Could I be any dumber?

I'm kinda sure now that men think with their flaccid knobs and crave female attention. Well, most of them do. So do women. They are no less in farming male attention or aura. Again, most of them do. 

I have been so disappointed with so many people lately that it's just making me aware of how naive I have been to not see through certain manipulations. It hits me later when it's too late. I never learn from my past mistakes and always trust people without batting an eyelid. Then I trip and fall flat on my face, feeling hurt and disappointed.

Actually, they should not be blamed. It's my lack of ability to see through the BS people try to feed me. Instinctively, I know something is wrong, but I don't listen to my instincts and suffer. And then I come here to whine about such things.

One day, I will share why I started with men and their flaccid knobs and women with aura farming, but for now, let me be angry at myself. Seriously, so annoyed for being so naive; I have always been. 

When will I ever learn? Could I be any dumber?

mirror, mirror on the wall...

I have again started hating being clicked or seeing my reflection in the mirror. Genuinely. There was a time when I had let go of this feeling, but it has resurfaced, and how. 

I will write something here today that I have never written before. I'm pathetically and miserably conscious about my hormonal hairfall. Not that I haven't dealt with it before. It's been following me since my teenage years. The time I began menstruating. The hormonal imbalance I have had since also explains my "stable" mind. It has worsened over the years. It has always been so emotionally scarring when someone looked at my scalp with a look that said, "Oh, is she balding already? Isn't it too soon for someone her age?" Or when they say it out loud. Or when they tease you in good humour. You then bury your confidence in an unretrievable, dark place. 

My hand have gone cold even as I'm writing this, because it has always been difficult for me to even think about it, let alone write. Sometimes I look at people who have extremely thin hair and wonder what it would be like to be them. At least my situation isn't that bad. Why am I so conscious that even if someone as little as looks in the direction of my hair, I feel like hiding my face somewhere. 

I remember once I had asked my brother to draw my sketch. And I had not liked it. Not that he didn't draw a good sketch; that he did quite well. He drew me as I was. But what I saw was—my ugly self, with bad hair, jowls due to excess face fat, unshapely eyebrows, small, bespectacled eyes, and my shapeless, lumpy body plopped on a sofa. There was no problem with the sketch; the problem was the way I saw myself. I realised over the years, I never truly felt beautiful—internally and externally; even when I dressed up. Never trusted compliments, even sincere ones. 

It's so disconcerting to see a bunch of hair falling from your head once you comb, or your shiny and visible balding scalp if you stand under a bright light, or how it affects you so easily when someone even mentions hairfall or balding or even does harmless teasing. I never let my hair loose in public during my teenage years. I still don't. Never experimented with them because I was always so horribly conscious. 

Not that I have never had thick hair before. I had really thick and nice curly hair until I got my period. 

Whenever I see myself in the mirror, I am either scared or feel disgusted. Whenever I see myself in pictures, the first thing my eyes see is my hair, and if the angle is bad, it breaks my heart a little every time. I obviously don't speak about it to anyone. Keep it to myself. I wish I could simply not give a fuck about it. I wish I wouldn't be so shit bothered about it all the time—when air brushes against my hair in an autoride, or when I stand under bright lights, or to consciously not leave my hair open in public, or to keep checking my scalp and correcting it every time I am in my office loo, or not wearing helmets or caps or bandanas because I may have to remove them and that would make my hair damp and flat, or getting my hair wet in the rain to avoid from my scalp being visible. 

It's been years now, and I'm so tired of carrying this feeling with me all the time. I really want to free myself from this emotional burden. Some day, maybe I will. Some day, hopefully, I will stop giving two fucks about this.  

I don't know why I'm doing this, writing all these thoughts here. Maybe because I want to avoid therapy and bare my ugly soul to a stranger who may or may not judge me or understand me the way I want them to. But here it is. I wrote something here today that I have never written before. And trust me when I say this—I'm shaking right now.

sisyphean shitfest

My mind went into hibernation mode over the weekend. I spiralled into that vegetative state again, where I lie down on the couch, blankly stare at the TV, and consume dark and disturbing TV shows or movies to find some comfort or fill the never-ending emptiness that my mind is so conditioned to dwell in. 

I eat my emotions, fatally binge on junk food like it's the end of the world, or the better food which N gets for me, drink water, put my plate aside on the table before me, slide down to my right side by taking support of the cushion and watch the most bingeable horror, thriller, or disturbing show—which according to Netflix—I will love. I don't wash my soiled fingers after eating or clear the dishes; I lie down and continue watching TV, ignoring how crusty and sticky my fingers have become. I don't cook, or brush my teeth, or scrape my tongue, or comb my hair, or shower. I simply lie down, stare blankly into the screen, and hope to escape into the landscapes, homes, and reality that those TV characters live in. Some of these stories I follow, some I don't.

Took me three days to recover from this state. This heaviness appeared out of nowhere, like a huge tidal wave, and dissipated just as quickly. I had to make my grandma fall ill for that; how else would I've been able to take leave from work? N was naturally pissed. I don't blame him for putting up with me. Rather, I don't know why he does it at all. Still got no clue. 

I don't know what's happening with my mind. I think I'm genuinely losing it. Despite no other problems, I don't know why my mind only looks for darkness, the velvety blackness and the embrace of the dark. Like, I find some weird sort of comfort in it. Like, it embraces me without judging—the only place where I can bare all my skeletons and romanticise my pain, and also get away with it. No one to stop me from spiralling into this unchecked vortex of self-pity. 

I don't know how to explain it to N or even to myself. On the surface, I'm leading a peaceful, uncomplicated life. But within, my mind is singeing with a rage so demonic that I might as well do something hilariously fatal. This fire inside my mind never douses. N has been pleading with me to get help. But somewhere I feel that I'm punishing myself by not getting it. Maybe I deserve it. I will burn in hell anyway once I die, but why not punish myself while I'm alive and put my mind through a Sisyphean shitfest?

Signing off now, just came here for a minute to dump these feelings.  

close shave

I almost died this Tuesday—without me even trying this time. 

I was attempting to jump onto the overcrowded Virar-bound train during the peak hour to reach home sooner, but slipped as I tried to hold on to the rod. I don't know, maybe my survival instinct kicked in and I thought to quickly get to my feet as the train jerked to leave. My left leg would have gotten dragged along with the train if I had stayed there longer. With women around me yelling and panicking as if they were the ones hurt, one of them helped me stand up, and I managed to get on the corridor ledge. 

As the train started, the panicked ladies asked me if I wanted to drink water or sit inside. 

"No, I have to get down at the next station," I said calmly with a soft smile as if I were responding to a regular question. 

"Are you hurt?" 

"No, I'm fine. Please don't worry, thanks."

"You should have waited for the next train. Why jump like this? You could have died!" 

I nodded and smiled.

And the ladies went on about their business—watching web series, responding to a text, speaking to someone on the other line, and so on. Their concern dissipated as quickly as it came, and I became a regular commuter to them, standing ahead in the line blocking their way to get down.    

In all this, the one thing that bothered and surprised me was—why did my survival instinct kick in? Why? 

It's not like I never imagined myself being crushed under a train or pondered about how it would feel if I jumped in front of a fast train. Was I scared? Maybe or maybe not. Well, that didn't stop me from imagining further—how it would have been if that woman hadn't helped me get onto the train or if I hadn't had the will to stand. Maybe my body would have gotten stuck between the platform and the train? Maybe I would have been partially handicapped? Who knows? 

I told N, and he was like, "Why do you do this?" and then he moved on to doing his things. I guess he didn't get it properly, or maybe I didn't explain it that well. But I'm glad he didn't make much fuss out of this.  

Anyway, I still don't know how I feel about this. I'm still bothered by why my survival instinct kicked in. Just dumping my thoughts here because I don't know where else to. But I'm grateful for it.

the w-day

I remember thinking that the day mon petit frère gets married, my life's purpose will come to an end. Like, I'm living on this planet just for that. My tormented mind will finally breathe a sigh of relief as le frère will tie the knot by the end of this month. So far, I have been hanging in there; emotionally, at least. Trying to eat clean, consciously not overeating my emotions and feelings so that I don't cause any trouble to la famille and ruin their happiness before his wedding day (w-day). 

I'm so exhausted. Really. I tried all sorts of things - looking good from the outside to feel good from the inside, reading books, consuming horror content, participating in walkathons and marathons, eating clean, starting my day with a positive thought - everything that supposedly should give my perpetually melancholic mind a serotonin surge. But this all feels temporary. The moment I start something (anything) positive to cheer my state of mind, it soon reverts to its functional morose state—like the boulder Sisphus carries up the hill only for it to roll back down.   

N has been trying his best, too, to deal with my feral mood swings. He has perfected the wobbly walk on eggshells. I don't want that. I hate myself for it... so much. I have even started hating to see my reflection in the mirror or the way I look in the photos. Why doesn't talking to someone about these things come so easy to me? I see people talking about their problems all the time. How are they so comfortable, and I'm not? I do talk about it here sometimes, but it feels like I'm talking to a wall. Only if the wall could suddenly jump to life and hug me once. I might just shatter into a million pieces. 

I feel the moment mon petit frère manages to settle down in his life with sa nouvelle épouse and all, I will consciously or subconsciously let those thoughts invade my mind again without interruption. I do sometimes think of the dive from a high-rise, how similar it would initially feel to that of the rollercoaster dive, only that it would be the last dive of my life. Or my bones cracking like the bubbles we burst on a bubble wrap, or my brain squishing like a fruit if I come under a bus or a train. Anyway. For now, I'm really looking forward to the w-day. Who knows what's in store for me in the days that follow.