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Coming Out Of Vertigo

I’m really enjoying the company of books and my plants. For the first time in my life, these don’t feel like temporary or even like escape from the loneliness between men. Because I’m realising my times with men have been my loneliest. I know I’ve probably had bad luck in this regard. I also believe it’s not really luck  because factually speaking, I live in a time and culture where my prospective mates are created and encouraged to be irresponsible, misogynist and cruel. To look at it mathematically, my chances of finding a man who is not these things and also matches my exacting standards of intelligence and values are slim. Knowing how things stack up against my being single and giving male humans what they want at any cost, this is average not bad luck that I’ve faced.

I don’t know where I go from here. I’m not sure I believe in the institution (legal, social) called marriage anymore, considering how badly skewed it is against my gender. I’ve also realised that I’m looking for love, for that special spark that makes one person stand out from the hundreds of others who also match up on those compatibility factors. And this is something that happens by the kind of chance that my knowledge of mathematics cannot predict. There’s no going looking for it; there’s only being open to the possibility of it happening.

There’s a comfortable peace about accepting all of these. I won’t say there isn’t pain. But that’s like old wounds that ache in bad weather. Stressful or tired times bring up bad memories. But there is even a comfort in knowing that these are old memories, a certain sepia-tinted peaceability in the knowledge that these situations have been lived through, thought over, labelled, addressed in the best ways I could and now must only be lived with.

I think I’ve always been this person, only I didn’t realise it because I was too used to living obediently according to the kind of moods and dreams I was supposed to have. I struggled to explain how this state in my life, whenever I went through it, was not misandry (or ‘man-hating’ as the people around me like to say). How can this be hate? These are the only times in my life when the dramatic, acid emotions like fear, rage and hatred don’t seem to touch me. In these moments in my life, I live in a world of pastels and soft, instrumental music and easy, comforting food. This time round, I don’t even feel the need to explain it to the ones challenging me because truly, they don’t matter.

I’m able to enjoy songs about heartbreak without feeling overcome with emotion. For the first time in my life, I’m starting to glimpse what they mean when they say sensitivity is a strength, not a fault. I can see the nuance of grief, the depth in heartbreak without being in pieces. It feels like being able to stand at the edge of the world and look into the darkness and say hello old friend, I hope you will find peace some day.

Peace, that’s all I’ve ever wanted. I feel it in the company of my plants. I have never felt it in the presence of another human being. Instead, my delicate, treasured peace is constantly disrupted and shattered by other people, most of all by romantic associations – my feelings undeniably a big part of it. It’s comfortable to have feelings that are like moonlight on a serene pool. I don’t know if and when they will be shattered by an enchanting voice or an engaging look. All I can do is feel gratitude for what I do have right now. And that is peace and contentment without a man.


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Scarlet Woman

I am in heartbreak.

It’s a crack down an old wound and it hasn’t festered so that’s good. But it still hurts.

It’s a lesson, I tell myself. I’m struggling to learn it, though. I started this year resolving to learn gentleness, be gentleness and already I have broken that twice. I have lashed out, I have let my words, my worst, most potent allies run ahead of me. And then I smashed it.

But I’m realising I’m Scarlett O’Hara pining for the virtues of Melanie Wilkes. Well, I’m not a character in a book set in whatever script has been laid out for me (please don’t talk to me about the frightful sequel). But for now, the way to gentleness seems to lead me further into my own raw, animalistic, volatile nature. I must embrace it, I must accept it. I must stop suppressing it or it will burst out again as it has these two times. And I cannot have that. Fire must be tempered.

There was goodness. I got to do things that I have been too cautious, too fearful to do for years. One notable thing was writing for him. The first time I ever wrote for another person was over a decade and a half ago, for the person who first told me my writing was special. He hurt me and then he turned my writing into a trophy Both hurt me in ways I could not articulate then, the second must worse. I never wrote for another person after that (or at least I’ve never let them know). But that’s limiting, isn’t it? Love, affection, pain, anger, rage, jealousy – each of these are colours to be expressed and my palette is screaming oil paint. I wrote something I really like. And I think the person it was written for, liked it too. Pretty sure he did. 🙂

Now, I realised most men cannot handle this. I think I burn most men out emotionally. At least the kind of men I’m drawn to, the brooding introverts, the shy thinkers, I imagine they have depth but even they don’t seem to have enough. Well, they are mostly paper and straw; they go so easily. Still, there is hope. Maybe this man was not meant to be the one hearing my words. If there are words created and a mind to build them then there must be the ears and heart to receive them too, somewhere in the world. Someday, I’ll meet someone who is warmed by my fire instead of being burnt by it.

Till then, bright red words will drop from my fingers and my lips for everyone and everything in this world. Because that is how I am.

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*If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

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