(Not) All Too Well

For the first time since the year began, I am sitting down to write about the waves of feelings that I let wash over me in the last six months. I never stopped writing. I wouldn’t have survived without it. But, addressing large emotions hasn’t been easier when I did that with as much clarity as I could muster.

I have had to fight emotions that I wasn’t prepared to feel. No one told me I was going to feel this way. And by this way, I mean betrayed by people I love, the things I love, and worst of all — my own body.

I have had good days. I have had days of absolute objectivity where I could see the past for what it was. And I could see the present and solve the problems at hand. If they could be called problems at all. I mean, I am a woman living in an urban population in a house and I am well-fed and well-taken care of.

I saw a toxic relationship for what it was. I saw that I was far more blessed than I could have imagined. I am fulfilling two of three resolutions for the year and I couldn’t be more “on course” for things than I ever have been. I am really adept at a job that I love immensely and gives me purpose that I have been seeking outside of myself.

But, it’s nights like these that makes me not be grateful anymore. It’s 1.30 a.m. on nights that are humid and there is no wind in to let the leaves on trees blow gently. When the sweat doesn’t trickle on my body anymore and just sticks to my collarbones, beautifying it, but also making me question why I love the city I call home so much.

It’s nights like these that I spent awake for someone else, probably writing just like this. But, having my words belong to anyone but me. To have complete responsibility and autonomy over the words that I say out loud, or write has been feeling new to me. When I am not speaking to be heard, but just thinking out loud. I have pages, whole diaries, and so many posts over here that I wrote to be read, to be heard — just to be seen, for God’s sake — that I have to now take responsibility for. Forgive her, Father, for she assumed she was loved. Silly girl.

My anger and my sense of betrayal with the world around me has manifested within my body. My body responding to the world outside and the voices within has betrayed me so many times in the past six months that I am not sure of the autonomy over my words anymore. I mutter affirmations to my body, hoping it will heal itself magically with potions I don’t have or cannot conjure. But, I end up much like I did today — screaming, kicking, crying — on the bed, willing myself to get better. I walked, I jumped, I lifted, I ate more, I ate less and honestly, I’m just tired of having to change my body every time there is a problem. I am tired of minor inconveniences that are veils for glaring issues.

There are genuinely, even now, days that I just want to shut my eyes and never wake up again.

We have not learnt to give up on the things we love best. We haven’t learnt to give up on what we thought gave us purpose, but what was actually just another person and seeing them everyday. What do we do when we are lied to? When we have to reconcile with the idea that what we loved dearly is not a part of our bodies anymore? What do we do when we realise that we actually considered this person a part of ourselves, enough to think that we are living without limbs without them? What do we do when our own bodies betray us?

A part of me feels like I have been here before. Many times, in many births. In many forms. I have been here and I’ve been… okay.

I hope I am right.

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