Closure

It's over. Finally. As I breathe a sigh of relief my breath hitches and I wonder what that is about. I was done mourning right? I had grieved over my loss, gone through the stages, let the anger, the loneliness, the betrayal wash over me. I had allowed the sadness engulf me because only when it spat me out would I be able to continue.

Then what was this? Why was there a hitch in my breath and a dry sob at the back of my throat? Why did a tear threaten to roll out?

Because it's over. Finally. No more negotiations or hopes of a reconciliation. It is my reality. I have a failed marriage and nothing can change that now. I feel empty, drained. I miss him. I miss the life I had with him. And I so desperately miss the life I had wanted to have with him. The life that never got a chance. The life that was aborted before it could take a breath.

I miss the old Bollywood songs, sung on the dark roads of McLeod Ganj. The conversations that went deep into the night when we had nothing much left to say but didn't want to hang up. The special "I got it for you" haircuts. The names we gave each other. The sliding across the airport floor because we were just so happy that we had an extra half hour together. I miss the songs dedicated to me. The long rides on our bike. The roller coasters and amusement parks. The foodie indulgences just because we had a craving. I miss the morning cuddles. The lemon tea. The surprise hugs from behind. Looking into each others eyes in the mirror and feeling complete. Singing our son to sleep and then fighting over who's going to wake up when he opened his eyes in the morning. I miss the togetherness. Of having someone to hold, to love.

But it is over now. We didn't give it the nourishment it needed.

So goodbye my partner. Thank you for everything you gave me. I hope from today I will carry within the good memories and let go of the rest. And I hope someday we will be able to be together again. As friends, and as parents to the the most awesome boy in the universe.

On the fringes

You and I friend, we sit and talk over endless cups of coffee. We talk of work and family. We talk of our pasts and our futures. We share our dreams and desires. And we talk of how we are on the fringes.

We are the women who don't 'fit in'. I am divorced and have a child. You chose to remain single way past the marriageable age for reasons best known to you. We are the outsiders. May be that is the reason for our bonding. The thread that keeps us close. The fact that we share the experience of being the women on the fringes.

We are ready, oh so ready to let men into our lives. But where are they? Where have all the good men gone? Why can't they look beyond shapes and sizes and see how truly great we are? As you said, why can't they see the awesomeness within? Why can't we be loved even though we're not twenty-something, even though we aren't perfectly sized or flawlessly fair? Why can't we be loved for the incredible mix that we are, strong and independent, confused and goofy? We are strong-willed and stubborn but we still have a right to be taken care of, to be loved and nurtured.

We sit on the sidelines and wonder. Then a sneaky little thought creeps into my mind. Yes we haven't found this man, we say we are ready, we say we are not scared. But is that really true. And here I remove the we and make it I.

I am still scared. The idea of getting to know a new person terrifies me. The idea of letting someone know me is worse. I have built my life again from scratch and today I own it. I make all my decisions, from the ridiculously small to the momentously big. I'm not sure I want to let anyone in on that. I'm not sure I want to love someone again so that they are important enough for me to want to give up that control.

I have a son. He is my life. Can I let someone into his life? What if he doesn't feel the same way about him? What if he does? I won't be the center of my baby's universe anymore. He'll have a right to tell me how to do things, to be a partner in making decisions. It won't be just the two of us anymore. Can I deal with that?

And what if it goes wrong? Do I have the strength to go through heartbreak again? I climbed out of the hole I dug for myself in my marriage kicking and screaming. But I did it. I don't think I can or want to do it again. Ever. I am not that strong or that courageous.

I watched my aunt get married at 44 and I was overawed by her courage. To allow someone into your life, to change, to open the door, it is a tremendous act of faith.

Dear friend, I don't know about you but I don't have that faith yet. So for a little while longer I will watch from the sidelines. Till my heart has healed again I will be content being on the fringes.

Fighting resistance

This blog has nothing new to say (I'm not sure any of them do). This blog will not be publicized on FB or Twitter or anywhere else. This blog is me, fighting the urge to not write.

I committed to myself, and to anyone else who was willing to hear me, that I would write. And so in my classic style I dug out a book borrowed from a friend. The Artist's Way. 12 weeks to unblock your creativity and rediscover your talent. I read the first chapter. It seemed easy enough. I identified with most of what was written. I disagreed about the fact that I would resist doing the given exercises, I wanted to write right? It was my decision? Why would I resist?

I embarked on the journey, elated that I am taking steps to do what I want.

Skip to Day 5 - I am finding every excuse I can to not write. I justify it so well to myself. I'm tired, there's too much to do, the maid's on holiday, I must pack for my trip. The list goes on. Every fibre of my being is screaming that I shouldn't write. I didn't do the exercises and I didn't want to write this blog.

And so I forced myself to get off FB and write this blog. To write whatever came to mind. To be brutally honest in admitting that I am using every excuse under the sun to run from writing.

Which brings me to question why? Why am I running away when I feel like I truly want to write? The answers are fairly simple. I am scared. No wait, scared is too mild a word. I am terrified! I am terrified that once I actually stop running away and sit down to write, I will have nothing to say. If I do have something to say it will be of no value. No one wants to read what I write. And god forbid if it is quasi-decent writing, what shape and form does it take? I have a seedling of an idea. I don't know how to take it forward or make it interesting. What if I fall flat on my face?

Aah! So that's what it is then. That sneaky little fear of rejection has creeped up on me again. It's what stopped me in my tracks all through my life. It held me back from dancing at the high school parties, from singing in the choir, from coming on-stage in my theatre days. It's what pushed me to marry the first guy who asked even though he seemed grudging and unwilling even when he proposed. It's what kept me quiet all those years when everything inside me screamed to be heard.

So today I fight. I fight myself. I fight my fears. I fight to be heard. I fight to tell my story whether someone wants to hear it or not. And this blog is my first step. It's my first act of defiance. This is me saying no matter how hard it is, not matter how much I am told that I have nothing of value to say, internally or externally, I will speak. I will write because it is a commitment I have made to myself. I will not give up on myself again. Even if I miss a day, a week, a month, I will haul my ass back to the table and I will write. If my book takes 3 years instead of one, I will still carry on.

I will not allow anything or anyone, including myself, to stop me. I will not reject the idea before I have given it everything I have. I will not give up, because this time it's only for me and there will be no regrets.

Reconcile

I've been mulling over this word for a few weeks. Reconcile. I say it to myself, roll it around my tongue. I feel it. I taste it. I mutter it out loud. And then again I mull.

Reconcile. What does it really mean? Does it mean I let go? Of my past, of my expectations, of the future I had once dreamt of having? Does it mean a resolution to the constant tug-of-war that goes on inside me? There are so many things I must reconcile with. Such differences between what I think and reality.

I must reconcile with the fact that I am no longer the girl with the funky beads and multi-colored jhola riding an Eliminator. That beautiful piece of machinery rests with the ex and though it was my first love and I want to pass it on to my son it is unlikely that I will be a regular rider anymore. Yet I so desperately cling to that thought.

I have awesome friends, talented, beautiful, successful, sought after for many things. They intimidate me. Their unwavering love and faith in me intimidates me. Because I cannot, hard as I may try, reconcile my opinion of myself with what they have to say about me.

A good blog post, a poignant story, a film made by an acquaintance, the knowledge that people I know are at the top of their game, any of this can send me spiraling into the throes of depression. My deep and abiding sense of inadequacy and worthlessness spring into action, immobilizing me till all I can feel is the roiling sensation of bile rising in me. How is it that another person's life can do this to mine? Must I reconcile to this? Or is there any way of leaving it behind?

I no longer stay out late at night, drinking hard and living it up. I want to. So much sometimes. But I am a mother and my son will wake up early in the morning and a pounding head doesn't make for a cheery good morning. So I must reconcile. That part of my life is over.

I went from being a daughter to a wife to a mother. I never waited long enough to be me. The me I had envisioned as a teenager, living on my own, traveling the world, being an ace filmmaker or star chef. And now that time has gone. I will never get it back, no matter how my heart aches at the thought of it. I must reconcile.

I will never be head-turning beautiful no matter what is inside. Reconcile.

I may never become famous or be known for my skills. Reconcile.

I may never be the person who can engage in intellectual conversations on everything under the sun. Reconcile.

I am at war with myself. Constantly. I must let go. I must let the good energy flow through me. And for that I must reconcile. I must accept myself. But that is so, so hard to do.

But I am me. I love people deeply and stand by them. I give more of myself than I ask back. I am trying earnestly to be better at everything I do. And I will find my bliss someday I know.

Who am I?

It's a question that's plagued me for many years. Pages have been filled in my diaries and journals from childhood to youth with my existential angst.

Who am I? Why am I here? I know there is a higher purpose to my life but, goddamnit, what is it and how the hell do I find it?

A few days short of my 31st birthday and I'm still asking the same questions. I still don't have the answers. Someone very wise said 'Who am I?' is the most important philosophical question so I guess I'm on the right track.

And so I have taken it upon myself to delve deeper into that answer this year. To discover who I am and who I am not. To stop running around like a headless chicken, focusing on resenting others instead of nurturing myself. To commit to myself that I will persevere and not lose steam, no matter what the odds.

I will not become a chef. I will not sell candles, automotive parts or anything else. I will not open my own restaurant or any other business. I will not pursue an MBA, a film degree or any other course here or abroad.

I will write. I will write like my life depends on it, because it does. It is the only talent I know I have (Ok, I'm not sure I do but people have been telling me since I was a zygote so I am just going to go on faith here). I will write blogs, letters, articles, books, whatever it takes. And I will keep writing till the end of the year. Everyday, every season, through ill-health and weddings and crazy family putting their heads up my backside. I will write. I will write. I will write. I will chant it like a mantra and I will write.

Somewhere at the end of all this I hope I am a wee bit closer to my answers. I hope I will purge myself. Rid myself of the cesspool of rotting, stinking anger and resentment that's burning a hole through me. I hope I will be more at peace, breathe easier, smile a little more and mean it. Not cringe every time I hear of another's success and happiness, personal or professional. It is all I have to hold on to and right now in this moment it is enough. It will see me through. I will see me through.

What if?

What if your world was full of silence?

What if the words you wanted to say, the thoughts you wanted to share never went past your lips?

What if you could never express your desires, your needs?

What if you couldn't take even a single step? Not away from danger or toward what you wanted.

What if no one saw you?

What if no one knew the creativity, the ideas, the brilliance within you?

What if the dreams you shared when you fell in love shattered? When your belly rounded with child and your partner whispered sweet nothings to the person growing within this wasn't what you'd bargained for.

When you dreamt of your little princess you didn't know she may never move. She may never run into your arms and give you a tight hug.

When you bought onesies with balls on them you didn't think your son may never speak. He may never tell you how his day was or that he loves you.

A marriage, already so hard that most people don't survive it, you didn't know that having a child will put an end to your personal life. You won't have time for yourselves or each other.

Suddenly the problems that regular people face seem so trivial. "Cheated on me", "Works too much", "Spends too much".

And yet when I look at you, through the stress I see strength. I see solidarity. I see two people who have come to love each other more deeply because of your child. Because of what each of you give and give up for your child. I see pure pleasure as you encourage your baby to move towards the next goal. I see the affection in the way you touch her hair, the way she puts her head in your lap, in the way you smile and talk when your baby sleeps after an exhausting day. And I see, always, faith. Undeniable faith that you, all of you, will make it.

If there is love out there, this is the kind I want.


I spent five days at the Institutes for the Achievement of Human Potential, with twelve families from around the world there with their brain-injured children. It was one of the most deeply moving experiences of my life. I returned feeling blessed and thankful for everything I have in my life while at the same time wishing I had a partner like the ones I saw there. This post is for them.  

Free of deceit and untruthfulness

That's the dictionary meaning of honest. And yet more and more I find honesty difficult to come by. For is it not deceit and untruthfulness when we hide the truth even though we may not utter a complete lie?

When someone asks me how I am they expect to hear a calm, placid 'I'm fine.' Maybe even a pleasant 'I'm good.' No one wants to hear the truth. No one wants to hear the wretched thoughts that I have. The constant chaos in my head, one thought colliding with another, none reaching any fruitful culmination. Does anyone want to know how vulnerable I am, how scared and insecure? Hell, No! Let's see the cool and collected strong, independent single mother. She's handled it all so well. Umm...reality check...No she hasn't! She's a wreck and hasn't even allowed herself to figure out the full extent of the wreckage.

Which brings me to how deep this aversion to honesty runs. It's not just others who can't deal with honesty. It's so incredibly painful for me to be honest to myself.

I am hateful of people who are successful. If they are friends there is a small tiny piece of me which is happy for them but the rest of me is hateful. Because they have what I don't. They have what I want. They have what I could have had but for the fact that I never figured out how.

I am jealous of people who seem to be in happy relationships. For the same reasons.

I am suspicious of people who seem to be happy in relationships. Because I have no faith any more. In love. In men. In relationships.

If you're thick with your cousins or parents...you're on my list buddy. Cos that's what I always wanted and never got.

Live abroad? Holiday internationally? Got a wad of money? Yup, I may smile when you tell me about it but inside I am seething.

Now here's the thing. It's been so difficult for me to write this. To admit to these horrible, petty thoughts. If I were to do it in person you'd say 'Aww c'mon you don't really mean it' or 'You'll get there, look how hard you've worked and how far you've come'. Well, I do really mean it. And I don't want to be placated. This is how I feel. And it makes me come across as vulnerable, insecure, petty and jealous because that is all part of who I am. It is not all of me but it is a part of me. So there's honesty for you. Not pretty huh?

So that is why we all run, as fast and as hard as we can from the truth. We all dance around it. A waltz where we carefully step around any truths that may slip out of another. Play the game. The eternal game. With a partner, never let on to your feelings. You play hard to get and he'll follow, you run after him he'll bolt.  Why can't we both just say this is what I need and find happiness in that knowledge?

Professionally, project an image. Play the game. Talk the talk and walk the walk. Why? I'm new here. Why can't I say that instead of pretending that I know more than I do so that I can get work so that I am not new to it while I am still new to it?????

I don't want to play the game. I want to say what I feel. I want to be honest. I want to be free of deceit and untruthfulness as ugly as that may be.