Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome back to my humble abode, my own little corner on the internet.
So, in the past couple of months (let’s start from January 2017), I’ve officially started the third last semester of college, given a bunch of exams, fallen sick (I’ve been sick since December, but things got pretty bad around mid March), hospitalized twice, and now, three days later, I feel like I’m me again. Needless to say, it gave me a whole lot of perspective, if not anything else.
Well, that’s technically not true, because there’s a million medicines I need to take for the coming whole month, but let’s focus on the perspective part first.
Since the time college started, I was very wary of everything, but also very aware of all the things that could go wrong. In retrospect, I find that that has been my default setting for as long as I can remember: worry first, solve later. And, honestly, it’s the worrying that led me to being hospitalized for five days, twice.
So, while I’ve realized (a little too late, apparently) that worrying doesn’t solve anything, I also wrapped up quite some stuff while I was lying in bed in my ward, drunk on morphine (side note: me and morphine? Not a good combination at all, unless you want to get ugly truths out, or maybe sabotage my property or something).
I talked to so many people I’d fallen out of touch with, and/or couldn’t really be frank with unless I was not thinking clearly (hi, Jatin!), and let’s just say that all the ‘unfinished business’ I’ve raved about since, well, forever is now well and truly, finished.
Letting go has never been my strong suit; I crave control, especially in relationships, no matter how big or small they are. Which is a fabulous plan, if only I’d paid the same amount of attention to myself, just listened to myself a little bit more. So, ever since my body went on strike two times in a row in the span of a week, I had no choice but to listen to it.
And boy, did it have stuff to say.
One, my mind was fried. Like, scrambled-eggs-fresh-off-the-stove fried. It was just tired of the worrying, and most of the reasons for the worry were much, much smaller than what I’d pegged them to be.
My heart, well, we’ve all established over the past two years that my heart hasn’t been in great shape, but it’s tenacious like me, so it held on. Needless to say, I spent the most time healing it. I’ve smoothed out every crinkle that has ever marred its surface, pulled out (almost) all the pricks and thorns that have dug their way into it, and just started listening to it more. For all my talk about following your inner voice and doing whatever the hell makes you happy, I haven’t really been living up to all that.
I know what you’re thinking: ”You’re one stupid person, Snigdha.”
Trust me, I don’t blame you, and neither do I have anything to say in my defence.
And while letting go hurt like you wouldn’t believe, it was extremely important to do so. Believe me when I say, there’s no feeling in the world that hurts worse than sharing something (or someone) that you weren’t sure was yours in the first place.
Now, with everything behind me, I have learnt a lot, but let me just say this: pain shapes everyone into a warrior, and that’s great, but sometimes, you need to set the armor and the sword down, and be a healer. Heal the people you are with, take their pain away, but also, remember to heal yourself first. Be a warrior, sure, but also be a healer.
On a completely unrelated note, here’s me making goofy faces to the camera because I was absolutely feelin’ myself today morning (yeah, the morphine still hasn’t quite left me):
Also, did I mention I started writing again? Yeah, picked up on this idea I’ve had since a year and a half now, but was waiting for a divine spark of inspiration, I guess? Well, I found it. Leaving you with a snippet:
Some people are not meant to be in your life for the entire length of it; they are travellers, and your life is a mere stop in their grand journey. However, that does not make their influence on your life any less earth-shattering, any less mind-blowing than it already is.
If you asked my mother the story behind why our family was the way it was, she would probably just smile, then shrug, and then sigh with a faraway look in her eyes, and say, “we are just all very different people.”
This would have been as good a reason as any, except that when it comes to family, differences—no matter how big or undeniable or unfixable they are—don’t matter. Or, at least that’s what I thought.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have six exams to study for, and mom’s birthday to plan.
Miss me while I’m away.