Another session of counselling today- and at a right time I guess. I feel strong and brave, but I still need help. I mean free counselling? Yes, please! (Does capitalizing even on things like counselling, make me too much of a baniya?) I guess we are on a pretty comfortable level on, so I can talk without many inhibitions. I mean, I was lying on the couch, so that’s pretty cool. He thinks I am at ‘high-risk for self-harm’ because I bought a pack of Marlboro lights and carry them everywhere. I can apparently call self-injury helpline 0808 800 8088. Developed countries, *sigh*. I haven’t smoked and neither do I intend to. I will not betray my own body- but then again I still carry it around everywhere. At least I don’t have depression though, so that is good. Anyway. So he asked me to list my fears and insecurities in order. I did, and then he asked me to write one line on the entire page. I did this for 5 pages- my hand kind of hurts. Things like “I am a nice person and I deserve to be happy”, “My world is still intact” “I can be happy with or without *him*”, “I want him to be happy with or without me” and then “*He* does not love me back anymore” It felt good though, it makes me confront the things I have sort of tried running away from. And then you talk, really, about anything and everything- I was talking about how I am kind of worried if this will affect my exams. But I always cope don’t I? I like that he isn’t there to give me any advice. Why is that even a surprise? I did psychotherapy, I should know. I think he’s from the Cognitive School of thought. Damn! Now I know which psychotherapy he is using. Anyway, so, I feel okay, I forgot to eat today (again?!) so I will go get pizza from Chester’s . They claim it’s “Great-tasting pizza” but it really is just inexpensive average-tasting pizza. Sophia’s coming tomorrow, so my loneliness-spree ends. I need to learn to be comfortable alone though. I thought I was- but then damn this Rahul thing happened and look where I am. How do you just be detached anyway though- these are people you gave a chunk of yourself to. How can I be adequate and self-sufficient. Fuck this, closed economies have never worked well anyway.
Sometimes the pangs of pain are too much. My bodily system is still in the shock mode. My adrenaline system can’t quite get its flight or fight response on point. I wake up crying, and I sleep crying. I wake up thinking of it, and I sleep thinking of it. The only moments of respite are when I have just woken up and I have no idea where I am, who I am or what’s just happened to me. The pangs come out of nowhere, I was in the kitchen and I suddenly started crying so hard and I was gasping for air. I tell myself afterwards that no more. I couldn’t possibly cry more- my eyes burn if I cry. But then again, how can you deal with love, if you are afraid to feel? I am embracing this- it’s just a feeling like love, anger, sadness and hate. To love completely, is to feel completely vulnerable and I think, it was yesterday that I truly understood what it meant to love someone so much.
I don’t know when I stopped being his most important person. Just because I was never jealous or insecure about him talking to other women as much as he liked- I trusted him so much (lesson noted). He never stopped being my most important person, out of all the people I have ever met. When we weren’t talking for hours or days, I thought it made us stronger because that meant that we were not dependent on each other. Of course, the assumption that I was still, and would be, as important to him, as he was to me- did not hold true. That’s the unsurprising tragedy of this future economist- unrealistic assumptions.
I bought a packet of cigarettes today. I do not smoke. The funny thing is that the packet read “Smoking is addictive, do not start”. It’s as if they knew it. I cannot be doing this to myself. I owe to my body. I cannot abuse my own body for him. I do not want to. I miss him too much. I was crying on the train. I put my head down at times and just cry for a while. I am crying right now. I used to tell people relationships aren’t worth it till I got into one. I love him so much, too much. We were going to have a house together with white curtains and a big library in it. We were going to have a pet dog, a gaming room and a low height bed. We were going to cook for each other depending on who got home first. We were going to occasionally pick up each other from work. We were going to be in the same city, same house, same room. Wishful thinking. Thinking out loud. I don’t like these green line under my words, they annoy me. Everything I did annoyed him. He told me that if I didn’t come back home in June when he was home, we wouldn’t last. I would be giving up work and internship to be home- he would be giving up lectures. I guess we were becoming two different people. But I miss him. We used to walk on the sideway together after school. We used to spend our days just casually lying on the cold grass near the lake with warm sunshine and cool breeze on our faces. He used to look at me for a long while each time before he kissed me, too afraid to cross a line. He used to say I love you, Deepanshi mid-way through it and I used to laugh because my name never sounded special until he sighed it inside my mouth.
There’s no such thing as good writing or bad writing, good music or bad music, good poetry or bad poetry, good art or bad art. There’s only writing, music, poetry and art that make you feel something and those that don’t. The ones that have the power to bring back a tsunami of memories, evoke a laugh or a gush of tears when you’re lying on the floor all night or just make you fall back against the wall of your bedroom and gape at nothingness for a minute or two out of a life that’s too busy for your own good, and the ones that don’t. No one judges feelings as a good smile or a bad smile, a good sadness or a bad sadness, a good anger or a bad anger; because a smile is a smile and a frown is a frown- period. It does not have to be ‘good enough’ for anyone but you. Tell them that you will not let them get an elitist pleasure out of an indirect judgment of your feelings. If they’re pure, make you feel human and are your break into an alternative world, nobody has the right to judge these feelings or the source of them.
जो प्रीत की रीत को ना समझे वो प्रेम निभाना क्या जाने,
जिस दिल ने चोट ना खाई हो वो नीर बहाना क्या जाने।
रात जितनी भी संगीन, होगी सुबह उतनी ही रंगीन होगी
गम न कर जो है बादल घनेरा, किसके रोके रुका है सवेरा?
हर एक रंज में राहत है आदमी के लिए,
पयाम-ए-मौत भी मुज्दा है ज़िन्दगी के लिए।
One of my favorites.
Under the warm coverlet my woman sleeps on;
I am drenched in the intractable scent of her hair.
The notion has often crossed my mind:
I should crumple it up like a handkerchief
that I could press to my face from time to time.
Meanwhile wakeful hands peel the skin off the night;
I drink from her tongue in the dark.
Our breath tips the room over to one side;
the tight hardwood floor groans
under the slew of discarded clothes.
We shut the whole untidy threadbare world out–
dogs, telephones, even the small indifferent rain.
As you untie your long flowing hair in bed,
it spreads over slowly and colours the sheets,
leaving behind a pool of black
caught in the red glare of the lamplight.
You turn towards me, disturbing the pool:
hands and tongues lose no time in spinning their moist web
and we fall into their delicate net.
Day breaks: the window empties its pail
of light over us, waking us up.
It is our sweat now that colours the sheets;
it is the clean scent of your hair in the morning
that keeps me awake, and I am unable to rise.