The pink jumpsuit

I remember when my father brought me back from the village. It was the 1990s—a difficult time for the country, torn by a civil war on one side and the Abkhazian war on the other. My family couldn’t afford to support us in the city, so I had been sent to the village.

I was about five years old. It was winter, and I was dressed warmly in a pink jumpsuit I adored, even though it was torn at the knee. My black jacket was worn, my hair tangled, and my big black eyes reflected the uncertainty of the times. My father, never one for neatness, likely dressed me in whatever he could find. But to me, that pink jumpsuit, with its colorful pencil drawings, was the most beautiful thing in the world.

When we entered the metro, whispers broke out—“Refugees! Refugees!” People avoided us, their eyes filled with disgust, like we were lepers. I didn’t understand what “refugee” meant, but their stares burned. We weren’t refugees—just poor, like so many others then. My family couldn’t afford new clothes for me or my brother. Every penny went to bread and the cheapest food to keep us alive.

Even now, I can feel the shame I felt that day. Shame so heavy it felt like I’d done something unforgivable. I lowered my head and cried, convinced I must be so ugly that no one wanted to come near me. That thought, born in the mind of a five-year-old girl in a pink jumpsuit, would stay with me for years.

Looking back, I realize how harsh those conclusions were. But at the time, they felt natural. The grayness of my childhood—both in my memories and in reality—mirrored the hopelessness in my parents’ eyes. It seemed like no one was happy to be alive. Small joys, like electricity, a loaf of bread, or watching soap operas on black-and-white TVs powered by car batteries, were the only breaks in the monotony.

As I grew up, that period passed, but the scars it left didn’t. For years, I struggled with insecurities, battling to accept myself. If I was bullied at school, I thought I deserved it. If they laughed at me, I wasn’t surprised. I stayed silent.

At eight, I discovered books and writing, diving into a world of my own creation. I read obsessively, trying to escape the harshness around me. My imaginary world became my refuge, but I knew it couldn’t erase the pain of my early years.

To this day, I keep my journals from that time. I never read them, but I can’t destroy them either. Each page holds a piece of my soul.

And so it happened that...

At Sixteen

When I was sixteen, I fell in love. I still remember the feeling—butterflies in my stomach, thoughts storming into my heart and mind like a whirlwind. The sudden rush of emotions overwhelmed me and swept me away.

As cliché as it might sound, he was the most popular boy—the one with a white BMW, from a wealthy family. And as much as it sounds like a scene from a movie, I would freeze in place every time I saw him. Sometimes I think I wanted to be Cinderella or some fairy-tale character, like "The Ugly Duckling," who transforms into a princess through great love.

Looking back now, it feels ridiculous, but it was real. And unlike a fairy tale, the story had a realistic ending...

I remember that this was when I began to change. I forced myself to be cheerful, charmingly funny, and sociable. It was as if I had put the girl in the pink jumpsuit to sleep—as if I had severed my connection with her entirely.

I changed completely, and I was fully aware of it. Did I like who I became? Probably not. In fact, I think I was at my most unrecognizable during that time.

The first time I met him was at a friend’s birthday party. It was an early, chilly spring day. I wore a gray, tight-fitting dress and felt like a bird trapped in a cage. As I was leaving, he took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders.

“It’s cold! You’ll feel warmer this way,” he said with a warm smile.

I still remember the weight of the jacket and its scent. It wasn’t just warmth—it was something more, something I had been searching for.

I couldn’t say anything at the moment; I was so mesmerized and overwhelmed. I was even afraid to look at him, fearing the moment would shatter, like a dream coming to an end. For someone like me—unexperienced and drenched in self-doubt—that moment felt magical.

Even though we shared mutual friends, I couldn’t gather the courage to express my feelings. I tried to drop hints, but they were so subtle that no one noticed. The funniest part is that no one around me realized the storm raging in my heart...

“Today, I’m so, so happy!” I said once, without even looking him in the eyes.

There were ten of us walking together, and he was walking beside me. Suddenly, he stopped and looked at me—cynically and with curiosity. For a few seconds, I felt the intensity of his gaze.

“Are you still happy today?” he finally asked, his voice soft but filled with genuine curiosity.

It was autumn, and yellow leaves were raining down on us. I couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze. My cheeks burned, and my heart began to pound furiously.

“Yes, I’m still very happy today!” I replied, but instead of continuing the walk, I turned toward home. I couldn’t stay there any longer. The weight of my emotions and the fear of being exposed were too much to bear.

That day, I realized how much courage honesty requires and how often we hide behind small, safe gestures, hoping someone will understand us.

Days went by like this—I watched from afar as he changed girlfriends one after another. It hurt when I realized that I wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last to have the “privilege” of wearing his jacket. Was I jealous? No!

Once again, I passed the wrong judgment on myself, just as I had in childhood. Even though I now seemed like a cheerful, lovable girl, I still harbored an innate ability to inflict countless wounds upon myself.

“I don’t deserve to be by his side. He deserves more,” I hammered into my mind like an mantra, dismissing every other thought that occasionally crept in like rays of sunlight into my consciousness.

Why? Even now, years later, as I look back, the only question I have is—why? Why did I damage both my subconscious and conscious mind? What did I have against that little girl who simply needed love and acceptance, who could have received all of it?

Summer of 2003

The village was alive with the hum of cicadas, the chatter of birds, and the endless energy of youthful days. My grandparents were still alive then, and summer vacations meant endless afternoons by the river, singing with a guitar, laughing until exhaustion. That summer, I arrived from the seaside, my skin kissed by the sun, carrying the glow of carefree days.

One evening, my cousin and I headed to the village center for a music event. I dressed in denim shorts and a light pink top that highlighted my tan. The air buzzed with excitement. As we laughed and chatted with friends. Suddenly a white BMW sped by, and my heart froze...

"It can't be him," I thought, but the pounding in my chest betrayed me. The possibility consumed me. He had friends here—maybe he was visiting. Or maybe I was imagining things.

Night fell, and the crowd gathered in an old house for dancing and music. I threw myself into the rhythm, hoping to drown the chaos in my head. Then the door opened...

It was him...

He walked in, dressed in cream-colored linen, flanked by two tall, beautiful women. He glanced around, his gaze sharp, his presence commanding. I shrank. My confidence evaporated.

Our eyes met. He smiled and motioned for me to come closer. Panic surged. I shook my head, turned, and disappeared into the crowd.

Outside, I sat on the cold steps, trying to steady my breath. The stars blinked above, indifferent to my turmoil. "What do I want?" I asked myself, but the answer was too far away.

My cousin found me. "If you're not feeling well, let’s go home," she said. I nodded, grateful for the escape.

But as we walked, he appeared again, alone this time. I knew I couldn’t avoid him forever. Summoning my courage, I approached.

"Hey," I said casually, as if my heart wasn’t racing. "What are you doing here?"

We exchanged polite words, laughed like old friends. Then he leaned in to kiss me goodbye. I stepped back. "See you in the city," I said and walked away.

"Won’t you kiss me?" he called after me.

I froze. For a moment, I wanted to run to him, to embrace him like no one ever had. But instead, I smiled, said no, and left.

---

Reflection

I’ve replayed that night countless times. What if I had stayed? What if I had let myself feel, let myself be vulnerable? Maybe I would have discovered something about myself. Or maybe I would have drowned in emotions I wasn’t ready to face.

Months later, everything changed. A car accident took mutual friends from us and the vibrant colors of our youth faded into gray. We grew up so quickly that we didn’t even have time to say goodbye to our childhood... And then I heard the news—he got married...

I met his wife at the cemetery. She was ordinary, painfully so. Not the woman I had imagined for him—neither beautiful nor graceful nor remarkable in any way. 

That day hit me like a slap, shattering the world I had built in my mind. I was left standing in an empty space, devoid of shapes or forms. I realized I had to start over, sculpting my reality from scratch.

---

And I began… The path I found myself on wasn’t paved with roses. I couldn’t walk it proudly, confidently, weakly, or strongly. I was stuck somewhere in between—eyes closed, caught in the chaos of life, unsure of where I was headed.

Eventually, I became the person I thought I wanted to be. But am I really “her”? Or is this just a mask I’ve learned to wear? Even now, I don’t know. Looking back, I realize I wasn’t running from my memories—I was running from the world I had created to escape them. I feared being trapped in those illusions forever, unable to wake up.

Years passed. I experienced moments of triumph and crushing failure. I hit rock bottom more than once. And then, one day, I met her again—the girl in the pink jumpsuit. She stood before me, her eyes wide with fear, just as they had been in the metro all those years ago.

I couldn’t meet her gaze because I knew she was me, and I was her. She carried everything I had tried to leave behind—my shame, my insecurities, my pain. For a moment, I felt the familiar pull to retreat, to remain trapped within myself. But I didn’t want to.

“I have to betray you,” I told her softly. “I can’t be the scared child anymore.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice trembling.

I wasn’t sure, but I wanted to be. I wanted to believe I could move forward.

“I’ll try,” I said. “And I’ll take you with me—not to live in the past, but to remember where I came from.”

She smiled then, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She stuck her tongue out at me, just as a child might, and then she was gone—vanishing into the air like a fleeting shadow. All that remained was the faint memory of her presence, and with it, a quiet strength I hadn’t known before.