An ideal family, is like a pod of peas. All peas in the pod grow together, they draw the same nutrients from the Earth, live under the same roof and stay in close proximity of each other. There’s a Mama Pea, a Papa Pea, and three or four baby peas. They don’t have separate rooms and washrooms. They don’t have money issues. Mama and Papa Pea tutor the kid peas at home itself. They also share equal responsibilities. It’s a cozy place to be.
An Indian human family, is not like a pod of peas. All peas in the pod do grow together, they do live under the same roof, they do go to the same school. But things are different. Mama human is subjected to malice by Papa human’s Mama. Papa human usually doesn’t do anything about it. Kids of the family are Mama human’s responsibility, while to be a bread earner, you’d have to be a Papa. It is alright for a Papa human to often beat up the Mama human the the kids. But they can’t do much about it. After all, it happens in every other Indian family. Best not to question it. Papa humans are often reckless and lure their kids with materialistic goods to make them feel he’s always around. Because obviously, when he’s not around, he is busy getting his liver exfoliated everyday by 100s of Pipers! The kids are always devoid of his attention and wonder why other fathers always make it to Parent Teacher Meetings, or how other fathers don’t beat up their girls with hangers and belts. But it’s okay, because Mama human says, only one parent usually does it all anyway. Life goes on. The kids grow up, go to other cities to study and Mama human is stuck with Papa human. There’s nothing in the world that Mama human didn’t do for Papa human- but people don’t age as fine as wine. They become more abusive, egoistic, arrogant and hurtful. And that’s how the story continues. Mama human then dies in a few years and everybody wishes at the funeral, how she deserved better.
Let’s change the end a bit. Shall we? Thank God, my Mama human had a house on her name so she was able to gather all her courage, swallow her pride and do away with him.
Wow, I feel so light after writing all this. I’ve been trying since June. I really have. Making turning things into a poetic format helps?
Coming back to the topic, I’ve not been okay. I threw myself into a new venture, let it engulf so every pore of my body is immersed into something new and I forget how I’m feeling, for a while. I don’t think I was sad about the separation. If anything, I was so supportive, so proud of my mom. No one should have to go through years of pain just so they can ‘live’ the normal, according to this society. I have these bouts of immense sadness where I keep crying for days. The last one was in June and I’m going through one right now in September, hoping that writing will save me just a bit. While the world goes on, writing articles over articles over what an over-fucking-achievement it is for someone like me, to start something to help people, I can’t help but fathom how I’m unable to help myself. I started therapy but my therapist says I don’t know how to talk about myself and how I’m feeling. Can I please show her this blog post the next time?
I used to believe that if I absolutely shut myself to feel anything, it’ll just pass and things will get better. For a while, it did work. But it’s not anymore. I just want to hold on to someone for a night, without letting go off them. I want hugs. I want a bit of intimacy and I just want to feel better.
How our families fuck us up as individuals, is something we understand while we are getting older. How we react to the changes is upto us, yes but these are deep rooted problems that keep coming back to the surface again and again. And they stand in front of you and ask you to deal with them. Because, when this periodic depression comes, it just comes and stays for days. It doesn’t leave. It doesn’t let me eat. It doesn’t let me sleep. It ties me up on a chair and places a large mirror in front of me. The physical ache is not from those imaginary ropes that are tied around. It’s actually physical pain in parts of my body.
Too much information, eh? Living with it isn’t fun, I’ll tell you that. How are you? Are you okay? Did your family drama ever fuck you up a little too?