The Dam That Burst

By now you might be wondering about why I chose to start writing again, after a little over 7 months. I could have just as easily created a new blog like the last time, and gone on to write about this deeply personal life of mine in complete anonymity and peace, where no one would ever know who I was.

Or I could have taken a whole half a year to analyze what I wanted out of writing this blog… what I wanted out of life, and the universe.

And everything.

Let me tell you.

There was one very real reason why I decided to stop, and it involved an element of “fearing for one’s life,” as writing in this country about your no-no parts is a no-no thing. Once I stopped though, the first few weeks were kind of relieving. I didn’t have to force myself to write about things I wasn’t comfortable with sharing anymore, seeing as I’ve met with a few of my readers.

About a month later though, I was itching to write and tweet again. Writing was cathartic, and the only outlet I had was to write in my personal notes, and that never was very useful for me.

There is something very satisfying about releasing your thoughts out into the world and have people ask questions and talk about it. I learn, and I grow from interactions with people who read my musings.

But then there was this impasse, really, with me never being able to move on from ex boyfriends and other things that have happened to me over the years, mainly because I fall back upon the past so easily to cover gaps in any conversation.

I lacked originality in what I wrote, because I kept repeating myself endlessly, and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

And when I figured that out, of course, everything became infinitely worse and I had a major meltdown earlier this year, during which I was briefly hospitalized and given some powerful meds that helped me regain lucidity.

It was as if I had been sleeping for months, and hitting rock bottom again was refreshing… like as if I was stone cold sober from ducking under icy water.

With that newfound clarity, I decided to cut off unpleasant and toxic relationships, burn all the useless memorabilia that I had accumulated over the years as a plus one to every guy who’d said he loved me, and deleted hundreds of incriminating, and also, irrelevant photographs.

Since then, ironically, life had thrown me for an unexpected loop, where I have had to travel nonstop.

Till I collapsed.

Or to be specific, started to get tiny little seizures that puts me in standby for minutes at a time. I didn’t really notice it until one day I was on my bed trying not to stress out about another event where I had to speak in public, and zoned out.

I had the worst back pain from being locked into a very uncomfortable position, and for some reason, I had the vague feeling that time was going by rather quickly. I shrugged it off - it felt like déjà vu - I thought it was just me zoning out.

I still had thought it was odd, but went on to do the presentation the next day. Nevertheless, I flew out that weekend to get it checked out. Halfway through that flight, I passed out and only came to after we had landed.

Very distinctly remember taking off though… as I am a bit of a walking-talking cliché on airplanes.

The thing is, I like to make a huge fuss about catching a cold or having a headache, but I get really afraid of talking about big stuff, and a seizure is right up there at the top of that list.

So even though I should have, I hadn’t told anyone at that point… neither family, nor friends or colleagues.

In retrospect, it is incredibly lucky that I didn’t have an episode while I was driving, because I tend to go really fast. Maybe that’s because driving is something that soothes me. The driving-really-fast part is because I am an impatient person and also a bit of a speed demon.

All in all, the hospital was not a pleasant experience. At the end of a couple of days of tests, needles and MRI machines that sounded like I was in the belly of Optimus Prime, I ran twice, once to the next nearest hospital to get a second opinion, and once to the nearest bar to get wasted as quickly as possible, and hobble back to the hotel, threw up and hit the bed.

18 hours later I woke up and got back on two flights all the way back home, which gave me ample time to re-evaluate everything in my life up to this moment.

Imagine a car ride in the rain, where some melancholy music plays, and all that you see and hear is your entire life flashing by, all the while the car idly winds up the one way road up a gloomy hill.

And that’s why.

I wanted to write again… for better or for worse… because life is too short, and I just got reminded of how short it might be. Although I am hoping (truly, madly, deeply) that it’s not all that short.

I still have to deal with the crippling fear that I am not a good enough writer… that I lack focus… so many malicious things that my subconscious (and a few detractors) keep telling me.

But in a real sense, it’s a lot like learning to play a musical instrument… learning to let go.

And I may have to hurry.

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