Saturday, 13 June 2015

My dears...

You gave birth to me.
You raised me.
You give me money.
You try to provide me with everything that money can buy.

Because that's enough for you.

In return, I try to appease you.
I get good grades, I work myself as much as I can.
I get the prizes, the medals, the trophies and the certificates.
I get praise from everyone who knows me.
I do everything asked of me.
Everything which seems to entitle being a good daughter.

But nothing seems to please you.

My faults, my crimes. Let me list them.
I talk to boys, I make friends with them :
They address with a familiarity you cannot abide.
I do work that I will not be applauded for : I do donkey work that is beneath your status.
I make friends with girls who are "loose" :
Whose parents accept boyfriends and going out alone in buses.
I use language and words instead of numbers and science :
I teach myself new things, oh the horror of the unknown.
To top it off, I get ill so much, you think I'm faking the pain:
To get out of exams -
Which I ace,
To get out of classes -
Which I love,
To get out of doing my "work" -
Which is all that I ever do to the point
That I can barely sit and eat at night
Before crashing into bed and oblivion.
To get *attention* -
Which I do get to the point I'm searching for anonymity.

My dear parents.

You damaged me.
Reasons I am unable to explain now.
Reasons I am unable to forgive anymore.
Reasons I find myself hateful.
Reasons I find myself ill in your very presence.
Reasons I see myself in the mirror and...

I hate. I hate. I hate. I hate.

Not even a lizard falling on me upsets me now.
Maybe you'd understand the significance of that one day.

But I hate.

My dear parents.

You're such loving, kind, caring people to the rest of the world.
You're role models with an exemplary family of brilliant minds.
You excel at whatever you touch and grow money out of trees.
You are *so nice*.

Yet your daughter is so damaged that she can barely look at you in the eye.
Your daughter identifies herself with the worst of the worst, the lowest of the low.
Whenever she finds a way to start loving herself again,
She loses it all.
All her castles fall down.
All her bridges burn down.
All her forests go up in flames.
All that is left of her washes away in waves.

So thank you.
For isolating her, for doubting her, for trying to destroy her individuality.
She'll just leave you see.
I left, didn't you see?

And there is no coming back from that.

Goodbye means goodbye, my dear parents.

Goodbye.

Saturday, 6 June 2015

Touch me

I must admit, the one thing which people here do so freely, touch, is something that I cannot bear.

The touch of my parents repulse me. The hug of a loving aunt repulses me. The helping hand of a caring uncle repulses me. The kiss of my sister repulses me. The casual touch of any friend repulses me, especially if I'm not prepared for it.

I cannot bear being touched if I'm not mentally prepared to accept the touch at least 20seconds before hand. I jerk away and offend them or worse, hurt their feelings. I don't even like touching others in the form of a hug or a kiss. It takes a lot out of me to do it, to share myself in such a familiar way.

Yet your touch. Your touch, I seek.
I feel it like a warm bed of grass on a spring day. A fluffy blanket on a winter night.
The ratty piece of fabric I must cling on to so that I may sleep in the middle of a blazing summer.
The cold, soul numbing feel of the thunderstorm welcoming monsoon into the country. I feel your touch like second nature. Even if I don't see it coming, I feel its comfort the moment your hand lies on my shoulder. I don't jerk away. I don't pull back. I don't feel scared or repulsed.
I love your touch.

But only yours. I don't see germs creeping up my skin when another touches me, no. I don't feel a need to wash myself either like an obsession. I just do not...like it.

But you, your touch makes me feel complete. It feels like the other half that I had been so desperately trying to find.
You hold me like I'm the most precious thing in the world. You kiss me like there might not be a tomorrow.
You touch me like I'm you and you're me.

Touch me.