pihunoxious

[pihunoxious]

Some days I’m just too tired to exist. Some days I don’t want to see people and I don’t want people to see me. Some days I just find it too hard to pretend to be a part of something, to act like I’m myself. The worst part is, some days I don’t even realise it until I do and then it hits me like a wall of bricks. Can someone tell me what do I do on days like this?

[pihunoxious]

Reporting diaries: Making a difference

Dreams do come true. Ever since I was in high school, I knew I wanted to be a journalist. I knew I wanted to give voice to the voiceless; share stories that get sidelined or ignored because they’re not important enough; because that’s just how things are.

I remember the first time the idea crossed my mind. I was on a train by the window and I saw a woman cooking on the roadside, trying to make the best of her given condition, trying to light her make-shift stove despite the wind. In that moment I knew I wanted to make a change in lives of people like her.

It has been a decade since then. I have seen and been through all kinds of things - personally and professionally. I have had my highs and my lows, as a writer and as a journalist but what happened after my reporting assignment takes the cake. I went to the location, took some photos, talked to a couple of people, recognised the problem, came back home and filed my story. I was told that there is no story there. It saddened me, of course. But I figured it was poor reporting on my part. Or maybe it was my naiveness and inexperience thinking that people living amidst a heap of garbage is worth paying attention to.

That was Tuesday. On Thursday, I find a tweet from Greater Chennai Corporation saying that they are cleaning the place along with a photograph of the exact same place that I went to. A response to my tweet that I put out paying no mind to, just as a part of my assignment. I was ecstatic. This was why I pursued journalism. Knowing full well that I might never make a shit load of money but maybe, just maybe, I will be able to make a difference in people’s lives. Maybe because of me, a woman would be able to open her windows to get fresh air and not smell garbage first thing in the morning.

[pihunoxious]

Reporting diaries: Panguni Peruvizha

I've never been one to believe in idol worshipping but visiting the Kapaleeswarar temple for the Panguni festival made me understand why people do it. I like going to old temples to admire the beautifully carved architecture that has stood the test of time but that's all I go there for. I'm not saying that I'm an atheist. I'm saying my God is beyond bricks and stones.

I looked around the temple, I saw multiple devotees bowing before the deities, waiting in huge lines, barefoot in the scorching Chennai summer. I must say, the dedication is commendable. After talking to a couple of people there, I got out of the temple and started walking in the opposite direction not knowing what I was about to witness. I had read about the annual car festival and that was what I was at the temple to cover. But I was absolutely clueless as to what it was. I was so clueless that I actually asked my auto driver on the way to the temple about the festival. I saw an ocean of people. I heard trumpets and drums and people chanting at the top of their lungs. And there it was. A chariot, at least two storeys tall, adorned with colourful paintings of the gods, telling a tale in themselves. I had never seen anything so overwhelming in my entire life. I saw devotees lose themselves at the sight of Kapaleeswarar and Karpagambal as if they had come down to earth in their true form to honour the devotion of the locals. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the chariot. The fear of catching coronavirus was lingering, I wasn’t sure if it was my sweat or someone else’s sticking to my body, but I wanted to stay. For a moment, none of that mattered. All that mattered was a chariot of the gods was being pulled by their disciples to seek the blessings, the devotees waiting hours in the heat for the lord to show up. I think more than the idea of worshipping idols, it is the devotion of the people that moves me. Thousands of people believing in one power and dedicating a day in their lives—if not more—to that power is what moves me.

[pihunoxious]

I’d feel so at home If I was trapped in a room Full of people who were weeping Some grieving the dead Some grieving the living But all crestfallen I’d tap on their shoulders And tell them that Life is a bitch I’d tell them that They don’t have to go That they don’t have to feel better Ever We can all just sit there And try not to fix each other We can all just sit there And try not to fix each other We can all just be And no one here will judge us No one will tell us that Our sorrow is resentful That it doesn’t belong That our tears irk them We can all just sit in a room Cry Grieve the dead And grieve the living

[pihunoxious]

There are things I don’t know

Like what’s it like to type on a typewriter

What’s it like to watch the rain pour and not run for shelter

What’s it like to love with nothing holding me back

What’s like to tell someone how I feel and believe them in the first go

When they say they love me too

What’s it like though?

All of it

What’s it like to wake up in the morning and be happy

To not feel like I have to drag myself through another day

Of pessimism and countless imaginary deaths

What’s it like to feel fulfilled and know what I want for the rest of my life

What’s it like to die and not be dead

What’s it like to hold someone’s hand and never let go

What’s it like to just be without a care in the world

I wonder what all of it feels like

To not feel with such intensity and abruptness and drama

I wonder what’s it like to not be me

[pihunoxious]

It's 5am and I'm on the rooftop crying. So many things went wrong today. Maybe it's the PMS or maybe it's my inability to deal with life. But what do I do? I'm just so tired all the time. And I feel like nobody gets me. And I feel like an idiot because I can't convey how I feel. I can't tell my boyfriend how his ex bothers me - even if I've never met her, even if she doesn't even know I exist, even if she's a thing of his past. I can't tell him that even though I hate listening to him mention her, I want to know her. I want to know what they had. I don't want to pretend like she never existed. I can't tell him that everytime he jokes about me, I get anxious and insecure and restless. I can't tell him that I'm always scared. I think he will never think that I'm enough. I love him. I do. And I don't want these trivial things to cause trouble between us, but I'm writing on the Internet again and that's not good. Again, it could very well be the PMS, but I don't want to be one of those chicks also. Who throw tantrums and then blame it on their body. I don't want to. It's my fault and I take full responsibility. I'm just sad is all.

[pihunoxious]

My mother now knows the hospital too well. Like how you would know the way to your childhood home like the back of your hand. She knows which guards are mean and which guards would let somethings slip. She knows what Waiting Area is for visitors and what Waiting Area is for attendees of patients in surgery. She knows where she can and cannot sleep. She knows the corridors to go to when she’s feeling too cold. She thinks of my father’s nurses as her own children. She notices when the cleaning ladies are wearing new sarees. She’s made acquaintances with other attendees, with this daughter whose father was getting operated, with this son whose father’s cancer kept coming back and with this wife whose husband was in the ICU with my father. She knows tricks of sneaking people into the hospital so that we can visit her sometimes and give her strength. After almost a year at the hospital, she’s learned a lot of things – things that I pray no one ever knows. Nobody should know the hospital like their childhood home.

[pihunoxious]

So many things running through my mind, so many things that I can't decide. So many emotions I'm caught up in - trying to be a good friend, a good daughter, a good sister and a good employee. Some know it like the back of their hand, but not me. I take time. I take time to absorb every single word spoken towards me. Some make me happy, some don't. But all of them make me feel; all of them run down my spine, through my nerves and into my head. Some days I understand, others I don't. Some days, it's too much. This feels like a relapse, but I know it's always lurking. They say that it's not failure, but isn't it? I failed to keep me emotions in check, I failed to recognize them and now they're all over the place. I don't want to cry at 1 PM thinking nobody loves me; I don't want to cry at 4 PM thinking I'm alone; and I certainly don't want to cry writing this. But it hurts and what else can I do? I'm tired of feeling so much for things that don't even matter. This is not who I want to be. I just want to be able to take care of myself without feeling like I'm betraying everyone else. I just want to be able to tell people I'm exhausted without letting them down. It's been a while since I've hid everything, but I guess it's time. If I do any further, I might just take my own life. I know you probably didn't need all of this negativity in your life and I'm sincerely sorry for that, but it was important for me.

[pihunoxious]

Finally Clean

I can’t believe that I spent six years with someone who did not even try to know me, with someone who thought they knew me and loved me when all this while they were in love with the idea of me being someone else.

I’m sure when we first met you never anticipated this. You didn’t think it was that big of a deal. I don’t blame you, I didn’t think too. Hell, I thought it was just going to be a fling. And maybe this is why it lead us here, to a dead end. Maybe we should’ve been more careful, maybe we should’ve thought this through if we were going to be together long term, but we didn’t. We let it pile up until it was more than heavy for both of us to carry. We carried on a fling for six long years, tell me how is that right? And I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, everyone should try. How else will we find out if we’d find ‘the one’ for us? So yeah, at the end of the day, I don’t regret it. I’m glad we shared this journey.

Like every love story ours wasn’t perfect either – we had our own shares of ups and downs, some that scared the shit out of both of us. But we didn’t give up; we brushed them off and carried on. It amuses me how we let it get to a point of no return and still didn’t see how bad it was. It’s like you stab someone and don’t see the blood on your own hands. You’re just sad that they’re dead now. I get it, though. Sometimes, in the heat of the moment you don’t realize what you’re doing and it’s only natural. But when it happens every time, you get scared a little bit. “What’s wrong with this person?” “Why do they not see what I’m seeing?” “What is wrong with me to still want them?” Let’s be honest there is no logic there to explain. And at times, it does drive you crazy to try finding these answers, but there is only so much that you can do. So you let yourself be crazy.

You wake up thinking every morning that maybe today will be different, but everyday they find a new excuse to hate on you. “Why are you wearing this?” “Why don’t you put make up on?” “Why are you hanging out with them?” “Why are you so skinny?” “Why don’t you help me running errands or household chores?” You’d think that one day, you’ll be close to what they want, but you never do. You work on yourself, but no one cares. You try being a supportive partner, saying all the right things, doing all the right things, but it’s never enough and it eventually leads you to falling out of love with that person.

Being 100% honest tonight, I saw this coming since a very long time, maybe a year or maybe more. But I didn’t know how I’d find myself without you or who I’d be without you. But I also knew that I had to love myself more than that. I bared my soul to you, my whole childhood and you did everything I asked you not to. You brought things up that made me anxious, you said things that gave me goose bumps and you did things that could’ve killed me. All I ever asked of you was to express yourself, tell me how you were feeling so I could help you through it. Instead, you do what all stupid boys do – shut yourself and everything seem like it’s my fault. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t, but you knew how much this pattern scared the shit out of me and yet you continued on for years. I don’t understand how you still expect me to be with you and how do you not realize what you did. Maybe you thought you were helping me out with my BPD, when in turn you were just being a catalyst to making thing worse.

You said you cared for me, but it wasn’t anything that nobody else could do. Years from now, I’m not going to remember how you woke up every morning to make sure I got my lunch, but I sure would’ve remembered if you kissed me goodbye every morning and asked me how my day was every evening instead of me doing it; I would’ve remembered if instead of you playing games every night in bed, you slept by side and talked me to sleep; and it would’ve been so much better if you didn’t try to turn me into someone that I wasn’t. I gave everything I had to you – my love, my sanity, my days and my nights and this is what I get. Empty. I wish you knew me better than that. I wish you tried to figure me out in these six years which you decided to take me granted for. I loved you with all my heart, I wrote poems for you that you didn’t even understand, I gave you chances that you didn’t even deserve, but that’s it. I’m done.

I was willing to try till the very last moment, you were not. You thought that things will fall back into place like they always do. But I’d had enough and you just wouldn’t listen. I’m not asking you to change for me, I’m asking you to change so that maybe someday someone else can fall in love with you the same way that I once did. I always say this, and I’m saying this again. You’re a good person, but you can always strive to be a better one. Cut yourself some slack and understand that you can make mistakes too and it’s okay. It’s okay to be vulnerable and letting out. It’s okay to mess up sometimes and learn from it. I am not the same stupid kid, I was six years ago; I hope someday you can grow up too.

[pihunoxious]

“Soon enough, you’ll find a home on this mighty planet.” But how could I? Wherever I go I will still be trapped inside my thoughts. Swimming in the ocean, I drown in my depression; looking at the mountains, I see my anxiety towering over them; in the woods, my emptiness wraps me tight; and everywhere in between is me and my hyperactive brain. There is no such thing as a ‘home’ when all I live in is my web of constant worrying and going completely numb. You can change what I see, but it won’t change how I’m feeling. I can be sipping the finest wine and still be worried about how I might lose my mind any time; I can be wearing my favourite dress and still worry about the judgmental eyes. There is no such thing as a ‘home’ when where I go or where I live cannot alter a single thing as long as my mind is gripping my hands. I have tried living in seven different places, hoping maybe I could find peace in at least one of them, but it doesn’t work. Life doesn’t work that way. I might live in a mansion someday, and I’d still cry my eyes out about how nobody will ever like me, how I will be always alone. Maybe it will be that mansion where I’ll put a bullet in my head. You see, ‘home’ cannot give you happiness if you don’t find it inside you first.

[pihunoxious]

I hate that every glance that I steal from other’s eyes, I assume that they’re judging me.

I hate that every time someone says something on a group chat, I assume it’s directed towards me.

I hate that every time the girls laugh, I assume that they’re laughing at me.

I hate that every time someone honks in the traffic, I assume that they want me gone.

I hate that I feel too much and I hate that I think too much.

I hate that there’s so much inside my brain and absolutely nothing comes out.

I hate that I get hurt so easily.

I hate that I know anger like the back of my hand.

I hate that I hate myself so much.

I hate that I have so much bottled up and no way to let it out.

I hate that I like being alone so much and I hate what the feeling does to me.

I hate that my life is such a wreck and I hate that I have turned it so.

I hate that my brain turns me against myself and makes me hate everything.

I hate that even know I know the truth, I overlook it.

I hate that I believe in the lies.

I hate that I’m so tired of myself.

I hate that I can’t get myself up.

I hate how my brain functions and I hate myself for not nurturing it better.

I hate the emptiness inside of me and I hate how it shows in my eyes.

I hate how nobody knows my name and I hate how much I like it.

I hate that I need someone to take care of me.

I hate that I’m scared to die and I hate how I’ve given up on life.

I hate the hollowness in my chest and I hate the way my head gets light.

I hate how nobody trusts me and thinks that I’m a complete loser.

I hate how nobody sees the person I can be and doesn’t give me a chance.

I hate how all of this sucks.

I hate how being in my head sucks.

I hate how they don’t see any of this.

I hate how they’re not willing to help.

I hate how it hurts and I hate how it doesn’t get better.

I hate how I’m always a nobody, an outcast.

I hate how nobody wants me around and that it’d be so much better if I was dead.

I hate how I can’t say any of this to anybody and I hate how they don’t believe in me.

I hate how nobody’s putting in any efforts, and I’d hate myself if they did.

I hate how I know everything and nothing at the same time.

[pihunoxious]

Please, don’t give up on me

It’s been a while that I’ve written something, at least something out of my own pure misery like I always do. I’m in a point of my life where I really don’t understand what’s going on. Or maybe I don’t want to. I really don’t know. But it’s hard for me, as is for any young adult who is trying to figure life, living on their own. It comes with its share of hardships and I wouldn’t blame it. It’s the way of life. What bugs me, is that I’m alone and I like it and hate it at the same time.

Anybody who knows me knows how protective I am of my personal space; how much I like being in my blanket for days at a time, not taking calls, not even bothering to turn on the lights for that matter. I go into this darkness more often than not. And it’s not healthy. Not for me and not for the people around me. It’s scary; the person I become is scary. It has made me lose people, people that I so dearly cherish, who would be willing to cross oceans for me. This is for all those people.

I thank you with all my heart for sticking around, for trying to understand the mess that I am; and I’m sorry for not letting you in. For almost five years of my life, I patiently waited for a time where I could start new in a place where nobody knew who I was and what I’ve done. I thought I could be different, my story could be different.  Nine years later, I finally understand that I never can. Because I have been the same all my life. From school to college to having a job, I’m still the same girl who has unresolved issues with herself, a girl who is so scared that she runs away the first chance she gets and doesn’t look back, a girl who wants to be a part of this world and be distant from it at the same time.

I feel like I don’t belong here, like life is a movie I’m watching, like somehow I don’t fit anywhere. I’ve tried and I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but this isn’t who I am or who I could be. I don’t fit in the circle of life.

I’m saying this today because I’m starting to catch hold of life and I owe it to all of you, to the people who tried to stay. I’m sorry that I completely shut myself out when I should have come to you, when I should have told you how I am drowning in my own emotions and can’t breathe. But I want to give it one last try. So please, hold on to me. Tight. Even when I jerk your hand or say the meanest things. Hold my head close to yours on days when I won’t speak. Wrap your arms around me when I try to hide. I’m not trying to use myself as an excuse, but to build a relationship. To build a relationship that I always long for, but resist so hard that I and you, both break apart. Talk to me on the days when I cry my eyes out and please, please don’t give up on me just yet.

[pihunoxious]

Nights and Lies

I stand there On the balcony Staring into oblivion With a cigarette In my right hand And pain in my chest I wonder if this is enough, If I am enough I stand there and wonder If I’m onto the right path If this is what I should be doing As the dark of the night Blurs into my eyes And through my brain My hands tremble With my racing heart I tell myself ‘it’s okay’ When it’s really not My chest starts To grow heavier And my mind lighter Like a dead leaf In the ocean, I float In search of land To rest in peace I float mindlessly Through all seasons Through night and day But I’m still there On my balcony With my eyes closed And a cigarette In my right hand As I calm down My racing heart I tell myself a lie A lie, I’ve been Telling forever That one day Everything will be okay

[pihunoxious]

Some days, you say it so casually that you don't even notice. Other days, you say it while looking in the mirror and crying. You say it with kohl smeared eyes and smudged lipstick all over your face. You say it when you have little left and that too starts slipping out of your hands. You say it with a gun to your head and you just can't take anymore. You say it when your body is trembling with fear. You say it when you have no hope in your eyes and you pull the trigger.

[pihunoxious]

I want you to hold me, carry me in your arms because I'm too weak right now. Weak because my soul is broken; my knees are trembling and my hands shaking. My fingers can't touch and my eyes can't see. All I know right now is that I'm crying. I'm sobbing with screams of fear. I am shut inside my blanket, lying on my bed, in hopes of being saved. I'm in my room, in my dark unlit room at night. I want to get out, but my feet can't walk. My eyes are closed and my heart is racing. Hold me in your arms and carry me. Carry me out of my misery and into your world. Save me from my demons and drag me into the light. Because I'm too weak. Weak because my soul is broken.

[pihunoxious]

How is it that I always end up feeling the same way? It’s like falling asleep to the same dream every night. How do I get out of it? How do I get this out of my head? Every time that I try to come through, try to do something better, try to make myself feel comforted – I fail. I fail every time, and I go back to exactly where I started. Lonely, anxious, upset, overthinking and crying to sleep. I guess it’s not about who I’m with or what I’m doing, it’s about me. Me being a horrible person who never gets along with anyone, who is always the one to pick up fights, to feel awful about myself deliberately. But I try. I try to fit in, but somehow I’m just not good enough. I’m never good enough. I’m always the outsider. I hate this feeling and I hate the fact that it’s starting to crawl under my skin and being a part of me. I hate how it kicks in in the middle of the day and asks me to hate myself. It makes me shiver and it makes me hot. It makes wanna pull my hair out, run, scream, hide and never come back. I want this to be over, I want this to leave me alone. I hate this person that’s become of me and I don’t understand any of this. Why is there so much noise and so much silence at the same time? Why don’t I ever have words when I want to speak? Why is there so much baggage that I can’t even carry? Why? Why does it have to be me every time I look in the mirror trying to kill myself? 

[pihunoxious]

What Happens When A Good Heart Breaks?

It’s the time when the angel on your shoulder gives up and the demon is too tired to care; when all the yeses turn to “I’ll see what I can do”; when all the laughter is turned to frowns; and let me tell you that when this happens is the end of a good heart.

No honestly, what does happen when a good heart breaks? Contrary to popular belief, there is sound when it breaks. Not exactly of the heart breaking, but what follows. The words that have been locked up dead inside are now screaming to be free – that is the sound that follows. It’s the sobbing and emotional outbursts that follow; the sound of a fast paced heartbeat in a silent room. These are the sounds that a good heart makes after it’s broken.

And honey, don’t you blame this on yourself. It’s their fault that they took your granted. They weren’t there when you needed them. There was never a yes to any of your requests. You wandered the city alone, or waited for someone to tag along. Don’t you, for once, think that this one’s on you. It’s all the people who made you this way, who bruised your heart little by little every single day. It’s all the drama in the world that sucked the sobriety out of you. Now, they want to tell you that it’s your fault?

When a good heart breaks, there’s sadness, emptiness and anger. There are feelings that can never be described otherwise. This is when you should be worried. You’ve made something so horrible out of such a good heart, you’ve brought about a side of someone that they had never seen. You really think you could escape the storms after starting them?

Fear the day when the heat of this broken heart awakens, fear the day when it catches hold of you and the day it bares your soul naked. You’ve done enough damage, and even after that you are telling me that it’s their fault? Shame on you for being so selfish and completely unaware. You were lucky enough to be touching only flowers, you will cry your eyes out the day you are stung with the poisonous thorns. And trust me, even then the good heart will come to your rescue; to heal your wounds and to make you smile. Fear the day when a broken good heart is still good, because that is how much warmth they are capable of giving. Pity yourself that you let it slip out of your hands just because you were to stubborn to ever see that.