I started this blog thanks to Rob to get rid of this ache in my heart. For me writing is cathartic, yet I do not get a lot of time to write, I’m working on it.
To get a hang of stuff I read my journals for the first time. I documented stuff during my teen years; I used to have this lump in my throat and the constant pain in my chest, writing erased my pain. I didn’t have the strength all these years to go back and read my journals. Even now as I read my journals I have tears in my eyes. I can still feel the pain. Sometimes I’m like the third person reading my journal and thinking Fuck did I go through all that. A few things I wrote still holds true till date.
I was dreading writing about this phase in my life. My childhood is one thing I can deal with. I’m not so emotional about it, but this grown up phase is brutal, prior to this I lived in HOPE. Hope that one day I would be rescued (I liked thinking I’m a damsel in distress and a knight in shining armour riding on a white horse would come and rescue me) and when the bubble burst, it was like a slap on my face and I knew there was no one coming. I had to rescue myself.
Reading my old diaries takes me back to the younger and virtuous me who lived in an ideal world. The amateurish writing, the scribbling on paper all reminds me of the girl I used to be and I compare her to the woman I am today. I like the girl more than I like myself today. I had innocence, and I had hope. Today I have none.
During this time I was in a rebellious phase and had stopped feeling guilty about upsetting my mom. I realised that she was an insecure, self-obsessed person who had no empathy towards me and we didn’t connect on any level.
The smallest of goodwill gesture would overwhelm me. I remember the first time a guy gave me chocolates because I was a good friend to his girlfriend; I was so touched that I kept the chocolates as a souvenir until my mom found it and before throwing it out accused me of sleeping around with the guy for them.
Initially, as a kid, I used to find this talk bizarre, for mom kept nagging me about how men would shower women with gifts and then use them. There were times I used to get hurt by these accusations, it was only later I realised that my mom worked as an escort, so she feared I would follow her footsteps. However, her actions and words could have been better.