Prose before hos

What a Summer. 

Something about the poetic justice of experiencing the lowest lows with incredible highs. This time, it was all too personal. A loss on one end is a gain on the other. 

I recall telling myself through most part of last year that perhaps I have a person in my life to teach me more about myself but it's also, in some ways, compensation from the universe in the absence of a desk job. 

Guess, who's got one again? 

A part of me is relieved that I can stop the sporadic job hunt but at the same time, the luxuries that come with being a freelancer are all traded to accommodate travel to a different city, in formals and putting 12 hours of your day, every day, even when your brain is begging you to take a break. 

Then there was that other thing. Grief. It hits you when you least expect it. If the last two weeks were the highest highs and feeling extremely motivated, today just hit me like a brick in my face. Something about the last two days the way they were building up, made me feel like howling and writing, while I could do neither. The grief of losing people comes at you like waves when you're on an island alone. If the waves carry you into the sea, there's no one to rescue you. You're on your own to get out and stand up and make your way to the sand. I'm currently trying my best to hold on to the sand but it's slipping between my palms. All the distractions, presents, and love can't help you if your mind decides to torment you with reminders of life as it once was. 

This has always been the case, something that a character I disliked articulated well; how we don't know we are in the good days until they become the good old days. This sense is carrying like a burden on my shoulders. Is this a good time and if this is it, then why am I reminded of the other good days? 

Someone recently told me that the wheel of life turns for people and perhaps mine is advancing and making a move to an upward slope cause I ended a toxic relationship, closed channels of communication and decided to move ahead, and thus the universe decided it was the right time to make the other move upwards. I don't know if that's the case or that I am going to be burnt out so bad that I will need a whole lot of therapy or for once everything will be a-okay and there will be road blocks but nothing that I can't handle. 

I've been privileged to be able to do what I did for the past two years and several times during the last decade. I'm probably the first generation kid who has a therapist to help me regulate my emotions and help with coping mechanisms for my nervous system to work as best as it can in the given circumstances, I had the luxury to pursue a research degree while making no money and then I had the luxury to be a freelancer for over two years in an economy where businesses shut and people had to find alternative careers. I fully understand and acknowledge that no generation in my family had such luxury of time and space to pursue the things I did and yet, there's a part of me that wonders if the decisions I made in the past and today are all co-relating or am I going to regret them all. 

These past years, I've had more regrets than I could count. Truth be told, the wheel was at the lowest where I reflected on everything I have done for the past 15 years, since the time I started this page. Every single academic, professional and personal thing has been processed multiple times. I've been ruthless to my old self in some places and more kind than ever in a few others. In all, I feel the intentions were largely positive and that the decisions were made as best as they could have been in the given circumstances. 

In these three decades, I find myself being coddled a lot and while that's not a weakness in my case, it's proved to be a good marker of where I need to work. Even if that realization kicked late, I know where I have to push myself today basis the terrible decisions of the past and where to draw a line. I don't know all of it but I know some and hopefully, it'll be a good start to the next decade of learning and growing from it all. 

 I think the timing of trying to make headway with what I write here couldn't be better. On one hand, I call myself a "strategist: content" and devise solutions for readers and others, and on the other hand, I struggle to think about what do I put here. Do I write the first deranged thought that pops in my head and hope for it to pass like a fart or do I tweet it and release the urge to say nonsense? 

To be fair, I did well with this page. I always thought this would go out when I go out but somehow I managed to fuck this relationship. It's the only one that matters outside of the one I have with my family— my blog and I have persevered through the shitstorms including school, colleges, jobs, heartbreaks, boyfriend woes, and friendship blues. We've seen great times together through bad writing and bad times together through good writing. It's an odd sort of a relationship in a way that when I felt I improved as a writer, I stopped coming here to pour my heart out. It felt our relationship had nothing left.

Until last night, in an act of self-preservation and seeking answers to some long-pending closures, I found myself rummaging through the posts of 2013. It's true that I unpublished a chunk of content between 2007-2013 but it's also true that I am cleaning my history as we go along. There will come a time, this page will be a dead, decaying landfill of memories past and I won't remember any of it. Maybe for the best. 

Anyway, the 2013 archive was an eye-opener in many ways. For one, I wrote consistently. I was surprised at the frequency of posting and the ability to write that well for a 22-year-old who was struggling to cope with the very first episode of first-hand heartbreak and loss of good friendships. I was also amazed at the maturity I had shown despite dying daily. If I look back, I remember very little of the good times however, the blog has all of it. What I do, however, remember is all of my bad times and the blog contains very little about them. 

In a way, that's been a pattern; this whitewashing of my own emotions is wild. I saw someone had recently whitewashed a lived reality, as recent as a week ago and I was amazed at their tenacity. To a large extent, being brain dead does it to you but it's also a result of when you spend your time all to your convenience and just for yourself. In that case, what's a reality and what's an illusion? It's all a beautiful creation of your convenience. I could be sitting in the room and tweeting, "Just touched grass 20/10 experience, highly recommend!" But, did I really touch any grass and disconnect from my convenience? 

One of my favourite activities in the last few months has been a very interesting thing— I post situational questions on Google and get answers. These questions could be vague; case in point—

"narc discard"

"do narcs come back after they find a new supply"

"narcs relationship boundaries"

While the others are a tad bit detailed—

"any regrets if narc partner cheated and we broke up"

"narc discard final signs"

"can narcs have meaningful relationships with new supply"

"narc dating new supply does he think of old supply"

To an adult who grew up with the dial-up internet in the country, it may seem like an abhorring waste of time, but to me, it's working better than any other coping mechanism. You'd imagine I am researching a new book or something when in reality I am trying to make sense of a year-long relationship that was such hogwash, I couldn't see when I was being lied to, cheated on, gaslit and my favourite, stonewalled. For a year, someone did everything in their capacity to emotionally control me, manipulate me and guilt trip me into doing things I would never do and I found only love to give out. 

It's also surprising that I, a notorious commitment-phobe, once again found myself hanging on to every word of a man because he made me smile and laugh and helped me feel good for like maybe a week in my life. If I go back to recounting everything this assfaced clown put me through, the bad outweighs the good and all that I am left to ask is, do I really hate myself so much that the first person I entrusted my faith to and let my walls down for turned out to be a lying, cheating piece of shit, a whole walking narcissistic red flag who can't keep it in his pants? 

Knowing me, I would Google this question in a clearer, short format: 

"trauma bonded with narc how do I move on?"

The only good thing about this end is that Google has answers to everything. Well, most things, anyway. Google told me he's done with me for good cause I have figured out his game. Google also told me he's admitted to the infidelity cause he is done with me and he chose to tell me cause I serve no purpose. Google informed me that he is never who he says he is; he lifts his personality from other people and everyone is expendable to him and serves the purpose of making him shine. All of this is true. Even the no personality bit is true (him using her expression of disgust, yuck).

What makes me wonder about this entire situation is is he aware of what he's doing or is it a mental illness and that he sees no reason? His lies, hypocrisy, inconsistent stories, his claims of being "single" while he's sniffing the depts of her armpits virtually, it's truly a sight to watch even when I have drawn my blinders in all directions. Like a peacock would flaunt his feathers and dance, he does the same to show his mentality. "Look ma, no hands" and jumps up and down on a couch to show her love and goes out of his way to prove he can't get enough of her. 

Part of me sees nothing to blame her but the other part is clear- she knows, she knows. She, obviously, knows. It doesn't matter whether she does or not but because she does (cause nobody is that dumb, we know what's happening here; he's gaslighting her about me and he gaslit me about her; he's telling her I am unstable and that poor guy had to suffer so much and he's using that state of vulnerability to flirt with her and she flirts back cause he laughs at her jokes and likes her shit and so on). Basically, she knows it all. I've never met a woman in 30+ years who has not known when a guy is being friendly or hitting on her. I've seen him play this game with me and now he's taken the extension to her. Leftover. 

Knowing this isn't enough because somehow Google cannot help me know a relationship, especially one between them that's built on the graveyard of my memories with him:

"how soon until he makes sure she says I love you?"

"Does she know he has a massive mommy kink and that he's into her cause she's a less hot version of me?"

"Does she know that he has an old Indian woman kink and that he looks at her like his mommy?"

"Is narc's new supply better or worse? How do I get out of there"

Some questions cannot be answered by Google and only your time and experience can help you with closure. I am fully here for it. 

There's a rat caught in the rat trap in my room who is gnawing at a piece of old bread. There's noise and anger and also a sense of "what the fuck why am I here?" We share that with each other. I feel like I am trapped in a world where I have no business, I am being fed stale crumbs of news and I should just want to bite and run but no, entrapment is the life here. 

If you think the rat could Google, would it ask for the strategy to leave the rat trap to cause havoc in human life or would it ask to run in the opposite direction? I feel like a rat trapped in a cage with stale food. I hate it here. 

Covid redux wasn't fun. The first three days were harder than anything else, I had discovered he had blocked me from socials at the same time, and combined with fever and chills, it was fucking obnoxious. By the time Covid's recovery came around, he did too. Except, we've been bickering nearly every weekend since, which hasn't been much, like under a fortnight? We've gotten into arguments more than twice over someone else, and somehow all my past wounds and triggers have been activated seeing the intimacy between them. Of course, that meant rehashing time with the therapist and going over things from a decade ago to understand why I am hurting this much. However, I know for a fact, that I don't deserve this discomfort and somehow I am at crossroads between trusting myself or trusting him. 

I just want to go back to the time when the biggest worry was a piece of work I was struggling to finish. Suddenly all of that looks rosy again. Being in over your head for someone doesn't help if you're anyway struggling to cope with all the bottled anxiety. Once it pops open, even the universe can't help you. 

What can I say this year when I barely remembered the anniversary? One is to keep writing and trying to keep it as honest as possible and the second is to keep it going no matter how hard it gets.  

To punish me or rather tell me of the impact of this episode, I cut my hair. There was no thought or preparation, just a bit of a jolt I needed to accept this new me, the one who forgets anniversaries and forgives people far too many times and lets people run over her. I hope she grows up like the girl at 15 grew up. 

new hair new me

A list of things I paid for since I got dumped and got an untimely period out of stress (complete with item reviews)—

A butterscotch birthday cake - did not taste. I hate whipped cream. 

A whole meal at SBOW- pretty fucking good. It tasted like a good spend. 

One vegetable and one chicken patty - vegetable patty was sick, it was flakey and soft and delicious. 10/10. Sibling ate the chicken patty so no clue. 

Platform slippers - very hot, love that I can wear them everywhere and they're cash promiscuous. 

Slice of Biscoff Cheesecake - had two spoons. Average. 

A unicorn sipper - came fucking broken. Returned. 

Five lipsticks for my mother - each of them one better than the other. 

A double bedsheet - mother likes it but thinks the quality isn't as good as the last one I bought. 

Burgerama Chicken popcorn - Jesus in heaven, so fucking crisp and so so good. Shared with the date (who hasn't dumped yet) while watching a film. 

Skims lounge dress - it better be worth 6.3k cause that's one whole article payment. 

A unicorn sipper - let's form a prayer circle now. 

Plastic straws - look promising and hella cute. 

Peppa Pig and a unicorn gel pen - I am FIXATED. They work okay but god, the body is incredible and I have been using them as a distraction from anxiety. 

 I started a new medicine to put me to sleep. However, a friend corrected it's not a sedative which is a plus, the minus of course is that it's done nothing to me except made me cranky. 

I had been long thinking about why we initiate relationships with people? Is it the intimacy and companionship that leads or is the bodily urge to bond, suck face and reproduce the deciding factor? In some ways, forging a relationship with someone who's far away and not in arm's length at all times is a bit like writing a journal entry. What are you upto? I'm chilling with the pets and playing a game and yourself? I'm losing a round of game but I should be working. Tell me, how's this exchange any different than me reporting this for two persons in a hypothetical script? Sure, the other person has a mind of their own and that is attractive enough to keep you down bad for them but besides that? Is it just fog and noise in the brain for the need to hold on tight to someone or do they truly add anything to you? 

There are a few places that inspire as many ideas as the interiors of an aircraft do. I'm not here to list those. 

Instead, I am here to brood over how being 35000 feet high up in the sky inspires me to think and write but the ideas seem to evaporate much as soon as I land back and make my way from the aircraft to the luggage belt. Whatever peace and calm being stationery on a seat for over 2 hours bring, all of it suddenly vanishes when one has to walk a few hundred meters to collect the baggage. Between walking out of the aircraft and collecting the bags, all my best ideas vanish without as much a warning. It almost, always makes me feel like my rent for the air travel covered those ideas, and just as soon as the air travel ends, the ideas make their way out. 

It's also that making my way out and getting in the car to home (yours or anyone else's), fills me with another kind of thought process. Will I find the same billboards I saw on my way out? The house I've been seeing for over 25 years, will it have any changes? What will the roads be like? Even the worst jam on the way out feels like a large welcoming hug, when you're back home. If not, you're headed to someone's home and that's okay too. 

I wish I could be more of an airport self than I am regular, every day in my bedroom self. That person is flying high in the air, with total strangers; mostly recuperating from everything that's happened and preparing herself for everything else that is expected and awaited in the next leg of the journey. More friends to lose along the way? Check. More people to meet and fall in love with? Check. More bottles of water to ask of the hostess who will ignore you? Check. 

Somehow, being inside the flight after over two years felt like nothing had changed. Ladies aboard were passive-aggressive as per usual, kids were ill-mannered and the cabin crew was much too snooty. I streamed a film I'd seen a dozen times, the same one I saw during a medical procedure in the hospital, last year around the same time. 

The film is about family, opulence, love and loss; when I streamed it last I was alone during it; my last sojourn in the hospital, much like I was on the flight this time around. Nothing had changed. I was being fed, served, treated at a cost borne for hosting me and tied to one place. Only this time, I had less space than the flight and the same discomfort, of being away from my loved ones. 35000 feet high up in the sky makes films less dreamy, and more practical. Last year, being afforded with a hospital bed was a bigger luxury than a lifetime of business class seating in the aircraft and here I was, tied to my chair in Economy, eating insipid bread and thinking of all the times I spent alone wondering if they are my last. Flights make me mellow and greedy all at once, the film was fun, regardless of the man next to me laughing loudly at the latest he was streaming (I wanted to give him spoilers but we only talked towards the end of the flight and he remarked, I wish I had spoken to you sooner). I thought more about the hospital, the oxygen pipe, the PTSD I have been living with and little about the film. It's a good film, you should watch it. 

I also bond with airports, when I travel alone. I have travelled a considerable amount alone; atleast for someone who's worked in the kind of industries I have and made the pittance I did, I have travelled a lot for that and I love chilling at the airport. They're cold, soothing, informal and uncomfortable, all at once. The only place I can think of in comparison are flights you undertake, somehow they make airports look better. For a city I had visited as an adult, I had no recollection of Bangalore airport and thus, this time around, I made it a point to walk around with a piece of overweight cabin luggage. At some point, when I felt like I'd die, I still walked around. Never leave an airport unsatisfied, for you never know whether you'll visit again. 

Until next time, Bangalore.