Sunday, April 22, 2018

OCD

When it arrives, it gnaws at your insides, it pokes your brains with a pitchfork and all you can do is surrender to the devil inside. The heaviness weighs you down and you feel like crawling on the ground. But you can't as the world is watching. It makes you do things, it forces you to look at everything with a glass tainted with pessimism, with the fear of the worst waiting at the corner to happen if you don't abide. You decide to fight, you want to be brave and face the devil but all that is simply wishful thinking. You accept the defeat, and let yourself being dragged around in the field of irrationality like a rag doll.

You check everything thrice, you check the locks thrice even though you can see that it is locked. You check the gas knobs thrice even though you know that you have turned it off. Then come the repetitions.Reading a line three times, touching something three times, the intrusive thoughts of accidents happening to your loved ones, a heart-attack or a stroke to your father, something happening to you wife or to your son. The fear, then the panic and then your dark memories break you from inside.  "What if I have left it on and it would result in a fire? What if I have left the door open and the house gets robbed?What if my loved ones are hurt because of me? Will I be able to forgive myself? There won't be anything left to regret about!" The "What if"s kill you, hurt you and lacerate your soul. And you keep on doing what is stupid to the world but rational to you-because it is for your loved ones.

Oh the frustration! The pain, the throbbing brain, the heart pounding behind that veil of fear, anger, guilt and a self that is humiliated by self. But you are a part of the society that runs on acceptance. If you have to live, you have to survive you have to be the part of the machine and so you pretend that everything is fine. The tears that well in your eyes, that anger that burns you from inside, that disappointment that how no one gets your suffering, you hide everything and you carry on, pretending that things are okay-every fucking day. In fact you have learned to live with it. You have accepted it as a part of your body, like a wound that you don't know how to heal.

It hurts the most when you try explaining everything to someone and that someone finds it too trivial, too normal a thing, or worst brushes it aside like it's a nonsensical whim that is better to be ignored. You wish you could tell them that it's not a tic in of your brain but it's a medical condition, that it's incurable and that medicines don't work but it's the acknowledgement by your loved ones that could relieve the angst. But then you realize that the someone isn't not equipped to understand you. You wish you could scream, "Why can't you read about it over the internet!I have it and it's real for God's sake!" But you decide to keep quiet. You in fact help that someone to brush it aside and you pretend that the devil inside is gone. Deep inside though, you know, it's just sleeping inside to wake up, yet again and play it's dirty games.

I don't think that a Doctor has the cure. Sometimes it's not the cure to the pain but simply the acknowledgement by the people around you that you are suffering is enough to quell the intensity. I know people around me will understand someday, but until that time all I can do is just write about it. 

Sunday, February 4, 2018

I will write

I will write for I believe that I can hide you, the way you have wanted me to sometimes. I believe that one day I would make you breathe in my words and let them flow in your blood and then may be you will learn of the silence that lurks in the pages of my diary. I will write not just for myself but for you as well, for us, for our tomorrow that would someday like to flip through the pages of our yesterday. Our conversations, the intricacies of our mundane lives, our words that somehow don't make it to our lips but escape into thin air and linger in the room along with the smell of our bodies. I will write for those deep,dark nights after those long weary days,the hurriedly flipped pages of the magazines, our wishes strangled by the EMIs and monthly expense lists, for our closed eyes, sewn lips,shivering tongues and limp bodies. I will write for the times that have threatened to slowly walk into the arms of the days that wish to be forgotten.
I look into the mirror and find the white strands of hair standing out with the incivility of the mirror an ageing man. Something scares me then, the feeling of desolation, of abandonment, of being left behind by everything and everyone rushing along with the ticking clock. What am I going to leave behind?Not for others but myself, something that I would come back to once I grow old. Or may be you would like to come with me, ask me if I had saved something from the past that we could savour together, something sweet or bitter. What will I return to when there will be no more going ahead but looking back every now and then to feel alive?
And then I decide that I will write.