I have woken up…


I have woken up around 5 hrs back and I don’t know how to spend time till I can go to sleep again. My alienation from the world and the people around me scares and worries me. There is so much pressure to be. A’s wedding makes me scared of the threat that looms ahead of me in my near future. B, C and D all working: reminds me of what I don’t have. And E and F abroad show me that I am stuck in my four walls of a room.

Everything is how we think it is. I guess I can ignore a’s wedding for the realization that my parents are too kind to ever pressure me. And B and D’s jobs don’t reflect that I will never have these. And E and F’s..well, that probably is what I think it is. But even if I let this stuff slide by, the disgust that I have for myself in the deeper hollows of my flesh and bones is dejection unto my own self. Some huge secret, something that holds the power to break my world as I know it does exist. That, I am certain of. And if I could, I’d rip the secret out of my body, like ripping out a band-aid and get it over with, but I am not sure that that can be done. Being with the misery around me, on my mother’s face in her stress lines around her mouth, and my father’s depression masked in his stormy anger, and my brother’s quiet defeat, and baby’s naivety… they all just make me sadder.

I need to run away somewhere. Away from all of them, from their despair, their fear and their anxiety. I wish to not be identified or measured by their distress. I have a right to get away for my own sanity, I read somewhere. I want to get lost, and start over, and never, ever look back. Look back neither at them all, nor at who I am at the moment. 


To Embrace Mediocrity



There are two columns in my life. One, where all the good things go: my charming, almost witty conversations with people I need to kiss ass to to make something of myself in life, impressing parents with how good I am with their infants, having really pretty hair, and maybe being able to turn around an argument to suit myself. Then the other column is stuff that I am really really bad at: maybe, everything else in life. This second column, I keep hidden. It has things like my inability to relate to or communicate with people, taking stress,being incapable at working like a cheetah or failing to achieve the grades in academics that “smart” people tend to achieve. I push the stuff down in my conscience, so that I don’t have to look at it until I have to, and more crucially, so that others don’t have to look at it either. I hate, absolutely hate, being mediocre. It riles me up and makes me feel pathetic and makes me think low of myself. I HATE it. I don’t get the point of doing something if you aren’t going to do it good. I don’t get the point of being something if you’re not going to be excellent at it. FYI, I am not a perfectionist. A perfectionist is someone who aims and struggles to reach perfection. I know that perfection is not possible. I do not want that. Instead, I am an “excellentionist”, or at least a “good-ist”.

I don’t feel like blogging. I don’t feel like coming to this sad little blog, to write something sad so that I can get almost no likes or comments. I hate the fact that my post has not yet been selected for Freshly Pressed. I am a writer. Or, were a writer. In school I was often known for how well I wrote. There is no way then, that my writing sucks so much that it is not considered up to the mark for Freshly Pressed. And maybe, just maybe, this is why I want to stop writing? So that I can sustain the false ideas of myself being a good writer in my head? What you don’t look at disappears. If you keep your eyes closed to it for the longest time, that thing gets sick of wanting you to look at it and sulks away. That’s what most kids do when they felt the presence of boogeymonsters under their bed at night. They refuse to look under the bed, eventually falling asleep, only to wake up to find that the monster went away sometime during the night. I, on the other hand, wasn’t like that. It was important for me to give myself the painful torture of making myself squat next to the bed and take a look under the bed to ensure myself that there was nothing there. As far as I was concerned, it was better to see it than keep wondering whether it was there. Whenever I felt that someone was standing behind the curtain as a kid, I made sure that I crept towards it, heart beating furiously, and drew the curtains to show to myself that I was wrong. I do the same thing now, as an adult. I write and see that I am not all that good. I am bad, actually. I hate reading other excellent blogs and seeing how easily words come out of their mouths and fingertips, how beautifully they form into sentences, and how quickly the writers gain fans and followers. It makes me crazy jealous. The difference though, is that when I did this thing of facing my ugly fear as a kid, I always found there to be nothing. I realised that when I looked at it, it disappeared…the boogeymonster wasn’t there, the mysterious killer behind the curtain wasn’t there, the person behind the door in my bathroom wasn’t there… as an adult though, the more I face it and the more I try to accept it, the more the resilient bitchy little thing stares back. This blog will not get better: this is who I am, I write how I write. It will not improve or become better. And I hate it! It makes me furious at myself that I have to be this average, or this bad at something. The only solution that I then see is to close my eyes, to delete the blog, to stop trying to cook, to french manicure my nails, or to try and take pictures with this weird mysterious little thing called a DSLR.

A few days back I hit an element of inner truth. It felt solid, round and heavy. It was that I need help. A couple of days back, I received my result for my academic exams which I had given. As friends and colleagues around me celebrated passing and being relieved that they would not have to repeat, after the first hour of feeling grateful to have passed, I started feeling horrible inside. I feel ungrateful and guilty for being ungrateful but I started realising that I’d performed average.. less than the minority of my class who had achieved beautiful grades. I felt empty inside, I felt like I had little, and I felt like I wanted to persecute myself for not studying more or studying better. Deep down, I know that my grades are still good, as this is a difficult course to study and most people got either the same scores as mine or lower. But the fact that I am not one of those who are shining makes me feel a bit pathetic, and a bit sad that I wasted my time. I knew then that I needed help because. trust me, just passing this year is a hell of an achievement, and something to be thankful for. It does not come easy, and in many cases, does not come at all. Yet, I feel like a victim because I remember days where I spent reading and rereading simple stuff but being unable to understand the content whereas my peers had moved on to more complex chapters. I was perverse to the memory of my depression standing between my studying and me. But more so, I felt like persecuting myself for not raising up to the occasion or trying hard enough. I know I need help because I need to feel good..I have a reason to feel good and I deserve to feel good, and yet I am continuing either feeling bad or feeling nothing. I don’t want to live my life in an absence of feeling positive or happy inside.

How do you deal with mediocrity? Do you embrace it or manage turning it into something better? What does it make you feel? 

What not to say to people when they expect you to say something


The world died and built itself up again with the despicable reliance of you on that word. Really? Hmm?! The blind and the deaf thought it’s not worth learning the verbal language when they saw you use “hmm”.

The second worst thing you can say is,”Alright, well, I’m going to get some sleep now.” Okay, then. My purpose of telling you what I told was so you can roll over in bed.

When people, your friends-specifically, tell you something that is really fucking up in their life, and I mean the, can’t-fix-it, not-in-their-hands kinda fixed, when it is so bad that you just want to disappear because you know that no words of yours will make it any better for them, and your thoughts will make it even worse, that’s when you don’t rely on such words. They know it is bad. They know you can’t do anything. But they’re telling you. And the only reason why somebody ever tells anybody else anything is so that it is heard. So, hear it. Hear not just the fact, but the consequences arising from the fact, the hopelessness, the feelings of defeat. Share. Share your shoulder to cry on, and if that’s too squishy and crampy, share your virtual shoulder… share your BBM chat window which is where most of our conversations take place anyway..that, or text windows. Talk. About anything and everything regarding the topic, and if the person says they don’t want to talk about it any more, then stay silent. THEN, use the word “Hmm.”  When you ask them if they are alright, and they say “It’s cool, I’m ok”, that is when you know they aren’t. Because if anyone needs to say this out loud, then they aren’t. Stay there; talk to them about something else. About how your fish died, or tell them the little secret that you’ve been keeping too close to your heart. Anything . But don’t let it be like a blank. Silence is the most beautiful form of communications, but absence of words,absence of communication isn’t. 


When you love someone but it goes to waste…

He’ll never call. As I type this, I make myself aware of the fact that I do not believe this wholeheartedly. He will not call, and while he won’t, I will keep dejectedly waiting for his call. My best girl friends, people who I tell my darkest, deepest secrets to, are the ones I am lying to about this. This is a stupid, trivial thing compared to what all I trust them with. But I can’t tell them that I still have feelings for him and that his absence makes me feel sad, because they don’t get it. One of them has never had a boy not like her back. The other has never liked a boy to that extent. I don’t blame them for not getting it. But I do blame them for judging me for being a spineless, sad, pushover. Really. He won’t ever call. Because his biggest game is to make me feel like shit. He thrives on this. Why don’t I get it? Why can’t I accept that?

I’ll do about anything for this person. If he calls me and tells me to help him hide a body, I might even do that. If he calls me after so many days and tells me to meet him, I will not say no. I will be there if he picks up the phone to vent to me about whatever it is that is going wrong in his life. I love him that much. Since when did love become so mean? I love him. I’m hopelessly in awe of his goodness. I’ve been pining for him for two years now. Two years. I don’t think there’s a more pathetic character on a tv show than the person I am being right now. I would get over him. I would. But I have feelings for him. I don’t know how to squash them inside a little box within my heart. I don’t know how to make him stop calling me at all so that I’d finally find it within myself to eventually move on.

I want to cry so much. For giving away so much that it hurts that he doesn’t give a shit about me. I can’t press publish on this. It will just make me pining for a guy who doesn’t love me back, and haven’t I had enough of that shit yet?

Posting this song here in case you need to hear it. I needed to. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JI-o25K6B-E

People face other challenges: mine is to sleep & wake up on time

A William Blake illustration for Edward Young'...

A William Blake illustration for Edward Young’s Night Thoughts. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When everyone is asleep, that is when the demons come out. Darkness, night, despair: there are all synonyms for each other. I feel lonely and helpless as my thoughts visit me again to haunt me, as they do, every night. Night time is when there are no distractions present to ward the thoughts off. Knowing that you can not wake up your family to just because; the fact that if a burglar was to enter my house right this moment, I would be alone in fighting him; these aren’t very comforting thoughts. At night, my city is sleeping. Occasional vehicles whiz past my window, and the dogs barking at each other remind me that is that time when even they have the liberty of misbehaving as they wish.

I am alone, this thought sinks in. I hate having all night with nothing to do. I hate even more when I wake up in the late evening to find that my entire day has passed me by while I was lying almost dead in bed. To wake up and to start my day without the sun is depressing. What’s the difference between me and the prisoner caged in a cell for nearly forever, dying from inside because he is suffocating in days and nights that all seem the same? Both, without any light. Perhaps, one of the ways I imprison myself is by exposing myself unarmed and vulnerable to the brutal part of my own mind. Perhaps. I find a way to ensure that I am kept away from light (or, life, they’re basically both the same) by sleeping through the day?

Last night, I took a medicine for flu and cough in order to induce sleep. I fell asleep almost immediately, which is extremely rare for me. When I woke up first, it was 9AM. I realised that I had slept only a few hours and needed more. I turned over, buried my face in the pillow, and zoned off. I then opened my eyes at 140PM, and having realised that, I was ecstatic. Finally! Finally I was up at a decent time (relatively), and finally I could initiate fixing my sleep routine. I thought about bbm-ing my nocturnal friends saying,”Guess who’s up?”.

“In a bit”, I thought to myself. I kept an alarm on my phone for 3PM to wake me up in case I fell asleep again as I lay on my bed with eyes shut waiting for the urge in me to get up from my bed to welcome the day.

The next time that I woke up (for good this time) was 730PM.