Lost in the Illusion: A Story of Dependency, Disillusionment, and Self-Discovery

And so, I've arrived at the point where I began my relationship with Alex. Today, I'd like to share how it all unfolded and eventually came to such an end.

I had just arrived in Los Angeles. It was late in the evening, closer to midnight. Alex had called me a taxi, and I made my way to his office. I thought I'd be able to stay with him until I found my own place, but it turned out he lived with his mother and aunt in a shared apartment. Can you imagine? A 45-year-old man living with his mother and aunt in a single apartment? At 21, I had already moved out from my parents' home. The most surprising part was that this was his own choice. Financially, he could have afforded to live alone.

When I saw him, I was overjoyed. It felt unreal that I was finally in LA, able to be with him. I was overwhelmed with emotions as I shared the experience of my two-day journey at the border. We had some wine, and then headed to a hotel.

Since I didn’t have many options, I started looking for a room on Airbnb. A room, because renting an apartment was too expensive, and most of my savings were already gone. Additionally, I couldn’t start working immediately, as I had to first obtain a work permit.

When I tried to pay for the room, my European card didn’t go through – a large payment in a foreign country, with some restrictions from the bank. I asked Alex if he could pay with his card, which he did, and I promptly transferred the money to him. I mention this moment because I genuinely thought he would dismiss it, offering it as a small act of help on his part. I guess I expected too much from him.

I ended up renting a room in a house owned by a young couple in South LA, and the next day, Alex drove me there. Over time, I had to extend my stay, and in the end, I stayed for a month and a half.

During that time, we saw each other frequently, mostly in his office or occasionally at a hotel, as neither of us could bring anyone to our homes. Our meetings were usually accompanied by alcohol, and quite often, drugs. I’m not proud of it, but yes, I indulged in it too. Whether we were at a restaurant, a party, or in his office, it was always the same.

I wasn’t sure what our relationship was. Were we a couple or not? So I initiated the conversation not long after I arrived. I needed to understand if we were in a relationship, because if not, I could see other people. Eventually, our relationship officially began.

For the next month and a half, I didn’t work. I spent most of my time at home. Aside from our meetings, I rarely went anywhere because public transport took too long, and taking a taxi was expensive.

I opened a bank account and applied for all the necessary documents: work permit, social security number, and a driver’s license. By the time I moved out of the room, I was still waiting for most of the documents. The only thing I had received by then was my bank card.

I needed to rent an apartment, as I couldn’t keep living in that room. But my funds were running low, and without a credit history, no one would rent to me. So I asked Alex to lend me money to rent a place and to sign the lease in his name. He rejected all my suggestions about apartments, I’m not sure why, initially, the plan was for me to live alone. So we went to look at his option. These were friends of his friends, also Russian, and they hadn’t finished their lease yet, so they were looking for tenants. The apartment was in Reseda, and at the time, it was the perfect location for me because most of the porn shoots were near that area. Plus, they were leaving the furniture behind, which was a huge plus for me. So I agreed.

The rent for the apartment was $2,800 a month—quite a lot, but I was hopeful that once I started working, I would be able to pay it without any issues.

I moved in, and it was February 2023. Naturally, Alex began staying over often. In fact, he practically lived with me—though he didn’t bring his things, and he always had to go back home. So I suggested that we live together, which we were already doing in a way. I convinced him to bring his things over, and thus began our brief time living together.

As I mentioned before, for some inexplicable reason, when we started living together, Alex thought I would pay for the entire apartment anyway because, it was initially intended for me. I was in shock. I had thought that, as a man, he would take on this responsibility, but no. After a brief conversation, we decided to split the rent 50/50, as I felt it was the fair thing to do since we were living together. Of course, I was disappointed in him.

By that point, I had run out of money, and Alex was paying for both the rent and groceries. Soon after, I received my work permit and signed a one-year contract with an agency. I thought there would be many shoots, but I was wrong.

In the end, I couldn’t afford the rent, and I was barely able to cover my personal expenses—just the essentials. I never asked Alex for money, except to take me grocery shopping. We rarely went out because he didn’t want to, and I didn’t insist, as I was already living off him, and he didn’t let me forget it.

The tension over money was building. One day, when I had a little extra money, I transferred $200 to my sister in Russia. Just to clarify, $200 can cover a month's rent for her, while in LA, it barely gets you anything. She was struggling with work at the time, and I wanted to help her, even a little. When Alex found out, he immediately reminded me of the money I owed him: "When are you going to pay me back?" I was shocked—he scolded me for sending money to my sister, who was almost penniless, instead of paying him. He even said, "Be grateful I’m not charging you for utilities and food." What kind of man says that?

During the months I lived with him, alcohol and drugs were almost a daily occurrence. That’s when I started realizing he had an addiction. We often stayed up until dawn, and we would talk a lot during those late nights, though he did most of the talking. He liked that someone was listening to him and understanding him. And yet, after all of that, he still had the audacity to say that I hadn’t given him anything. Isn’t that enough? I listened, cleaned, did laundry, cooked, and had sex with him. I was a housekeeper, a prostitute, and a psychologist all in one. And not only was I not paid for it, but I was also expected to give him money.

Over time, I began to notice something strange: every time he unloaded his problems on me, it felt like he was draining all my energy, and he felt better while I was left exhausted. There was one morning when it was so obvious. I woke up feeling fresh, made breakfast, and we ate together. He then shared some work problems, and after he left, it felt like all my energy had been drained. I went back to bed.

I spent most of my time in a depressive state. Life with him no longer brought me joy. I wanted to leave, but I had nowhere to go, and my finances didn’t allow for it. In the two months we lived together, I had only five shoots. I asked him many times to hire me for a shoot at his studio. He eventually agreed but canceled the shoot because it was scheduled after he kicked me out.

As for my work in porn, I wanted to leave. I wanted to be a mainstream actress and model, but he didn’t support me. He just wanted me to pay him back for the rent. His words of encouragement were: "You might spend years going to auditions without getting any work." Not the kind of words I expected from someone who claimed to love me. He pushed me to work in delivery or as a makeup artist—things I had no interest in, especially since I didn’t have a car and had never done makeup on other people.

He was very jealous, and for the entire two months, I hardly interacted with anyone. I only saw his friends, and that was when we were together. He thought I would sleep with everyone, and since I’m bisexual, with women too. I couldn’t see anyone to avoid making the situation worse.

As for my feelings, they began to fade, unfortunately, only after I had already told him I loved him. He said he loved me, but only when he was high. Once, I told him this, and do you know what he said? "It’s because drugs open up feelings." No, idiot, that’s not how it works. When you're on drugs, you love everything and everyone around you. It’s not real love, just euphoria from the substance. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. There’s no pride in this, but in my past, I’ve tried various drugs and I know how it all works.

I supported him for a long time with alcohol and drugs, but I was exhausted by this endless marathon. We fought more and more. I would go to bed, and he would stay in the living room drinking and sniffing all night, playing music so loud I couldn’t sleep, and he didn’t care.

One night, high and drunk, he came into the bedroom, woke me up, and said he didn’t want to live together anymore. I had a breakdown, screaming at him to leave, and we could talk in the morning, but it seemed like he didn’t hear me.

The next morning, I began looking for an apartment, but it felt impossible. Gradually, the situation calmed down, and we continued living together. Not long after, our last fight happened.

He also constantly belittled me and my accomplishments. Once, he asked me what my biggest achievement in life was. I told him that it was my move to the United States. I had dreamed of it since childhood, and it was incredibly important to me that I had made it happen. But do you know what he said? He claimed that I was just lucky and that, essentially, I hadn’t done anything to achieve it. Seriously? I was born in a small village, raised in a small town in Russia, places you probably haven’t even heard of. And now, here I am in Los Angeles. And I did it on my own. I worked for it, no one helped me. I don’t have rich parents who fulfill all my whims. No, I achieved this on my own.

He also, to put it mildly, underestimated my knowledge of English. It was so embarrassing when he would start translating what people were saying in English. I understood everything perfectly. I had started learning English in school, and I spent so much time in European countries, communicating only in English and Russian. By the time I came to the United States, my foundation was already solid.

So, by the end of our relationship, nothing remained—no feelings on my part. And when he kicked me out, I didn’t cry because I had lost him. I cried because I didn’t know what to do next.