There’s always…


There’s always the need to justify things, to clarify, to defend, and it always leaves me feeling like it’s not okay to just be. Like there has to be explanations for everything. Like this post. I was going to start with a note, on how this break-up doesn’t define me. On how there is so much happening, oh my goodness so much, that I actually spend 99% of my day thinking about and working on, but when the times comes for me to sit and sift though content to be written out, it ends up being these damn feelings. Perhaps because daring to confess and share with friends is a dangerous thing and if there is one place where I can indulge in a pity-party it’s here. Isn’t it?

So that’s my note. My apology/explanation, my disclaimer that everything from here on out won’t revolve around my new status of ‘single’ (again). I’ve had so much on my mind, things happening at work, things happening at family, so much in fact that most of the times I tend to forget that my heart hurts. In the face of all these other things, this becomes secondary.

I’ve also been thinking about what everything is about. One morning, my parents and I were all in a rush trying to leave for work in the morning. Scampering down stairs, hurrying through breakfast and tea, opening the gate with an armful of things I ‘need’ for the day and I wondered – is this what I live for? To go to one job, then another job, to come home, eat, sleep, and repeat the next day. Is that the extend of what drives me? Does it make me want to excel? To be better?

On an unrelated note, a friend just told me that I write better when I write with feeling instead of with thinking. And she’s right. She even mentioned that I need to be vulnerable. But it sounds like a trap, A trap where us women are shoved and locked into that box of being ’emotional’ which is then seen as synonymous as being ‘weak’. And who wants that? Not I, screams the feminist in me. So damn you feelings. Please step aside and let me be.

So let me tell you of other things, of discoveries. I’ve become familiar with a new type of loneliness. One that drove me to sewing. Yes, that led me to tear apart seams only to put them back together, by hand, with needle and thread. This fear of silence, this need to keep my mind occupied had led me be believe that I can and should start sewing my own clothes. Why not? I think what troubles me more is that fact that sewing clothes seems like such a domesticated things women did in the 50’s. Darned socks for their husbands. Stitched tears in clothes belonging to children. But this desire to fashion my own clothes, obviously stemmed from the need to take on distracting projects, also sleeps with the ever prominent other ‘female weakness’ of body issues.

I dream of the luxury of being able to make and wear styles that flatter me. That hides the parts I don’t like. That offers an illusion of fabric and cuts so I don’t seem as imperfect. Pathetic isn’t it? What a woman’s mind will do to her when she’s left wallowing in self-pity.

So let me move on to other things. To the fact that three years later I am still asking myself everyday what the fuck exactly I am doing here. In Nepal. Trying to be more Nepali. Trying to hide that stupid accent I carry like baggage on the words that fall from my tongue. I wonder, how am I making a difference? Have I even made a difference?

Pause.

This is just another session of rambling isn’t it? And I’m okay with that. There are words I like a lot, that I’d like to use. Words like..spill..and, cut-throat bitch. That are somehow connected in the passageways of my brain and being forced to follow the linear lines of letters, maybe you can’t see the pattern of my brain. The pattern, it’s pretty. Or at least I think it could be.

It feels like for months I was on a mission to find silence. To find a quiet that that conquering. That would just level everything out and leave me in peace. And now I see the other side, how dangerous and consuming silence can be. All of life is just filled with a fucking lot of paradoxes and this whole theory I have of balance, or trying to keep everything balancing, I’d like to pick it up and smash it into cement. Letting it crumble into chaos….but you see, the other discovery I’ve made is that so much of our lives, my life, is made up of routines.

And these routines, add up raaicha. Over time they procure meaning. And the only routine that I feel safe in, safe with, safe in repeating and repeating is to come here and write, offering pieces of myself, trying so hard to be brave, and eventually just admitting defeat.

Delete. Not to delete. E-mail to R. Delete. Not to delete. Oh what the hell. Post.

 

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1 comment
  1. Firefly said:

    My point exactly…so well written. You have a flair for words ❤

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