But in November, everything changed. I met a boy who cared about me, more than anyone since I was a child. He accepted me for who I was—a feeling I never had, not from my parents or even my closest friends. Those weeks were the best period of my life, I felt at peace. It was as if there was a special connection between us, something deeper than love.
Until the quarantine.
During the lockdown and self-isolation, our relationship deteriorated. Maybe it started to get worse before the quarantine, but the quarantine quickened its end.
Thanks to my place at university, I had been living freely in Tbilisi since 2016. But once the quarantine was announced, I moved back home. Being stuck at home with my family during the lockdown brought back childhood fears and traumas.
There were domestic conflicts all day, disputes every day. After a while, it felt like I hit rock bottom.
But eventually, I learned to stand up for myself and found a way to begin to love myself.
The transformation was slow. It started, like many things in my family, with a fight. It was around one in the morning. We all slept in the same room. Suddenly I heard my father yelling, insulting my mother’s parents, as usual.
He never wants my mother to visit her family—we usually can only manage to convince him to let her go once or twice a year. That night when he yelled at my mom, she cried. Something snapped and I couldn't stand it anymore—the quarantine made me impatient and maybe a bit courageous, so I started yelling at my father; telling him to stop.
I left the bedroom and started to yell and cry.
That was almost two months ago. I have not spoken to my father since.
In the days that followed, I tried to close myself off from my family, from everyone. I was in a lot of pain. It felt like my entire body was filled with pain, I was frying in this pain. I wanted to die, and couldn’t think of anything but death.