failing the next grade. Skipping school became my daily bread. However, I didn't ignore everything. My old ambitions and dreams of studying in Krakow hadn't completely fallen into disrepair. I was nervous about what would happen if I didn't pass; I couldn't afford it! I wanted to be someone, and studying was the only way to achieve that. I had no intention of sweeping floors my whole life and dying a housecleaner.

One day, I forgot everything—my studies, my dreams. During one of my skipping classes, I met Rafał. He was a friend of a friend, and I knew nothing about him. He immediately noticed I was tense. He asked what was going on. We sat down to one side, and for some reason, I cried into his shoulder. He was different—he seemed to understand me. I told him everything—about my mother, about school... He knew my worries and worries, and I didn't even know his name. I trusted him. We met a few more times. He impressed me with his personality and sensitivity. I eventually fell in love with him. He could play the guitar well and knew all the songs by my favorite band. He knew exactly how to manipulate me, and it wasn't that hard—I would do anything for him.

One day, when I was really down after another first, he asked directly,

"Do you want some?"

"What's this?"

"You'll feel better after this, you'll see! It really works!"

He slipped me a joint. He looked innocent, but I wasn't naive. Could my ideal man be a drug addict?! My thoughts were tangled in my head like stray dogs. I looked at him in disbelief.

"Are you crazy?! Do you smoke weed?

" "Yes, I do, but it's not that bad. You'll see—you'll get those y's off your chest.

" "No, thanks, I'd rather not," I replied.

I was still shocked by this news.

"Girl! You're a fan of Jam and you've never tried it?!

"You don't have to smoke to listen to Jam.

" "Hey... What are you doing? Don't trust me?

Great. He's driven me to a dead end. I care about him so much... My brain was racing – if I don't take it, I'll lose him, but from her perspective, I know it's a crime.

" "Come on..."

I said in an unsteady voice.

"Come on! I love you and I would never hurt you. I'm doing this for your own good."

He spoke with such conviction. I think he truly believed he was right. Without a word, I reached out and it happened. After a moment, my good mood returned. Very good. It was so blissful, so pleasant, I felt like the queen of the universe. Yes – it was a good idea. Why hadn't I done this before? I liked it and continued my dance of death. It didn't just end with marijuana; there was also, oh, alcohol. Eventually, I became addicted, but what good was that if I was head over heels in love?

Contrary to my initial beliefs, I quickly discovered that addiction wasn't about a blissful life with my beloved. It wasn't about my family's screams, because I ignored them, nor was it about the priest's morale, because I didn't care about that either. I began to worry about my body—what happens after taking them. At first, it was "cool," but then... I noticed that I was failing at what I do best, and I felt blessed by this state. Menstrual problems, frequent nausea, and other symptoms added to the mix. I was afraid. But hell was yet to come... I experienced the full splendor of the destructive power of evil. Sin has the unusual property of being sweet on the lips and bitter on the tongue.

One evening, I went to a party with a friend of his. Everyone was having a good time. Finally (as is our ritual), we smoked to lighten the mood. I'll never forget that day. A kind of animalistic ferocity awoke in Rafał. I thought he'd overdosed, and I said it would be better if we left... Then he flew into a rage. He hit me. I felt a searing pain on my cheek. I felt so humiliated! Then came a barrage of words aimed directly at my human pride. He called me a whore and a common slut. I left. It didn't affect me at first. For a while, I kept deluding myself that it was just a bad dream. The worst words wouldn't hurt me easily. I don't know how I got home. My mother was standing in the doorway. She said something, but I can't remember what it was because the event is hazy. But I remember that I flew into a rage and started screaming loudly. I said terrible things. "What can a woman with a breast amputated know about love! What right do you have to order me around?!'' Only now do I realize how much pain I caused her, how I tried to kill her with the products of my tongue. Words divide like a wall, spoken from the mouth of someone I love, they deliver a fatal blow. It's a shame I realized this so late; I dragged myself to my room and plopped down on the bed. I put on "Ashes" at full volume and started humming softly to myself. The song perfectly captured my mood. "You look hopefully at the bottom of the mug, there's still some foam there. You want to see Aphrodite there, but your gaze is already drunk." I didn't feel like sleeping. I glanced at the table and saw my diary out of the corner of my eye. I started writing. I don't like to reopen wounds, but with my young peers in mind, I'll share one page I wrote back then. Let my testimony be preventative; see what a person at rock bottom thinks. A human being, because I still was one, although it wasn't so obvious at the time.

I've lost my way in the forest of words. I've gone too far. I'm completely alone again, lost in the thicket. I run. I run, and nothing. There's no one willing to help. There's nothing. Gray all around, and strength is leaving my wounded body, crippling my soul. Possessed in nakedness by shame. Where is the light? Where is it?! I can't see it, and I'm afraid. I fall again, I fall flat on my face. And I can't get up, because why, why should I run? And they? They'll tear apart my blood-soaked body. Will they touch it? They'll leave in disgust, for leprosy has clothed me. Wicked wolves. I knock on people's doors, I knock on their doors, but they're closed to me—a wasted sinner. Anxiety tears at my soul like a rag in the wind. Poisoned by sin, but I lack pride. To taste even a drop from the Jordan abyss. Just one, so I won't blame anyone. Will you give it to me? My nostrils crave your air. I'm sorry, I'm sorry for taking it. I know I'm weak and I must leave, but... let me live for a moment longer. I know! It's time to die. What are you saying secretly among yourselves? They call me the scum of the universe. I've lost, but I want to rise up silently. In a duet of souls, I don't fulfill myself, in the communion of hearts, I don't count. My psyche is corrupted, and they scream impatiently. And they call because they don't want me. The ravens have pecked away my dignity—only loot remains. But I'll forget them, I remember nothing. And what is this? The hope in my eyes? What for? It's not for me. God, please don't waste your supplies. Leave them for others. It's not worth it. They convinced me of what's good and what's evil. They taught me I'm no different from a dog. But I am! I open the door, though I have no one to welcome, let the air enter my home. It is my friend. It swirls and disappears, carrying away my cries. It embraces me, strokes my hair. Air!

It is you who have tied my lips. Oh, people of virtue! It is you who have bound my thoughts. But I am pure and desire no revenge. Not to give too much, not to take too little—this is your art of ambition. Take everything, forget nothing! Just abandon me as quickly as possible! Pain can be nourishing and tastes better than human hypocrisy. So I stand again before the threshold of sin's house—should I turn back or move forward? I don't know, for I am alone.

The sun shone brightly into my tired eyes. I woke up in my clothes and shoes. Morning. I heard the doorbell. It was Rafał. I didn't want to talk to him and turned off the phone. The CD ended—oh yeah, I forgot to turn off the stereo for the night. I played it again. "Letter to M"—a nice song about a mother. A mother? I listened intently to the lyrics. The memory of yesterday's incident flashed before my eyes. I cried like a child. What right do I have to sin? How can I harm the person I love most with impunity, who instead of support receives contempt from my hands. How can I humiliate and despise my own family? What about God? And yet, contrary to His teachings, I consciously cause Him pain, even though I do everything to avoid being touched. Doesn't He disguise Himself as other people? What punishment awaits me for my own crimes? Death? No! This isn't the solution, because it's easier to die like that than to live with guilt—my own helplessness, adding dimension to my hopelessness. To feel my ego dying in slow agony. To fade from second to second... There is nothing more cruel than taking someone's life. And what about my life? Am I God, to decide my own death? Satan is a cunning crafty man, waiting to drown us in the dung of his own wickedness. He tempted Jesus in the desert, and because he is so similar to us, he tempts us, young people, too. To be the architect of our own fate? Art, isn't it? But as we grow older, as we sink, painfully feeling the ebb of the strength once so swelled, then we truly know what was wrong—we already know the roadmap of life, but only now are we able to use it, now that for many it may be too late—far too late... Then we realize how easy it was to be a saint, how easy it was to outwit the malicious tempter. If youth knew, if old age could. Let's not let the blinders of addiction cover our eyes. It's hard to go through life blindfolded. If I have the power to inflict wounds, can I also heal them?

I went to my mother... She was cooking dinner. I threw my arms around her and began to apologize. I saw tears streaming down her cheeks. I begged her for help. She said she had prayed for a long time to God to help her get her daughter back. It was an incredible event, one I will never forget. Someone who hasn't experienced similar problems cannot comprehend the magic of that moment.

The path to abstinence I was about to travel was very long and exhausting, but I was no longer a lonely pilgrim. My mother explained that together we could accomplish anything—we could defeat any dragon. She said that in moments like these, you have to stop for a moment and think about what the day was like, what it gave, what it took, whether it had brought me down, whether it had been worthy of my humanity. Faith not only moves mountains, it can also heal, and no one knows as much about this as my mother.

Life is too short to learn, and only a few succeed. What can a young person do who doesn't know where their escape hatch is? Who can't, or doesn't, heed the advice of their elders—why? Because this is their time, their world, their perspective. But despite these difficulties and the traps set against their youthful trust, they have no right to become an island, they can't build a wall of nothingness around themselves, only to face hopelessness. So how? What should they do? Despite everything, it's not that difficult, for life is like a vase—an expensive vase. It's not about money at all. The vase stands on a massive wooden wardrobe. You find yourself at its feet. Beneath it lies a luminous pebble—exactly like in your dreams, the object of your desire. All you have to do is move the wardrobe—but wait... It's too heavy, and you're too weak to move it. You give it your all, but it's to no avail. You must patiently wait until you grow up and gain strength. Your meaning of life lies quietly beneath the wardrobe, and you are too young to achieve it at this moment. However, there are those who don't want to wait. They try to acquire a pebble at all costs – shortcuts, through alcohol, drugs, sex, or television. You are finally strong. But if you push the wardrobe too hard, the vase on top will fall and shatter. Your soul is a flower – it draws water from the fragile, porcelain existence and is dependent on it (at least here on earth). You must do this delicately yet firmly – if you use too much force, you will perish; too little, you will never achieve your goal. Many have succeeded, but there were also those who failed in this difficult task… Their vase fell, and they had nothing to give their existence meaning. They lost everything. Perhaps it's better to appreciate what you have, not what you could have had. Remember, you're gambling, meaning it's all or nothing. It's not worth gambling with death. Young man, look at my testimony. Fight for life honestly, don't take shortcuts—they lead nowhere. Fight! If you don't, you'll wither away with a sense of unfulfillment. You don't have much time left... You have a choice, but will it be the right one? Your future is in your hands... Take advantage of it. Don't play the part—be yourself. The world doesn't need any more bad actors. "Draw from others, but don't copy them; one of your kind is enough."

I was incredibly lucky. Many of my friends weren't, and after soft drugs, it was time for hard drugs. From there, it could only get worse. The flower didn't get water—he died... Don't buy a ticket for this "train," because you won't get off when it picks up speed. Don't look back, run as fast as you can from the boulevard of broken dreams.

Today, all that remains of that period are faint memories, restless nights, and a few scars. The pain of the past has vanished, and the wounds are slowly healing. Life has become beautiful again. Yes! Sober life can be beautiful! Old dreams have blossomed again. I have new friends, new acquaintances. Everything has returned to normal. After the storm, fresh, crisp air comes, and I've learned to breathe it. I'm an optimist again. Every moment in life is beautiful, and it's worth living for. I noticed the beauty of some immediately—I had to wait several years for the rest. God created me human for a reason. I didn't disappoint Him. Life is delicious, but no dish in the world knows its taste, no drug, because life is a mixture of everything. No dealer sells a similar product... So let's live side by side. The world is constructed so that there's enough room for you as you are. Be yourself.