KTHT Challenge Prompt
So the Story Was Really Not About Me
And what a relief that is to know!
For the longest time, I thought it was my circus, my monkeys. I simply assumed things about myself without stopping to rationalize or think. Maybe it was the circumstances or maybe it was how convincing people were. After all, when we grow up with people who are loving, we can be so naive. And I believed what they said.
Love is love. But sometimes, love is neatly packaged in someone else’s views and beliefs that they expect you to absorb and base your values on. They literally shape you and you reach a point where you just don’t question it.
In my case (I see you impatiently gesturing, come to the point, woman!) I was influenced by my aunts and uncles growing up. They were kind, they were nice. During my childhood, I truly appreciated them and their influence. I was grateful that my mother found her cup of peace.
And then, it began to happen.
My own story began to evolve because I had a rebellious streak.
I started to question everything.
When I was asked to do follow the norm, I asked why.
When I was reminded about what others would think, I asked: so what?
Good girls were seen and not heard, right? Oh, that’s very much in force even now in orthodox families like ours.
Also, I had a “special” situation — my mother was a single parent. Not from choice, but because my father chose to walk away just before I was born. He went abroad to pursue higher studies and eventually remarried. I have a sibling, I believe. Past emotions do leave an imprint, don’t they?
As a result of being “abandoned”, mom and I had to bear the brunt of many emotional blackmail attacks, all delivered under the guise of “love”. We did not even realize what was happening. We were never allowed to truly grow.
My blood boils when the memories rush in because no matter how many times I tell myself I am over all that, my subconscious mind sneakily brings those memories to the fore especially when I feel down.
Being told . . .
— that I would never clear the exams when I moved cities in the middle of the academic year in college. But I did. And also won a silver medal for excellence.
— that I would never qualify for any job except maybe as a typist at the bottom of the ladder where I could probably hang around until I got married off. I quit my corporate career at 33, as a regional manager, managing two states.
— that I should be satisfied with marrying whoever “they” chose for me. I ran away from home to prove a point and of course, faced the music when I came back.
“They” always stopped us from spreading our wings. When mom got a great job, they talked her out of taking it, advising her instead to stick to the low-paying job in a city we did not like. Later, we realized this was a plan to keep us there, “serving” them, while their own children were allowed to follow their dreams and passions.
Of course, I reacted by getting a job transfer and convincing my mom to go with me, hoping that living in a different city would temper the torture. It did, to an extent, but the emotional blackmail continued.
Decades later and after my mom passed away, I was so filled with regret and grief that I wanted to lash out at everyone who controlled us. As I walked on our terrace, I would recall and reminisce over incidents that should have been forgotten, incidents from which I should have moved on. Maybe that’s why we need closure. I never got any. I was filled with frustration at the thought that all those people who ill-treated us just got away with it.
As I poured my heart out, my partner advised me to write it all out every time these feelings overwhelmed me.
As my mom rightly said,
Diary writing is far more than a way of exorcising one’s unhappiness. The effect is extraordinary. Distanced on paper, troubles shrink to their true size. You can regard them objectively and see how temporary they are.
I began to heal, slowly but surely. Distanced on paper, my memories did not seem as painful, probably because so much had happened in my life since then. I began to realize that the hurtful stories in my head were not all about me — they were mostly about other people. It was just a burden I was carrying around long after I should have set it down.
The more I wrote, the lighter I felt. I heard my mother’s voice in my heart, urging me to focus on the present moment. That advice was easy to follow. In a way, I have the pandemic to thank for that. We have lost so many close friends and family members.
The lesson I learned? We cannot know what tomorrow will bring. For our own wellness, why not clear out that emotional baggage and focus on what we have right now? I need to always remember this:
When writing the story of your life, don’t let anyone else hold the pen. — Rebel Thriver
The truth is, we all carry around certain experiences in our hearts. Sometimes they hurt us more than they should simply because of our perceptions. Why not take stock of these, look at them objectively, and give them the boot, if possible? We deserve to be happy!
Thanks to the editors Diana C., Ravyne Hawke, jules and Spyder at KTHT ❤
Here’s a loving invitation to Sujona Chatterjee, MN and Donnette Anglin to share their response to Diana C.’s prompt: In what ways is the story not about you?
Vidya Sury, Collecting Smiles ❤ Did you smile today?
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