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Knotted stomach, tired mind

Family, people,
No alone time with him
Anger ferments into love

Arrive near and dear
Disconcerting disconnect
Will it ever end?

Seeking harmony
Too much, too fast, too early
Perfection.

Categories: diary, family, poetry

Deception

April 29, 2009 Leave a comment

The worry is still in my heart, scratching away
At the very lining where love should be, to my dismay.
It’s been two days now, forty-eight hours is long
Rest awhile worry; you have nothing to feed on.

I tell myself this each time he lies, “tells a falsehood”,
“pretends with intent to deceive”, “says the untruth”,
“distorts reality”, then says he’s been misunderstood.
I tell myself he cares, he’s just regressed into youth.

But I know I’m fooling myself, much as happens when
I tell myself he wants me to achieve, to succeed, to win.
No matter what he’s done, no matter if I get ahead
He lets me believe best wishes are all that’s in his head.

I know that’s a lie too. My missing the then-critical
company presentation on campus was atypical
I know I bite my lip a thousand times and sit and hush
When I want to talk about flying, to crow, to exclaim, to gush.

I always knew he’d push away my plans to travel – and not
in the way I do, directly, but slowly – using intrigue and plot
I knew he’d be not too different from others that begat him
They believe they and all women, ought exist at their man’s whim

But I know, and have spoken often about the destruction
that is wrought in my heart with falsehoods, with deception.

For if it is this easy to pretend to have started when not,
To lie about an accident and be certain he wont get caught.
Then what’s stopping more crucial untruths, the evilness
inside from coming out and finding a permanent address.

When he doesn’t have the best intentions for me, and does
not hesitate to hide the fact, what keeps me safe? Because
all that stays true is my trust. When that is asked to leave,
again, and again, to stay back means to just self-deceive.

Categories: diary, family, poetry

Depression

September 12, 2007 Leave a comment

Apparently depression is more dangerous than Diabetes, Asthma and Arthritis.

So I should be worried. More worried, in fact, than I was all of last year, when the whole illness thing was upon me (oh, yes, I was ill, and for some six whole months – we made acquaintance with many varied members of the medical community in this city). It had been nice then to talk about random symptoms to doctors who couldn’t for the life of them figure out what was wrong with me, and I reveled in the attention. To re-live it, I had:

  • A continuous low-grade fever (which I attributed to missing P on his long Canada trip)
  • Weight loss (I went from 140 lb to 95 lb; I celebrated so much, of course, at P’s cousin’s wedding when my darling women-in-law went literally green. Weight issues are so critical to them)
  • Night sweats (I remember throwing off the sheets in Dublin and sleeping near-naked next to a snoring P and two other semi-patient strangers)
  • Day chills (when I would load myself up with more sweaters and jackets than the average TV mom would demand of her ‘beta’; and of course with all that we couldn’t really walk around much except go eat lunch at a vegetarian-friendly place, which almost always turned out to be Indian- or Indian-influenced).
  • Fatigue. This last was embarrassing, and I could only think about my grandmom. When my granddad and she go out, she routinely walks some 10 steps behind him, and not out of respect for her husband, but because he simply refuses to walk slower and she cannot walk faster. She decided at 15 that she was going to be ill most of her life, and has suffered one illness after another till this day.

I remember times last year when going to the next-door Publix was a long, well-planned ‘evening out’ and I’d come back exhausted. I remember not seeing the car P bought for three days because I couldn’t get up and walk out the front door. I remember days when P left home for work in the mornings and found me exactly in the same place when he came back, not having moved all day, not even for food or water. I remember him loading the Container Store nightstand (one of our first purchases) with a fruit, water, a tic-tac and a book. I remember always leaving the book untouched because I was too tired to read.

So, that was fun; at least it wasn’t Lymphoma. But to get to the point, all that is not totally in the past. In the last few months, I’ve relieved the same existence. And not out of physical fatigue – no, I drive, I walk, I talk loudly, and I do have energy when needed. But other days, like this past week, I’ve stayed in bed – all day, every day. I don’t eat because I don’t feel hungry, I don’t talk to anyone, I do not go out for days on end. And I feel guilty, useless – considering I’m burdened with the paradox of being a fiercely feministic housewife, my life’s strings are all neatly tied up.

So when I read the news article about depression, I took a few of the 3 zillion depression-self-tests. Guess what, I passed (or failed, depending upon how each one was framed) each one of them – I’m clinically depressed. You gotta love this century, they have a name for everything. That does really make it easier to bear.

I’m going and getting St.John’s Wart tomorrow.

Categories: diary, family, food, general, health, P

We don’t want to be ‘liberated’ – II

March 30, 2006 Leave a comment

The parallel here is, of course, P & me. When we were to get married, P, like any normal, sensible, self-respecting man would, refused to accept any dowry (not that any was ever offered to him. Would be interesting for him to have tea with the Mad Hatter, who offers things that are not there. And P refuses things that are not offered). Obviously, in the traditional parochial community that he hails from, this was a radical move, and one that was held up with great pride + consternation. His family may be the less conventional sub-species, but it is still a radical move to not give/take dowry, and one that was much-whispered about. The only respectable way out, at times, was to cite my family’s inability to pay (“they’re in service, not in business, you see, and it would be such a burden on her parents”. Pshaw!!)

So now, after our wedding, there’ve recently been two other weddings in the immediate circle of relations. And both times, the men have been very alright with accepting with open hands all that has been given to them. P and others have tried to speak to them, to help set an example. And the only way the argument could’ve been made was by making P a hero, as someone who’s great and bold and special, a pioneer. “See, he’s not taken anything from the girl’s family”.

My way of looking at it is quite the opposite – the only way to get a long-term sustainable solution is to mark the opposite side as ‘odd’: “oh, they give/take dowry”. But to start off the solution, we’ll need to make the normal very special. So we put a red bow on P and market him.

Unfortunately, it didn’t really help.