The Beginning of a New Chapter: My Survival Story in LA. Part 1.

I’d like to begin my blog with a story from my life—one that pushed me to create this space for sharing and reflection.

April 24, 2024. Los Angeles. I found myself homeless, with only $500 in my bank account. For anyone familiar with LA, you know how impossible it is to survive there on such a sum. I had no job, no stable place to stay, and no one I could turn to for help.

But let me start from the beginning.

I’m from Russia. In late December 2023, I made a life-changing move to the United States, crossing the border through Mexico—a story I’ll come back to later. Every ruble I’d saved went into this move, and within a month and a half of arriving, my funds were gone.

At first, I rented a room on Airbnb. It was expensive, of course—it’s Los Angeles—but I had no other choice. At that time, no landlord would even consider renting to me. I didn’t have a credit history, I didn’t have a job, and for those first few months, I couldn’t even work. The paperwork for my work permit was still pending.

In Los Angeles, there was a man. A man I liked—a lot. His name is Alex. We had met in Prague. Like me, he’s Russian, and for a time, the idea of anything more than a fleeting connection seemed impossible. We were on separate continents, living separate lives. But when I moved to the U.S., everything changed. One evening, we sat down for a conversation, and by the end of it, we had made a decision. We were together now. A couple.

He offered to help me with housing. Since I couldn’t sign a lease due to my lack of credit history and income, he agreed to rent an apartment in his name. He also promised to cover the rent temporarily until I could start earning. Of course, I agreed to pay him back in full once I was financially stable.

We found an apartment, and he signed the lease. I moved in, and soon, it wasn’t just my space—it was ours. He brought some clothes, stayed over more often, and eventually moved in completely. This apartment became “ours”.

Soon after, I received my work permit and signed a one-year contract with an agency. It marked my return to the adult entertainment industry, which I had worked in before. But work was sparse. There weren’t enough shoots to cover my expenses, let alone pay the rent, and my debt to him began to grow.

That’s when the arguments started. Small disagreements turned into heated fights. As I got to know him better, I saw sides of him that I didn’t like. He was controlling, jealous, and constantly suspicious. He didn’t trust me, even though I gave him no reason not to. I was always open about where I was and who I was with, but it wasn’t enough to calm his paranoia (I’ll write more about our relationship in a separate post).

That night was no different, except for one detail—it was the night everything fell apart.

We were drinking—wine for me, wine for him too—but he added cocaine and ketamine into the mix, as he often did. By then, substances had become a regular part of our nights together.

We talked about anything and everything, the conversation flowing aimlessly, until I made the mistake of handing him my phone. I’d wanted to show him something on Instagram. But instead of stopping there, he started scrolling through things I hadn’t offered to share.

I had never let him go through my phone or laptop before. Those were my personal spaces, and I made it clear that no one was allowed to invade them. I explained this to him every time he tried to read a chat over my shoulder while I was replying to someone. But this time, I allowed him to see my Instagram chats because I knew there was nothing incriminating there. However, he didn’t stop—he tried to open other apps, like Telegram and WhatsApp, which I had additionally locked. Of course, this raised his suspicions. Fucking paranoid. At that moment, I snatched the phone back.

It felt like someone was rummaging through my insides, examining my organs one by one, whenever anyone invaded my gadgets. What worried me most was the possibility of him reading my chats with my sister. We’re incredibly close and discuss almost everything—including him. I wasn’t concerned about chats with male friends; if I was chatting with anyone, it was purely friendly.

Of course, this led to an argument. He insisted that I was hiding something: “You want me to trust you? Then show me. Let me see everything.”

I pushed back, but his pressure was relentless. Eventually, I gave in, agreeing to let him read my messages—on one condition. He couldn’t touch my conversations with my sister or my mom. Those were sacred.

What I had forgotten was one chat buried deep in my Telegram messages. A man I had met while crossing the border months ago. There was nothing between us—nothing romantic, nothing sexual. We had simply kept in touch. Occasionally, he’d message to check in: How’s work? How’s life? Have you settled in? We hadn’t even met in person since crossing paths at the border.

In one of those chats, the conversation turned to Alex. I shared about my struggles with work and how Alex constantly reminded me of the debt I owed him for the apartment. I mentioned how, when we started living together, I thought he would take on the responsibility of paying the rent. But for some reason, he thought I would pay for everything myself since the apartment was initially intended for me. Eventually, we agreed to split the rent 50/50. Honestly, it’s just ridiculous. That wasn’t the kind of man I wanted.

The man had replied, “Why would you even stay with someone who can’t pay the rent?” And I had admitted that I felt the same way, that I wanted to leave Alex but needed to get on my feet first—earn money, find a place, and settle things properly.

I truly did want to break up. But I wanted to do it respectfully. First and foremost, I wanted to repay everything I owed him, which was a significant amount—about $4,500 at that time.

That was a voice message. When Alex listened to it, he exploded. I still remember the first thing he said: “So that’s what you really think of me?!”

He demanded I pack my things and leave immediately, saying he didn’t want to see me again. The rest of the night was a blur of shouting, stress, alcohol, and drugs. He wouldn’t let me pack in peace, following me around, yelling. I was packing my things in a blind panic, throwing clothes into a suitcase without folding them. At one point, I smashed some dishes against the wall, a deliberate act of fury. I was overwhelmed—angry, terrified, and utterly exhausted.

By morning, he’d had enough. Too drunk and high to drive, he called a friend to take me to a hotel. He sent me off with nothing but a small backpack. He paid for one night at the hotel and said my belongings would be delivered later.

I checked into the hotel, utterly drained—emotionally, physically, mentally. I didn’t wanna think about anything. The moment I entered the room, I collapsed onto the bed and let the darkness take me.