مونتيسوري مصر- تقدمها مروة رخا


I resent him now just as much as I loved him then. I hate that feeling. It is bothering me. He is bothering me. It makes me feel weak, bitter, needy, and sick. I decided to let it out once and for all. I am looking now at his picture and I am forcing all the memories that I have blocked to come out; our first meeting and how I was so turned off by his lack of determination and laid back attitude; our first phone call and how his voice annoyed me; our first outing and why I had no interest in his lame conversation and anecdotes; our first week and how I spared no effort to push him away. My first angry email and how hurt I was. Our first breakup and how I missed him. It is all flowing back into my head now.

I got used to the voice that once annoyed me. I longed for the words that never interested me. I needed his presence in my life regardless of the definition. I settled for friendship and had to listen to his previous escapades, current flings, and future plans with someone who will never be me. Occasionally, I would compile the strength to walk away only to relapse into him again like an incurable addiction to a fatal drug. I tired all the tricks in the book; pros and cons lists, motivational post-its on my mirror, feminist articles, survival songs, chocolates, and other partners. Nothing worked. He knew that he was graciously stepping on my ego. He knew I was insulted and in love. He enjoyed looking at the new addition to his collection of broken-hearted women. In his condescending patronizing tone, he refused to validate my feelings, and withheld from apologizing.

One day, he was telling me – his friend – about his new amour when all of a sudden my green-eyed monster rose from the ashes and breathed fire in his face. His words literally and physically hurt me. Listening to him talk about the new kid on the block gave me the feeling of hundreds of little bees stinging my shoulder. We hung up that day and never spoke again. I put him, my feelings for him, and all my memories with him in a big box and threw it down the gutters of my deep psyche. That was almost a year ago and I never missed him once since then. I got off the ground, shook the dust off my clothes, straightened my hair, wiped my face, and walked away.

If I were to choose a color for that feeling – the feeling of resentment – I would opt for silver. Silver is the color of bullets, knives, swords, scalpels, and all cutting tools. It is the color of chains, cuffs, shackles, and all restraining equipment. It is the mirror that only reflects your words and actions; it shows you nothing but yourself, your anger, and your resentment. It is the glamorous version of the dull grey. It is a color that smells and tastes like rust, and feels and looks like dust. Like a relationship that went belly up, silver has neither a soul nor a core; it is just the mummification of what was once alive. Sparkling ashes are still ashes and gun powder is what is left after a gun shot.

Silver is not a solid color; it is a metal. Metals are cold, sharp and they expand under heat and tend to shrink in the cold. Like my resentment of him, he is made of silver. He himself is a cutting edge that wounds women who come his way. I am not the only one; they all have been on his rollercoaster. The ride starts with a lot of anticipation, eagerness, and excitement, and then once it reaches the point where the girl develops any sort of attachment to him, the relationship goes downhill. It deteriorates slowly, painfully, and heavily. He backs off and she plays hide and seek with herself; she hides from the resentment and seeks inner peace. She either becomes a face from the past or a trophy among many others. He is a collector.

Seeing his picture or hearing his name evokes the unresolved anger and animosity that I have been harboring against him. Last week his name came up in a casual conversation and I felt the bitter silver-ish taste in my mouth. I was silently fuming as I remembered my bruised ego. I sat there gritting my teeth and trying to smile when I really wanted to scream and yell at whoever dared mention his name in my presence. I tried hard to name 10 good things about him and I only thought of one. I tried to push him back into the black box but he was out and the silver ashes were suffocating me; my eyes hurt, my nose itched, and my skin was irritated as I struggled for a breeze. I decided to spit the silver ball out of my system. Passively waiting and wishing that time will wash away the silver residue was not working. This is why I ran to my laptop and decided to write one last time about him. I will no longer push my resentment down; I will let it surface and will capture its metallic essence in a tight mesh and throw it away.

I am cured and healed, but what about you my friend? I know he broke your heart. I know you have had a bumpy ride. I know it hurts. I know you want him. I know you hate him. I know how sad you are now. I know his games. I know your pain. I know you are alone. I know that being with him made you feel lonely. I know he is not there. I know he was never there. I know he will never be there. Do not make my mistake. Do not waste your energy on a lifeless person. Do not build your dreams on someone who will not make them come true. Do not look back at someone who does not want to walk forward. Do not let the silver color blind your golden heart. Do not give him another chance to waste. Do not settle for a place in his trophies closet. I am older and I am asking you not to worry … the see is full of fish … bigger better fish.

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من هي مروة رخا؟
مروة رخا: موجهة مونتيسوري معتمدة دولياً من الميلاد حتى 12 عام. Marwa Rakha: Internationally certified Montessori educator from birth to 12 years.

بدأت “مروة رخا” رحلتها مع “نهج وفلسفة المونتيسوري” في نهاية عام 2011 بقراءة كتب “د. ماريا مونتيسوري” عن الطفل والبيئة الغنية التي يحتاجها لينمو ويزدهر. تلت القراءة الحرة دراسة متعمقة للفلسفة والمنهج مع مركز أمريكا الشمالية للمونتيسوري

“North American Montessori Center”