Me with Lolita by Nastya Mihaylova
I’ve always loved being alone. I liked silence, the spaciousness around me, the absence of people. I used to escape from social noise into the forest, into a botanical garden, into other cities — always somewhere with fewer people, or ideally, no people at all. But for the last five months, I haven’t been alone at all. I was always surrounded by people — in different places, shared routines, constant presence. And only in Mexico, when everyone finally left, I stayed completely by myself — for 10 days. My boyfriend, Gary, went to Texas for work.
Honestly, I had been looking forward to it. I thought: once he leaves, I’ll finally be able to focus just on myself. Write, feel, rest, breathe. But the day he left, I was hit with intense anxiety. It felt like I wouldn’t manage, like something would happen, like I wouldn’t be able to handle it. And once he left, the anxiety disappeared — but a deep inner tension remained. And the whole time, I was fighting it. Fighting to feel that long-awaited release. And it never came.
I wrote a lot in my journal, worked with my body, tried to listen to myself, be gentle. But there was no calmness. Only exhaustion. And relief — only in the moment when Gary finally came back. It surprised me. And it scared me a little. For the first time in my life — it was like a switch flipped. I became calm again. Grounded. Quiet inside.
I thought maybe it was just situational. A one-time thing. A coincidence. Because back then I was already going through some deep existential questions — and maybe they were what affected my state, not Gary’s absence.
But now — it happened again.
We had to separate once more. He went to Texas, I flew to Kyiv. And again, my body reacted strongly. Insomnia. Nausea. Dizziness. Anxiety. And again — all the way until goodbye. The moment he disappeared into the crowd at the airport — my body softened. It eased. I was still tense, but the physical storm had passed.
And now I wonder: what is my body trying to tell me?
Before, I would have taken it as a warning. That he’s not my person. That maybe it’s emotional manipulation or something toxic. That my body remembers the truth and my mind wants to forget. Because the body never lies — and the mind often does.
But this time — it’s different. I feel safe with him. Comfortable. Light. Free. He doesn’t control me, doesn’t demand anything. On the contrary — he gives me space, support, and care. So maybe… he became my safe place. And when he’s not around — I just haven’t learned yet how to be that safe place for myself.
I don’t know what to do with that.
But I see it.
And maybe that’s already something.