They say, the best stories are the ones with little bit of truth in them. a little bit of the soul of the writer. I haven’t had the most extraordinary of lives… But there have been a lot of things I am always going to be grateful for. So this is my story. The reason that I write.
I know lose is a part of life. The way we deal with them makes us who we are. I can share happiness… it’s the sadness that I am partial about. I guess it’s the reason I am often labeled selfish. I know I am a hypersensitive person and there aren’t many ways for me to hide or overcome this defect in my character. Before reading the autobiography of Thrity Umrigar, an Indian parsi author, I never realized that I wasn’t an abnormality. That there were people out there who felt the way I did.
I lived in a small place, far out of reach of the world that I had started living in inside my head. I wanted to be part of that world, be part of her story, I wanted to ride the B.E.S.T bus with her, wanted to pull down my socks and hike up my skirt with her, I wanted to be the person buying story books with her. But we lived in different places and more importantly in different time era. But she was my inspiration. She was my friend, someone who understood me, someone who went through the same things that I went through, someone who realized that love could become a cage from which it would forever be difficult to fly away… someone who knew that letting go first, took so much courage. She felt like a soul sister I had from a different dimension. Through her story, I got hope… that future wasn’t as bleak as it looked, that there was a much wider world out there, and people who understood us, where we wouldn’t have to live like misfits, where we would be accepted for who we were and we didn’t have to hide behind the curtains of fake controlled smiles, that there was a way to experience the world from that small window of hope… books.
So I wrote. To be able to turn sorrows into stories. To be able to read them and let go of them. everytime reality got too hurtful I took refuge in the world of stories. Everytime the world got too sarcastic and mean, I turned to them again. Until it felt like the stories in those pages were more real than the real life passing me by. I tried to build a mask. To stop the pain from seeping out into all my relations. But damaged goods cannot be repaired, can never be brand new. The cracks were always going to show. I tried to hide it. tried to make up for it. but the truth is, the world always knows your weak points. And life always teaches the same lessons until we learn to learn from them. so when reality finally struck, and relations I thought most important to me couldn’t withstand the burden of my past, I had to lose them all…
They say love can overcome everything. I have been in love. And I ended up breaking them, destroying them. So now, Love scared me. I didn’t want to be a monster anymore. I closed all the windows to it. Because I didn’t want to hurt people anymore. I was tired of pulling everyone down with me, to that scary dark pit where hope had very little light. I didn’t want people who loved me, to face those demons I had to deal with on a regular basis. I was scared… that they wouldn’t love me if they knew the real me, if they found out how broken and beyond repair I was. I was scared that they would give up on me if they found out how far gone I was. So I gave up first. I left them before they could ever leave me. I was a young scared child in a grown person’s body. And nobody understood it, nobody had a clue about it. Cause I had managed to fool them all. I guess I was successful in building that mask I always wanted.
Until one day, when love decided to walk into my life, breaking down doors and pushing through the darkness of my soul. A love, which made me lose control and forced me to show my real self. Love which made me realize, I was holding on to too many things. Love, that made me realize that my heart had enough space for love but none for all that guilt. It made me realize that if I ever wanted to move forward in life, I had to first forgive myself. Those people I had hurt had long since forgotten me. They had moved way ahead in life… that I was only a distant memory, a small character in their story. But for me, the guilt kept the wounds fresh. It occupied and colored all my memories with hurt. Sometimes it filled all my waking hours with nightmares. Consciousness suffocated me. Sleep was my only escape.
But this beautiful love took me by the storm and left me without the support of the mask I had always held on to. It forced me to face my demons and overcome them. it made me realize that my hypersensitivity wasn’t a curse. That I was strong enough, capable enough to love and be loved. That I was held back by chains I had built myself. that the mask I had thought was my fortress had become my cage. And I only had to be strong enough to let it crumble. I realized that all I had to do was ask for forgiveness, that I didn’t have to suffer in silence. That sharing my hurt was going to enable me to let it go finally. So I did it. And with each story that I told, I felt the tightness in my heart loosening. The lump in my throat melting and love filling up my soul and hope glittering like diamonds. The grip of guilt finally letting go of me. at last freeing my soul.
This is me all barred. Judge me if you must. But I learnt all these lessons and I survived it all. And don’t they say? What doesn’t kills you make you stronger! I am better than I was. I will be better than I am. I promise.