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Who knows if he meant what he said when he was drunk, who knows if that sex meant anything, who even knows if he’s talking to someone else?? Maybe you’re not the only girl he’s ‘talking to’ but you can’t ask because once again that makes you look fucking CRAZY.

“Finding myself” in relation to my travels make it sound as if I actually left my right leg in Medellin, or something. But “finding myself” is exactly what I’m trying to do.

Because after 23 years of thinking that I knew my ethnic background — of thinking that I knew who I was — I have found out news that changes everything, but at the same time, nothing:

I am (probably) black.

The truth of the matter is we all feel as though we are owed trust from the beginning, but trust is earned over time and once lost it becomes a much more difficult journey to salvage it.

Maybe all I need right now is me because I need to work on the relationship with myself. To fix the years I tormented myself. To mend the broken pieces. To reshape myself. To redeem myself.

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