Sunday, December 29, 2013

I can be my hero, again



"I'm a damsel. I'm in distress. I can handle this."

Melancholy is a very seductive enchantress. Victimization is so mind numbing that one knows not when and how one has plunged into the depths of it and is now addicted to the sedation of regression. The reverie of getting back up after having fallen down again is a clever mistress that doesn’t let you go till you are its slave and don’t want to go.
Love, added to the mixture, makes the concoction highly dangerous.

Love, hence, has its side effects too if one knows not how to rise with love and is content with being a passive recipient of it, as most women are particularly likely to be. I say the first part out of my personal experience with unbelievably intense love that besides making me experience heaven, slowly led me to forget what it was like to be my hero. And the second part is derived out of my understanding of the impact of our cultural symbols and motifs on women.

The whole process is so subtle, particularly if one has a source of unconditional love to fall back on no matter how small the issue is or how many times one has already made a call, that one barely notices all that melancholy drags down with it. At the end of the day, no matter how much one is egged on to stand up and no matter how lovingly one is helped to stand up, one keeps falling time and again due to the sheer lowering of the threshold of frustration tolerance that has taken place somewhere in the process. 


I tell my love today "just see how strong I'm gonna be from now on. I'll make you proud of me. I'll be like before" And even before the day is over, I have resisted calling him some ten times and finally give in and take it all out with another crying spell. Am I depressed, I wonder. That can't be, for I'm supposed to know depression; I study psychology. I tell my love that I'm ashamed of myself and secretly fear that I'm losing my mind. But he lovingly applies a band-aid on my ruffled self and I make another determined promise to be strong. In the lap of sleep, I lay my anxieties to rest. In the series of horrible dreams that I have been having since some months now, the next day tops the chart. I analyze it through and through for what it could mean (we have just finished psycho-dynamic therapies in class). That only worsens the matter and my hunch that I'm losing my mind is stronger. I let my guard down at one point and am less discerning of my listener. Somebody prescribes me an anti-depression tablet and diagnoses my problem as stemming from lack of spirituality. I die a little, again. I confided to the wrong person.
And, if one has seen oneself as a warrior of light for most of one's life, then it's not hard to imagine the beating one's self esteem must have taken. I am practically drowning.

And the only way left for me now is to go up.


Analyzing my state of mind has not led to much. I have only drowned in self pity at what I have become. I'm no longer a person of action, no longer harsh on myself. I'm no longer my hero. Yet I analyze some more, and this time, with brutal honesty. I am ready to admit that my obsession with my love could have contributed to it too.
I realize that have taken on the role of damsel in distress after my love re-entered my life and drowned me in love, making me come face to face with my hitherto un-recognized need for love and pampering. I have loved fairy tales since always but only in the last one year did I get to live a fairy tale, as well as my childhood, that I had never lived because of being the archetypal eldest child that is never considered a child. I have vented all my deepest resentments and taken out all of the latent hostility buried inside in the safe, containing, I dare say therapeutic relationship provided by my love. I have been given the opportunity to be cleansed but I guess I have loved bleeding so much in the cleansing process that I keep holding on to the remnants so that there is some more work to do. Knowing that there is not even remote possibility of male chauvinism entering the picture, I have let the feminist in me sleep and have acted more like a toddler than a woman of substance I like to think myself as. I have let down myself.
It's high time I reclaimed my self.
And I know what I need to do.


I promise not to fly to the bed or the phone when I’m in distress. I’m simply gonna write about it and better understand it in the process. I’m gonna resurrect the blogger in me again.
I promise not to dig up my past in order to better appreciate how much I’m understood at present by my love. I’m simply gonna believe that I deserve to be loved so, as he keeps telling me, because of who I am and how much I love him. I’m gonna love myself again (and this time not as a defence but as true valuing of myself).
I promise not to keep comparing my present with the golden years I had so recently lived that lasted so short. I’m simply gonna go with the flow and do my best. I’m gonna be my hero again.
I promise not to brood and die some more when I fall the next time. I’m simply gonna get up before even I myself notice. I’m gonna be brave again.


My new year resolutions, yeah. Why wait for two more days to get up when every pore of your body is dying to, eh?