There's a leaf trapped in the crevice

Changed my t-shirt. Changed my pyjamas. Changed my cushion covers and removed all the dead flowers. They were really dead and they were making me feel really sick.

I keep looking for things to nab and fix. I also look for things to blame my miseries on. It has to be something else other than me at all times, right? I can’t be the reason for all my debilitating sorrows, right? That's not very poetic.

I coughed a lot for like 10 seconds today and thought “will I cough blood now?”. The next thing I know I’m looking for symptoms of bronchitis. “But I don’t even smoke. Maybe once in 6 months. That doesn’t count, honestly.” After convincing myself that I have some form of bronchitis, I was now searching for blood in my phlegm. I coughed once and then once again and was looking for proof. I didn’t find any. I kept thinking it has to be there otherwise what else explains my depression? It has to be the blood in my cough. Or the irregular heartbeat at times. Or my blood pressure. It has to be some form of deficiency.

Panic is a very regular state of my existence. I panic a lot and then a little more. I need to panic to reset my system before scrounging for solutions. I am convinced almost at all times that I have a terminal illness and once they find it, it’ll explain everything.

I was not a sad child. However, it would be very poetic if I were because then I could write poems about how I stared at the tree for hours while my friends played football. On the contrary, I was around a lot of trees growing up but I wouldn’t be staring at them. I climbed them. I am quite good at climbing trees. So one can say I was a happy, chirpy, loud and pretty ridiculous child. I could settle group arguments and understand complex emotions. I would cry a lot. That hasn’t changed. But then, I would also laugh a lot. Make others laugh and be the child who is never tired of a joke.

Puberty did me dirty, though. That’s what I’d like to believe because what else could explain these episodes? I haven’t left my bed in days and I am looking for the meaning of life while looking out of the window, staring at a tree, not climbing it.

This sadness, oftentimes very realistic sadness, has been a part of me for years now. I partially lied about the happy child bit. Technically didn’t lie because alongside happiness, I was also a very sad child. I would notice things a lot and be sad for others. I could sense detachment and needed a lot of hugs from friends. And then there was anger. Lots of it. Sheets of rage piled on top of each other. I am still hunting through them, looking for the light.

This is all a bit blue, I know. But I have to talk about my blueness because I don’t know what else to do with it. I could wrap myself in it for years and you would still think I have it all going well for me. I can perform. I have been performing. For myself and others largely because I am tired of receiving pity when all I want is a hand that holds me.

I have an itch. This needs to make sense. Something else other than me is responsible for this impending doom I have convinced myself of. I keep thinking of getting tests done so that they could find a vitamin deficiency that has been plaguing my brain and they will now get rid of it and I can finally hold happiness at the ends of my eyes.

See, that’s the problem. It’s not that I don’t experience happiness. I am just too cynical about it. I have experienced it in absurd abundance. Happiness has swallowed me whole on certain mornings while I perfected dosas. So has grief. So has rage. So has fear. So has my sorrow and self pity. I wake up with a version of me waiting to be attended at the end of the bed. I wear costumes and perform. Who am I? This sadness can’t be me for I have tasted glory and gleam. This happiness can’t be me for I have begged for life to give me one more chance at being alive. This rage that has consumed parts of me feels like a big portion of my wholeness but it doesn’t define me for I have heard my silence and basked in it.

Am I love? Am I peace? Am I anger? Or am I grief?

Something has to explain this because the child in me is still running around looking for answers. I couldn’t find blood in my cough because there isn’t any. I know no terminal illness is going to kill me. But I fear my sadness could. On some days, even the joy I feel makes me fear for my life. I need to get back to the child with answers. She doesn’t get tired. She keeps nagging. She knows joy and she understands despondency. These days, I have curled up in my bed and she stands next to me. “We used to play. Will you play with me?”. I told her I’m sick. She said she’ll wait till I’m better.

She’s right here, waiting for me. Her and I, staring at the same tree.

Love,

k