There have been several new worlds for me since I was a child. Moving to Kolkata, then back to Varanasi, moving to Pune to work and getting married, and again moving back to Varanasi. Nothing feels like home anymore; everything is like a galaxy that scientists are yet to discover.

The only place I call my safe space is my little room with an east-facing window and a pond, decorated with posters, fairy lights, candles, and loaded with books, art, stationery, crystals, dream catcher, and everything that helps cheer me up.

I love witnessing the sunrise every morning from my room’s window as the world wakes up from yet another slumber, even though I hate the sun. I sometimes stay awake late after midnight to see the streets outside, feel the cool breeze rising from the pond, and listen to the silence outside. Silence can be heard too; if you listen closely, the symphonies of the night are merrier than those of Beethoven’s.

Maa still refuses to sometimes call it only my room and let me be as I want as she calls it Thakurghar (Bengali word for home temple). I share my room with the Gods and Goddesses adorned in one corner. But I don’t mind as their presence makes me feel safe and the incense sticks calm my anxiety just like my scented candles do.

Outside my room, the four walls are not my home even though my parents are there, they live in their own little worlds just like I live in mine. So, we basically have three worlds colliding every now and then. Sometimes my solitude turns into loneliness and painful memories of my abusive marriage come back to haunt me. I pierce my nails into my skin making crescent marks till those memories go away for the time being. I have found cemeteries more peaceful and less haunting than my life.

I have never been loved wholeheartedly unless being showered with toys and gifts are considered love. My dad has been my so-called partner in crime since I was a child and mom has been strict; this still prevails even though I am turning 31. But somehow, all three of us have drifted apart; maybe because with age we no longer feel the need to communicate constantly or need human touch unless need be. But I do; I feel the need to be loved, cared for, pampered, caressed, hugged, made a cup of coffee in my lows, and laugh out loud together at jokes that aren’t even funny.

I am pretentious to be honest; I pretend to be strong, ambitious, and not shaken by my horrific experiences when inside I am dying of pain and loneliness. I am ambitious because I want to be the woman nobody could ever think of hurting again, but strong is another story. The high and low periods of my ADHD and BPD sometimes make me want to kill myself, literally and honestly. But I know that isn’t a solution because my story would someday be a survival guide for someone and I have to live to see my dreams come true; even though they include some nightmares too which I hope and pray, don’t manifest.

My world sometimes hangs from a thread and I feel I am drowning, trying to grasp an invisible straw. Those days are endless and when the sun sets, I can finally breathe because the cosmos speaks to me at night and holds my hand to provide me with peace. But why are those nights so short until and unless it’s autumn and winter? I sometimes wish the sun would disappear and I would relax all night in my den with my different realities conversing with each other. No, I don’t have Multiple Personality Disorder. I am a reader, writer, and thinker and I live in worlds I have read or imagined. Trust me, those worlds are better than the world we live in now.

There are some unbearable days when my pills don't even work and I bite into my blanket and cry all over my pillow silently so that my parents don’t see me. When I am before them, they see an irritated face and cuss me, and that hurts like an arrow passing through my heart. So, to just wash away those moments temporarily, I gulp down my pain secretly with alcohol; a burning throat is better than a burning heart.

I tend to isolate myself a lot from communicating on social media, through calls and messages, and even in person. I love the comfort silence gives me; a space to think and be myself without being judged as I lay on my bed in the dead of night. I hate mornings and noons, and the evening setting sun and breeze brings me the peace I have wanted the entire day.

I work hard all day without complaining or resting; I work for my office, on my criminology case studies, and my personal projects. Reading daily is an essential part of my daily routine, but sometimes, I can’t do anything when depression clutches me hard around my throat. I have to drag myself out of bed and do the basic chores with full force and have to complete my office hours productively because that’s necessary to sustain. Sustain, such a weird word; I wish I were living and not just surviving or sustaining.

Sometimes I feel like a Paying Guest in my own house, not given enough respect till I get my salary and give money to my parents. Not that I don’t like caring for them, but I don’t like being an investment or a debt which I have always felt since I was a child. My aunt always said, “You are being cared for and educated so that you can take care of your parents.” Not that I needed to be told that or reminded even now every now and then.

What about my dreams, aspirations, and goals? What about my mental health and the need to heal and feel loved? Nobody ever asked me about that. But as I was the black sheep and rebel of the family, I did what I wanted to do and I am earning enough; however, my goals are greater.

My need for space to think, ideate, and create and even a self time is completely ignored by my parents at times. I am a thinker, dreamer, and creator, and often misunderstood as anti-social and arrogant for my need for space. Is it too much to ask for? I don’t think so.

I am still made to feel inferior and compared to all the engineers and MBA children of the family. Not that I care, but it hurts me because all my accolades are overlooked, my achievements neglected as if they never mattered till I earned at least 1 lakh rupees per month.

People have become so materialistic that they fail to see the beauty in simple things like rain, an overcast day, the night sky, a piece of art, cold breeze, the red moon, the silence, poetry, and literature. All they want is money for luxury; so do I as I am more of a spender than saver although I am learning to save. But I enjoy the little things the universe and nature has to offer and be curious about the magic of the unknown or unseen.

I also feel I am not meant for love or to be a wife but I believe the universe has plans for me and I trust the process. I may be vulnerable from time to time, but my experiences are also making me stronger.

A Lonely Saturday

It’s a lonely Saturday night,

I am burning my emotions,

Written in a yellow old piece of paper, I am getting away with them,

I don’t want to feel anymore, it hurts,

I am tearing away my diary of feelings one by one with the fire burning inside me,

Now, I am free;

Are you?

Sunday Musings

My Sundays are full of imagination and lone time while I imagine the approach of autumn and winter,

Even though fall is two months away and the monsoon rains are peering through my bedroom window, I still imagine blankets and being cozy in sweaters,

I make a cup of coffee and smell my books,

While the world around me is moving at fast speed and the Earth is spinning, I am breathing and taking my time to sit back and relax before another hectic week starts,

I am peeping through my window, it’s post noon, the streets are not as quiet as it should be on a Sunday,

Do people still relax or has the race of life taken over everyone?

I think and grab my book again going away into another world.

Brain on Fire

My brain has been on fire in the last one month because of work, finances, and especially issues within my family; especially dad. My solitude has turned into loneliness crawling beneath my skin like a leach waiting to devour me. Sometimes even my pills and meditation don't work, I just do it because of habit. Sometimes even writing and making art seems like a hell of a job. What happened to the me who used to enjoy these and take solace in it? The answer lies within me but I am yet to dive deeper to get to the answers that are wrecked under the ocean like the ruins of Titanic.

Because I always have my phone around, I started learning AI (Artificial Intelligence) art and went on a crazy imagination ride. The results were of course not that of a real AI artist, but I liked my artwork. The themes of Macabre, Fantasy, Autumn, Winter, Loneliness, and Power, came out quite well. I am proud of my progress, but am I really?

Sometimes I wish to sit on the floor with charcoal and paints and make art while colours and charcoal would paint my body as well in the process. But my body and mind just refuse to do so at times even though I push myself. Some days I am successful in doing so and some days not.

The extreme low days are me just staring at a blank wall or a blank page or pretending to read a book while I am all zoned out. The letters written inside the book look like crawling ants and I just sit and stare for hours till I finally realise I am in a reality that doesn’t belong to me. It hurts like hell then as if someone has punched me hard on my stomach or is choking my throat. Then what? I pop pills again, write some poem on my phone or make some random collage out of my previously clicked photographs, and try to sleep imagining myself in a better world; a better life. I clutch my amethyst stone tightly till I finally drift into sleep and it falls off my hand and makes a comfortable place beside me on my bed. My cat purrs around me like a Familiar protecting its Witch. I could be a witch you know with all the empathy and strong sensory powers, love for nature, the moon and stars, and wondering about the cosmos and the several hidden knowledge of the world.

Thoughts of a Divorced Girl

I am in a lot of distress and discomfort but I cannot show it because I have to appear stronger than ever for my mother and the world which thinks I am weak and a rebellious divorcee.

Weird na? A divorced girl is a divorcee and a divorced man turns back into an eligible bachelor. No matter how intellectual, learned, independent, and financially strong a woman who has been divorced is; she is seen with negative expressions like not meant to be a wife, full of flaws, too ambitious, tried to surpass her husband, and for men; available for anything. Aren’t we humans a flawed species?

A divorced man is accepted by another girl’s family who has never been married but a divorced girl is only supposed to marry a divorced guy. Still don’t understand this logic though! But who cares, we women are strong and independent and can survive alone without fake relationships or casual one-nights. We are ambitious, career-oriented, and full of emotions and empathy; but don’t take this as our weakness. A woman who has walked through hell isn’t afraid of the fire anymore; remember that!

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