On February 7th I turned 32.
I like the number, as much as I like 2023, even if too many things have happened in just a couple of months.
I closed 2022 full of hopes, romanticism, expectations, dreams, goals and relief.
Yes, relief, cause after years, we all fell the same discomfort caused by Covid, we all suffer from loneliness, we all feel lost and misunderstood.
Don't we?
I've started therapy and it actually went bad.
I felt I was finally doing something to recover from my past traumas and to deconstruct my mental schemes, but no. I'm not in charge, I have to follow. And I don't like the rhytm, the choreo, even the base.
I'm not going to continue, I guess this wasn't the right shot.
Talking about my parents or involving them wasn't in my plans.
I need this for me. I deserve to heal.
I cannot accept to do something to them, for them.
"Your only job is to fill your cup and make yourself whole".
How I'm filling my cup?
I'm travelling, and planning new travels. Not alone, this time, but I deserve some alone time too, so I'm surely going somewhere to spend time with myself.
I'm learning a new challenging language, Arabic. I don't even know why I'm doing it, but I know for sure that it makes me proud of myself, of my skills and my abilities.
I'm dancing, not as much as I want, but I'm not quitting.
I'm reading, a book per month, that's my goal. To have something to tell, to daydream, to learn, to disconnect.
But I'm also emptying my cup.
My stupid schemes block love, affection, trust and all the good things that might reach me from the external. Who am I to choose for someone else? Who am I to say "Don't love me"?
Well, I'm still a baby girl not used to be loved, a girl who became a young woman too soon.
Listen, young girl: you'll heal one day, I know you will.
It seems far, it seems wrong, it seems unfair. But it will happen.
Trust the process and don't give up.
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