Fear

Fear-Real and Imagined

Lately I've been consumed by this strange fear of everything and everyone.

The pandemic, struggling through and surviving a horrible illness, loneliness, guilt, emotional abuse , confined spaces, the realization that no one really understands what you're going through.

Being female and single and owning property in a patriarchal, largely misogynistic country.

That one wrong move or sign and you'd be seen as easy, ready to be taken advantage of,

Of really having no one to talk to.

Of being with someone because you are scared to be alone.

My self respect and confidence have been destroyed. 

I am sensitive to criticism.

I cry for everything.

I am scared to go back.

I don't have a place to call home. 

I wake up at nights sweating. I dream of painless death.

A fall into the abyss.

The year of magical thinking...

 Didion's passing this week and reading The Year of Magical Thinking brings back memories. Of the immediate seconds, minutes, hours, days, and months of my mother's passing. The two following years that were a black hole, where I mostly functioned on autopilot. Some memories are vague, some extremely painful, some trigger suicidal thoughts, of desperation, and of the inability to save her.

What I specifically remember was having to take charge immediately coz no one else would. Carrying her down the stairs. Driving her to the hospital, hoping that she'd somehow magically be brought to life even though I knew the exact second she passed away that she was gone forever. The calls that had to be made to the hospital, to my brother, to the ambulance, to friends and family. Arranging to take mom to the village, ensuring that the house was locked, that I had enough money to pay everyone, take care of Tamil, instructions to be given in the city and the village.   

Trying to explain how she passed away when I couldn't make sense of it myself. What these duties , the never ending duties did was to take away my time to grieve her properly. To make sense of the absence, to accept the void that would always remain. 

Six years on people still ask me if I could've done more. I don't know what to answer. It's something that I've struggled with all these years. How could you help someone strong willed as my.mom. that once she had decided something , there was no way you could change her mind. She had given up on the will to fight, she gave up on life. She wanted to die at home. There are times I am okay with myself for having been there in her last moments. That I held her as she died. Mostly I wish I had died along with her. The helplessness of watching her die, feeling and hearing the life ebb away doesn't ever leave me. It comes to me unbidden, the images that don't fade away. Those distinct sounds. The desperation . I carry that trauma, unwilling or unable to heal. There's no telling what triggers the memories. 

I've tried to replace the mother figure. The need to have someone take her place. The someone who accepted my crazy . That someone who believed in me, spoilt me, and loved me in her own unique way. 

Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should accept that she's gone. She's irreplaceable. I should thank her for making me strong. For giving me the courage to take on everything. To be alone. 

Maybe I need to cherish the memories , not try to recreate them. Be happy that I had a wonderful mother who gave her all to her children. 

Perhaps my healing would begin when I realize that I don't need someone to give me what she gave me. She'd given me enough. 

And I shall make peace with it . 

Loss

 Lexi passed away yesterday. He wasn't technically mine but I loved him nevertheless.

It was the second time in my life I tried unsuccessfully to save someone's life and failed.

Lexi's death brings back painful memories of losing my mother and feeling worthless.

What is the point of being?

The rational part of my brain tells me my mom and lexi were dying for a while and nothing I could have done would've have halted the process.

But my brain as is wouldn't let me be.

So wouldn't the people around me guilting me, telling me I could've done more or that I did not do enough.

These days I wish my heart is as weak as theirs was so I could join them too. And tamil. My baby.

How do I grieve ?

The injustice of it all ....

Everyday I follow a routine not because it gives meaning to my life or because it helps me make sense of each passing day. And not even because it gives me a semblance of normality.
I follow this routine of cooking, cleaning, shopping, packing, driving, unpacking because I am expected to.
By virtue of being a girl/woman.
Sleeping in without guilt is not an option. It's a luxury I get to experience when I travel or when I am a guest at someone else's.
Even then I wake up scared and sweating because I feel like I've missed something important.
Years of verbal abuse for daring to sleep past 6 has tuned my internal clock so much that I wake up at 6 even when I go to sleep at 5.
I tell myself everyday that it's okay to sleep.
It's a type of PTSD. I can still hear abuses when I sleep in.
Sleep has become a luxury.
I've been told to stop complaining. To go and live my life. If only it was so easy.
It's not easy to even get someone to rent me a place without them resorting to policing my every move and action.
It's not easy to be safe when people know you live alone.
But I must.
I must stop complaining.
I must stop making excuses.
I must stop procrastinating if I need my sleep.
Everyday feels like going into battle. You never know where the attack is going to come from.
Somedays you win, somedays you lose wishing you had died in the process.
True , overcoming years of abuse makes you stronger. It also defines you as a person.
You never get over it. It becomes a part of you, making appearances when you least expect it to .
Anything can become a trigger to bring out those days of fear .
You can only hope to use it to get stronger. And as with many other things in life, you win somedays and lose other days.
And the injustice

The corona parent

A new species seems to have emerged from this Covid-19 epidemic-the corona parent. (Lazy name, thanks to the corona parent, more on this later).

The corona parent is between 25 and 40. Forcefully weaned off maggi only a few years ago, this species can be identified by the perpetual frown on its face.

One of the defining characteristics of this species is the tendency to wear the martyr persona with ease. It also expects the non-corona parents to understand their sacrifices and behave accordingly. 

A whiny, screechy, grating voice indistinguishable from that of their children precedes their arrival anywhere and also indicates their presence. This voice can carry upto a distance of 100-200 metres and is capable of inflicting serious, temporary brain damage on others (hence the lazy naming).

Stuck with children who share the same mental age, they are engaged in a constant battle of oneupmanship, where the loser is always the non corona-parent.

Jealousy for a content, self isolated, single person is said to be the reason for most of their rages.

It is advisable to keep your distance from them ( Preferably 250 metres away).

Acceptable noises that you are allowed to make are sympathetic hmnns hmnns ...

Advice at your own peril.

Make faces if youd like to get it rearranged in some way.

The corona parent is a mutated form of the "parent". The permanent martyrs who  always expect the world to be thankful for producing such wonderful cretins.

The corona parent is capable of sustaining it's annoying behavior for days at end.

The more this quarantine and self-isolation continues, the more this species propagates.

The only hope for the non-corona parent is a vaccine for this blasted virus.

Escape

I dream of an escape
from being called names
from being seen as a slave
from being seen as a burden
from being helpless

I dream of an escape
to the void
Away from it all
Away from my memories
Away from my cursed life

I dream of an escape
Painless

I dream of an escape and I pray it comes soon

You call me a whore

You call me a whore
When I dare question you
You call me a whore
When I am independent
You call me a whore
When I and my existence threatens you
You call me a whore
When I dress how I want to
You call me a whore
When I stay strong
You call me a whore
When I speak up, speak out
You call me a whore
When I make myself visible, make myself heard

And I understand now. A whore is a strong, independent woman.
I will wear this epithet as a badge of honor.