The Midlife Crisis of the Lost Generation — The Immigrant Children Post Indian- Pakistan Children

After the partition in 1947 when Pakistan and India were subdivided and my Indian ancestors had to take refuge in the territorial land still fought for Kashmir, one of my earliest memories is of that of my Great Grandma, God bless her soul — she was over 100 and slightly delirious, or better phrased still in hope that she will be reunited with her brothers and family (the Kashmiris thought the partition was temporary and they would eventually return home land…sadly 70 years later that has not changed and Kashmir is just as worn torn as it was back then but there are some misconceptions — no shooting at civilians and they lived happily and harmoniously with each other

1947 Post WW2 when we sadly lost so many that fought for our country combined with the Industrial revolution Pakistani migrants predominantly from Mirpuri — Kashmir were invited to Britain found employment in the textile industries of Lancashire, Yorkshire, Manchester and Bradford, cars and engineering factories in the West Midlands, and Birmingham.

They left their home, because of a chance of survival — it wasnt ‘I have a good life here and it’ll just enhanced if I go the Uk — they came from an indeginous community that would have died out eventually from hunger and poverty so a ticket out for all its sacrifices was sad but justified — they are going to do this for their children sake so they can have a better future.

This is that child, your child that you left your homeland for a better life — a dysfunctional 38 year old whose worst nightmare (experienced a few days ago) is losing Fifi…that inner child that comes in a form of a bunny — albeit shes from Harrods, the inner child the emotional regulates me, validates me and soothes me. In good times and bad, there is only one constant…Fifi. She presents hope, she helps me validate that my feeling matter — I can’t sleep without her or go anywhere with out — Fifi Adventures — different page.

With compassion lets ask the question — what happened to this 38 year old woman who from the outside lives a life most of us can only dream of. She doesn’t work more than 6–8 months a year, earns more than most people do in a year and the rest of the time she gets to live quite literally all over the world, two weeks ago I was a in a Chateau in France and now i’m in Bordeaux on a one way ticket — I live the life of a trust fund child (but shes not) who sees money as insignificance — like monopoly. I have no desire to own materialistic things, my self worth is not connected to a job/career (my father took the chance of me even attempting to be happy away from me), I fear commitment or any kind of romantic relationship because of the fear of rejection or eventually the truth behind the perceived persona of she is a truly special girl who has so many admiral traits and even her non admiral are more endearing than irritating. The unconscious programming directly by my wonderful parents is that I am defected, diseased, flawed and just not good enough- It’s like buying a Emerald cut pure diamond store which you admire and then one day you realise its fake or its flawed, only 70% clarity..you see imperfection and you express dissatisfaction and it’s never the same again.

This could have been avoided if all they did was love, show me affection, cuddled me, appreciate my talents acknowledged my passions and when they saw me happy, they would happy. Never would a day pass where I would have had to equation do they love me? Or what’s wrong with me, why am I so unlovable?

I’m created with anxiety and once in a while, like a full moon comes a thunderstorm ‘which I just have to ride it out’…my life we are talking about not the weather forecast such a joke…I am too scared to open my curtains and I’m too scared to face the day — If I keep my eyes closed for long enough…then it won’t happen, clutching on to Fifi like she is my oxygen supply or more appropriately my vagus nerve. How unfortunate that wherever I go I will always be that little inner child who never felt safe or good enough — well that’s not be the case anymore.

My feelings matter and I matter, last week when my thoughts trailed down suicide — but I redirected them to a midlife crisis — I realised why despite living this life of melancholy always on the pursuit of happiness, suicide has never entertained crossed my mind — I’m not actually depressed, I have been depressed in the past and I clearly tell you whilst there are elements of questioning your insignificant existence I’m far from depressed. I am quite the opposite rather the fire of incineration of depression/suicide….a divine spark has been ignited me.

I cannot fathom the idea of killing myself, not because its scary, not because of the fear of the after world or ‘oh no what’s going to happen to them loving doting parents of mine whose daughter left the planet before them’, there just won’t be a void or validation that my feelings matter. I can see my funeral right now…is my mother crying because she’ll miss me, or is she crying because she likes the attention? I tell you what she’s definitely not crying because it was her and her husband that created this..she's telling everyone ‘she was always depressed to her equally emotionally thick friends’ (I need to get Gabor Mates Unadultered Ghosts written in Punjabi)

As more my father before I took off the delusional lens or reality — I thought heart attack, death, nothing less his most cherished daughter has left the planet, how will he live another day? That man is going to schedule 1.5hours out of his diary to attend your funeral and he’ll probably bring his work files with him. He isn’t going to cry and won’t understand the empathy and sadness of those amongst him that do cry — he’ll try to comfort them ‘You shouldn’t think too much, it’s bad for you, it unfortunate but lets move on’.

The day I lost Fifi and I hit rock-bottom and didn’t know how to carry on, but I found my purpose. If them two morons dismiss my death just like they’ve dismissed ME my entire life I’m not letting them get away. For the 100,000’s of tears that I shed I want them to shed at least one, I want them to listen to me, I want them to feel the pain and suffering I went through. I know their brain is trying to protect them from the emotional trauma they suffered and this is their coping mechanism and for a very long time I though I’d come to terms with that but I haven’t.

I will write and I will write, because they may not want to hear what they did to me but it comforts me that we live in a world of empathy, love and emotional awareness and I’ve found my passion to live, expose them two morons and the impact it has on what society and also share my adventures of living on 6 continents — I’ve now entertained middle aged so writing articles on Medium about the psychology of the brain and the lost generation from the India/Pakistan partitions.

I wonder what my Indian ancestors would think as they look down at me, puzzled… “Is she unwell? Is she expecting?” Why wouldn’t anyone want to wake up in the morning? As I telepathically speak to them, sending a message to my grandad: “No, Great, Great Grandad, I am in a distant land, a place of dreams and opportunities that your descendants call ‘paradise on earth’. Yet, your Great not so great grandson isn’t akin to you and your unique tribal indigenous societies — and his wife the woman who gave birth to me but was never a mother is critical, commenting on my weight, lack of property, absence of a spouse, deeming me a failure…

Thank you reading, I look forward to your comments and I hope to write soon.

Until then Fifi and I will enjoy one note croissant :) 😊