I love to write. I always dreamed of becoming a recognised author by writing a collection of poems or a play, maybe an autobiography, a colourful book for children or a cookbook. For now, this dream has been maintained in my red notebook and here, writing small pieces that suit my soul and relieve my mind for a brief moment. I was checking, and in 2022 I wrote only one story. This fact saddened me and made me think about why I let this happen, I mean if I really like this so much why I didn’t write more?
Looking back, and failing to admit this to myself until now the reason is simple — 2022 was an extremely difficult year for me. There was nothing to write about, or so I thought. It was a year of loss, doubt, uncertainty, and loneliness. I worked hard and thought that any professional success or achievement will overturn this feeling and make me feel better, but the truth is that it only made me exhausted and apart from making me unable to deal with my mental health it made me just more tired and desperate.
2022 was supposed to be my year, we were supposed to have a baby and I would celebrate my 39th birthday feeling blessed and happy.
Showing me how wrong I was, 2022 brought me the unbearable reality of four failed insemination processes, one failed IVF, many many painful and ridiculously expensive exams, hormonal therapy that brought me depression, induced menopause, insomnia and lead me to search for psychological help. I took a total of 24 days of vacation, most of them to visit my family and none of them to take care of my health.
I share part of what I was going through with two or three people and kept most of it to myself. To compensate lack of support and comfort, I worked too much and spent many… way too many lunch breaks crying my eyes out. After that, I would put on what I thought was my brave face and jump into a call like everything was as perfect as my virtual zoom background.
Apart from all of this making toll on my health, confidence, and psychological safety and even making me question my sanity, I feel that my body is on the verge of collapsing. It’s been over-treated with aggressive medicines and procedures to be able to generate new life, and never been asked if it’s strong enough to bare my own.
I tested all my limits and relentlessly overlooked them because I thought that my bones are made of titanium, my heart is unbreakable and the strength of my will can brake mountains. The only thing I learned is that I am only a little human, I am a person who needs (and deserves) love, comfort, peace and rest as any other.
The only thing I will wish for you in 2023, is the only thing I wish for myself:
Be softer with you.
You are a breathing thing.
A memory to life.
A home to someone. (even if it’s not what you thought it meant)