#3 Dear me! Letters to Myself: Coming of Age

Image Courtesy: Shoma Chakraborty

Dear Life,

This is my third letter to you.

I now start my day thinking what to write to you because there is so much I want to tell you. My head is full of reasons why I must thank you. I wonder why did I take this long to start?

This morning I remembered myself as a kid in school. I laughed thinking how I used to pray in the assembly hoping teachers would forget that they had given assignments if I had forgotten to complete mine, and how mostly my prayers were answered. I thought I was a lucky little girl.

How I wish dear life, that I had not squandered wishes away on unfinished assignments. I didn't know then that the genie only grants a limited number of wishes and we must ask for them only after careful consideration.

Nothing had really prepared me for sudden adulthood. Least of all, school or college where I was protected, cherished and given wings to fly.

Then dear life, came my violently ushered coming of age. It was sudden.

I woke up from a pleasant dream kicking and screaming with tears streaming down my cheeks to find that I was an adult who was untrained to deal with the real world. It was scary and I had no mechanism to cope with it.

Shame, loss, betrayal, illness... You name it and I had it shoved at me. In one stroke, my life was - I thought - ruined.

It was nothing like the lovely coming-of-age movies I had grown up watching, where, pretty boys and girls in beautiful dresses and hairstyles went through small confusions, overcame them and lived happily ever after.

Mine was all blood, sweat and the nasty realization that some people really hated me though I had given them no reason for it.

It was while flailing down a dark hole that I encountered others who were concerned and reached out to pull me back. I was so scared that I didn't know if I wanted to be saved. Did these people really want to save me? Why? Was it pity?

Eventually, I learnt that just like haters, there is no accounting for people who love you. There's no formula for this.

Thankfully I had you. My most trusted confidante. You were patient, understanding and allowed me to vent out my feelings.

I knew that you did not pity me.

You let me cry.

You helped me understand my pains, the reasons for them and gradually made me let go of my anger.

It is your most precious gift and I cannot thank you enough for it.

You stood with me on the shore of a friendly sea in a busy city. when I just said, "I give up my anger and pardon everyone who has wronged me!"

How I laughed and chuckled and jumped that morning. The gentle breeze fanning my spirit to soar, There was nothing weighing me down. I was free. Free to be an adult.

It was my most liberating moment and I can still touch the feeling as I write.

Thank you, thank you and thank you again.

With anger out of the way, you took me by my hands and pulled me inside. You showed me my heart. You introduced me to my spirit. You helped me put on my wings again and fly.

You also taught me to be kind and generous and to open my heart to other people and to help them.

I think that was a smashing gift! I know, 'smashing'! Funny? No? But, it was. It smashed all the boundaries around my heart.

Thank you for making me a better human being by allowing the light to pour in through the cracks of my shattered self worth. You made me glow with that light, put a smile on my lips and kindness in my eyes.

I now know that people spend a lifetime or a lot of money on cosmetics to get this look.

Thank you dear life for being my guide!

Love,

Shoma

Image Courtesy: Shoma Chakraborty

Writer's Block

It happens. Not often. But, I do suffer from it.

The dreaded, 'writer's block.' It hits like a ton of bricks and turns me into a mundane everyday person. No gossamer threads of stories weave webs of intrigue in my head. I see no patterns, observe no emotion and the sky refuses to melt me with it's vast-heartedness.

I become, mud. I become, ash. I become everyday.

...And I hate being numb. It makes me lose my appetite and even puts me off reading.

It makes me feel tired. It makes me feel unloved. It leaves me with massive headaches and I often end up spending more than I earn - seeking solace in retail therapy.

I guess, some may call it depression. Others may liken it to the loss of a loved one.

I guess, they would be right.

It is bleak. Often very lonely. No characters pulling me by my hands and taking me headlong into a strange world. I feel bored.

I crave ice creams and Chinese takeaway.

I feel heavy and even tired. All sparkles stolen from my eyes.

So, I had to write how I feel when I cannot write.

I had to put it to words.

I had to think in written sentences - just to check if I can still string and weave magic from 26 letters of the English alphabet.

I took refuge in photography.

I wrote some half-hearted poetry but, that was not writing.

It is not really the magic my heart craves.

Poetry is feeling and it was sad. Well, mostly.

I want a happy outlet.

I cannot meditate. My mind is full. 

Music gives me headache.

Smiling hurts.

So, I wrote this post, hoping for catharsis.

...And wishing - this too shall pass.