#LifeUnderSocialism

When Socialism Makes Health a Luxury

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It has been a long time since I last wrote.

Physical recovery is not easy, and finding the strength to write while healing is even harder. But today, something small happened that pushed me back to words.

I baked.

I crossed a line in my family—the keto line. Not because keto is a trend or a way to look slim or fashionable. In my family, keto is about health. About stability. About prevention. About being strong enough so your children don’t have to be afraid for you.

But when you are physically broken, trapped in a place you never wanted to be, doing work you never chose, surrounded by rejection, control, abuse, and corruption—health becomes the last thing on your mind.

“I want a mom healthy so I don’t have to be afraid for her.”

That sentence hit me hard. It felt like a cruel summary of what this country can offer to people like me.

I was rejected by the place that was supposed to be my home. Destroyed by their corruption. Broken more deeply than my leg ever was.

Broken profession.

Broken soul.

Broken family.

Broken dreams.

Broken—because I am in the wrong place, with the wrong people, under a mentality that destroys anyone it cannot control. Mocking. Manipulating. Crushing independence. This is something many people do not understand.

Socialism breaks people who want to live free.

And this is where both the American left and right fail to see the full picture.

Socialism is not flower power. It is not equality. It is dependency.

You cannot live a healthy life, eat real food, raise strong children, and maintain dignity under a system that denies job stability, fair pay, and basic needs—only to offer government survival at the lowest possible level.

Low income.

High corruption.

A powerful 1% living well while everyone else struggles to survive.

This is socialism.

People don’t thrive—they endure.

In the United States, if you are a nurse and you want to work, you can work. Your paycheck can support your family. Your education means something.

In a socialist system, the system decides your value before you even begin.

Let’s talk reality.

A VA ICU RN in Minneapolis earns around $40–45/hour, plus benefits.

That’s about $1,500 per week, $6,000 per month gross.

Stability. Healthcare. Dignity.

In a socialist country, you will never have that—unless you become one of “them.”

That difference is called freedom.

Freedom is not luxury.

Freedom is basic needs met through your own work.

When you can’t even afford healthy food for your child, when your child is afraid for your health, freedom is already gone.

I don’t eat keto anymore.

I don’t even meet my basic needs.

Not because I am not a very good nurse—but because in this socialist system, an American nurse like me was never good enough by their standards.

Trump is right about one thing: U.S. freedom must be defended.

But defending freedom with hate, chaos, and violence destroys the very thing you claim to protect.

Money and power can always buy people willing to do anything.

So why was a VA RN out filming?

Because nurses understand freedom differently.

A nurse values life.

A nurse de-escalates.

A nurse protects.

Yes, both nurses and ICE agents may love this country.

Yes, both earn money.

Yes, both train hard.

But only one profession is built—at its core—on saving lives.

Freedom without professionalism is not freedom.

Freedom without accountability is chaos.

Do not split American freedom.

Be professional.

Protect life.

Understand what is at stake.

You have everything.

Do not destroy it.

I love the United States.

Please—don’t let it become what I escaped.

Lost Pants, Lost Hope: Adventures of a U.S. Nurse in a Socialist Wonderland

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I’m a proud U.S. RN, isolated in a socialist paradise where “freedom of speech” is a distant dream, and basic survival is like a sport.

Here, the only guarantee is that my fridge will be as empty as my chances of finding justice for what they did to me—and possibly my future too.

Let me tell you about the scene. I live in a gang-controlled apartment block in a neighborhood where criminals roam free and “society” provides special support to people who would normally need their own warning labels.

Surrounded by organized crime members, crazy “eccentrics” (to not say transgenders) who double as neighborhood watch-women, and mentally unstable folks — but no, here they’re all embraced as model citizens. Why?

Because their crime rings fund the very socialism that I’m stuck in.

Turns out, dirty money buys a lot of social welfare!

Now, about those pants.

My three pairs of beloved, second-hand pants—poof! Stolen.

Imagine my distress: one day, they were all there, and the next, they were off roam around the city, possibly in the hands of one of my criminally-inclined neighbors.

Was it Mihailov (Mike to his mob friends), the paranoid guy who wanders around gripping random pairs of pants like they’re his prized possessions?

Or maybe the “fashion-conscious” gang member from a rival faction who, for reasons beyond me, decided that my worn-out pants were just what they needed to complete their latest ensemble.

The transgender woman sponsoring the homeless people, could be too, because she was a homeless and is into the ring ding ding organized crime circles of community “sharing”? Sure she can!

Now, as a rational person, I considered going to the police.

Then I realized: we’re in socialism, baby! This is a land where if you complain about stolen pants, you’re met with blank stares and reminded that society comes first.

“Why should we care about your pants?” they’d ask. “You’re just one person, and we’re busy protecting the collective!”

Who cares if my apartment gets violated, as long as “society” feels safe and sound?

In fact, every job I’ve found here—the ones that proudly claim to “improve society”—is suspiciously linked to organized crime.

You could connect the dots on my resume and end up with a full-blown organized crime SOCIALIST tree.

“Why do they let you go?”. Because they were clique, gang or organized crime and I refused to be part of them! How does it sound to a job interview?

But here’s the kicker: I still keep speaking up. I protest that they’ve robbed me of my pants, my food, my safety, my career, my dreams, and most of my sanity, lol.

So here I am, in a socialist reality funded by crime, shivering in my pants-less glory, with no real hope for change.

My one piece of advice? If anyone tells you, socialism is THE HEAVEN, kindly point them to my empty fridge, my lost pants, my apartment door used by the criminals in my neighborhood and my destroyed life.

Socialism is NOT heaven! Is the HELL and Organized Crime at the top level!

Why did they steal my old pants? Why did they mess with my life?

The Alchemy of Souls

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He had no clue what he did today. He saved a soul more than a life, but let the story begin.

Therapy is subjective. When someone is bullied 24/7, targeted constant for years without reason, unable to support their family’s basic needs, and constantly reminded by society that they are unwelcome if they don’t obey, it becomes hard to believe in so-called “socialist therapies.”

Socialist therapies are often seen as abusive, designed to build up the “perfect obedient citizen”—one who doesn’t speak up, doesn’t think independently, just obeys, and pretends to be content with nothing.

Now, picture a person walking between the aisles of a store, engaging in the only therapy that seems to work—shopping therapy—when a strong, overpowering perfume catches their attention. The scent is so intense that it makes them look up and see who could possibly be wearing it.

It’s an amazing aroma of amber, vanilla, fruits, and oud—an Arabian perfume, poured on with abundance. Sweet and exceptional, it’s the kind of scent that hits deep, shaking someone out of a long-standing depression, a condition nurtured by life under an oppressive system.

In a moment, the scent transports them back home, as if waking them up from a dream. It brings life back into their spirit.

The source of this powerful scent? A young man, in his 20thies, talking and walking like a gang member, smelling like one too. But he’s just a kid, no more than 40 kg, with a big smile and far too much perfume.

By chance, the scent resonates. By chance, there’s an appreciation for his style too. He’s not really a gang member. He’s a good young man, lost and left to drift in a system that cares more about the collective than the individual.

The young man is eager to help an elderly lady looking for some biscotti for her homemade tiramisu. With countless “Ma’am, how can I help you?” and “Ma’am, I think I know what you’re looking for,” he does his best, even though he has no clue what she actually looking for, some EUROPEAN biscotti, lol. Because tiramisu is an European desert, young man!

His efforts bring a smile to her face. She finds something charming in his style, his scent, his pants half-down, and his confident walk—a walk that might even make Al Capone envious. The boy wants to be a gangster, but he’s still learning the ropes.

Despite his tough exterior, it’s clear he loves his mother, and perhaps that’s why he’s so good to help. Maybe he never had a mom, or maybe his mom taught him well to respect and assist those older than him. What he didn’t know today was how close he came to saving someone soul.

His perfume transformed the world, and his gangsta style brought light to a dark corner of it.

Around him, it’s easy to smile, laugh, and feel better. His presence is like a satellite orbiting, spreading good energy and reminding people that life is good—just not under socialism, and not with socialist values.

There’s a hope for sunshine, freedom, fresh fruits, and vanilla perfumes. A hope for normalcy, where men are men and women are women, where food is good and unprocessed, and where good souls like this young man, this little “gangsta-in-training”, lol, are appreciated.

But that place isn’t here. Socialism has a way of draining the soul from people.

Yet, somehow, this boy has kept his soul intact, trying to be a little gangsta, smelling of Arabian amber perfume and tobacco.

And in doing so, he saved a soul. Maybe now, that soul can find the strength to move on, to buy that airplane ticket, and fly away from socialism.

Fly AT HOME! Thank you ASCHIUTA!