An essay:
When folks you love and hold dear to your heart decide to move on, move away or carry on with their life and you know it in your heart that it is the right thing for them, and you want to hold on and cry and be on the same side and be simply sad and empathetic to the changing situation YET
..all that comes out is screaming and yelling and aggressive name-calling or blaming and doing everything possible to create a tantrum, and muddy waters that froth and get bitter and angry and churn in contorted ways that frankly wants those dear ones to run like the wind and away and far, far away as possible from you. Wanting to create a distance from the person that they want to hold close yet, want to actually stay away from the person you’ve become.
No?
What? No?
Seriously? It’s only me then?
Oh joy!
Oh well, that’s weird me.
I hold only a handful close to heart. Handful. I can count, and I will have fingers left to hold onto a spoon and shove large amounts of bhel puri into my angry, sullen mouth.
When any of them decide to throw some distance between us, even for a day,for that moment, I get frothy. I hate it when they come to say goodbye at the airports. I act like a crazed maniac. I am a maniac. I am a weird maniac.
I am way past the halfway mark, and a full blown adult and my ways are set in many ways and I know in my heart that I will die a lonely, cranky old woman. Unloved and unwanted. Not because I wasn;’t worthy of it or there aren’t enough folks who love me for who I am, but I would have successfully pushed them all away with one angry froth at a time.
No one is to be blamed but me.
I think it’s in my genes. I also think it’s a disorder that if I dig deep enough in the psychiatric annals, I will find a name for it. Cure? Maybe. Maybe not.
Until then, am best keeping my safe distance and not allowing any more folks to come close to my heart. No vacancy as they say..
I must sound helpless. I am not. I am constantly trying to help myself and am constantly failing. Either am not trying hard enough or I am beyond repair. BUT, knowing how persistent I am, I know I will lose trying.
What is it that you ask?
Does it hurt?
The hell it does. It hurts like hell. Not that I know how hell hurts, but I can guarantee you, that if I land in hell, it won’t hurt a bit coz I’d be used to it. It hurts. It hurts to be me. This is a burden I live with. A curse and a blessing. A curse coz I hurt myself more than I hurt my loved ones. A blessing coz I know and acknowledge and hence ensure I don’t hurt more by keeping safe distances from all.
The curse of loving too much.
