Why does the size of our bodies make the society around us deem us worthy of notice?

 It is raining cats and dogs outside, and instead of the joy rains usually bring to my heart all I can do is fret about how I can't walk today. One year ago I went to the doctor due to unusual weight gain despite engaging in regular exercise, and not being a heavy eater, in fact I am your usual run of the mill vegetarian. After a long series of tests, the doctor, who turned out to be a kindhearted and unbiased person (she believed me when I said I exercised regularly!) told me in no uncertain terms that I had PCOS and my body was effectively working against me. She promptly put me on the required medication and, forbade me from running for the time being, as I was in my quest to lose weight destroying my joints by putting undue strain on them. Thus started my transition from avid runner to reluctant walker, and fat person to not so fat person ( I still don't meet the ideal of society accepted thinness). 

I confess, that I still run, perhaps 30 mins once a week (like an addict, I need my fix although carefully rationed), but the rest of the time I spend walking and listening to podcasts and music from diverse genres such as Indian classical, fusion music, western classical, K-pop, and rock and roll. As boring as I find walking, having run seriously since the age of 12, I find the activity much more conducive to indulge in my passion for music. 

The positives of  discovering world music aside however; I have realized how different it is to be who I am as a person now. I have seen aspects of myself and have made unpleasant discoveries about my discomfort in my own skin. I had absolutely no sense of self worth. As if being fat and plain made me invisible. I know, on a cerebral level, that I matter, however, on a deep level, which stems from my emotional self, I did believe that I was worthless. These feelings came to the forefront when after a year of perseverance I managed to lose more than 25 kgs. I could see that the woman staring back from inside the mirror looked slightly different, but I didn't feel different. 

However, the reaction of the world was so drastically different, as to make me sit up and take notice. The well meaning of course commended me for my perseverance, these were generally women especially older women, the male gaze though was drastically different. Most of them seemed to view me with consternation; they looked at me with questioning eyes, as if wondering 'was she always attractive? or did we never pay attention?' Needless to say all these bizarre reactions solidified the great inferiority complex that I seem to have harboured in my mind for decades, which I only noticed now. 

To be honest it is hurtful, my own self loathing is deeply distressing, but what made me angry was the total and utter difference in treatment by the world around me. I feel like a fraud for the pretense that I indulged in for nearly half a dozen years; espousing, what I believed were feminist ideals of acceptance and body positivity, when all I was doing was running from the true feeling of self hatred and discomfort in my own skin. Was I always so superficial? I still don't believe that I am beautiful, but the fact that I am constantly being told by random people around me that I am suddenly attractive makes me feel as if I have lost the battle somehow. As if my quest to improve myself constantly, specifically my intellect, has somehow failed. I send this final question into the void then....Why do we always feel subpar as individuals due to our looks, why is our sense of self not satisfied with out intellectual capabilities and character? 

In which I muse whether I can still call myself a 'writer'

 A couple of weeks ago I met a remarkable woman, who is doing her all to preserve and, in some cases revive the otherwise moribund traditional arts and craft scene in India. Over a long discussion about our shared interests, which included books and music in addition to art, she suddenly asked me something that gave me pause; she asked me if I wrote and all I could say in reply was state bashfully that "I'm not clever enough!".

In my last post I had reflected over the past twelve years of maintaining this blog, which I have done so in opposition to my own personal demons, and crippling bouts of depression, physical ailments and grief, through sheer stubbornness. I finally came to a realization, one that left me bemused: I no longer feel confident enough to call myself a 'writer' ; compared to the time twelve years ago when it was all I could think of calling myself, it used to be my ultimate goal even back then whilst I was a trainee journalist, all I ever wanted to be was a writer, and write something meaningful, that would enrich the life of my readers. 

I even had the conceit to address this blog to my 'Dear Readers' in the vein of literary greats such as Charlotte Bronte...... What was I thinking? Perhaps, that the dream in which my words could be on someone's dusty shelf would come true, like a self fulfilling prophesy. Like so many of my oft berated generation, 'the millennials', I too started this blog and maintained it with the hope that one day I would amass followers who would acclaim my writing as the next big thing! Alas, like so many of my peers we cannot even lay claim to being called a 'writer' as we are only self published on our tiny corners of the internet where I suspect our only audience is the great void that is modern internet. 

Still, that one question: Do you write? and my hesitant denial... made me realize how the loss of aspirations and confidence in one's abilities has replaced ambition and hope. I don't mean for this to be a downer of a blog post, however, when did I change so much? What brought about such a dramatic turnaround? Will I ever return to confidently calling myself a 'writer' ? I send all the questions into the void...I know, I may never receive a reply. Yet, the hope that I can solve my own conundrum springs eternal. 

In which I look back at the past 12 years of this Blog

It has been twelve years since I started this blog, twelve long years where I've gone from an idealistic Journalism student to a jaded woman, older but definitely not wiser. This blog began as an assignment that was part of my journalism course, and as I never ever had any readers or anybody who cared enough about my writing, this has now become a personal journal of sorts, one that I send out into the great void that it the internet in the third decade of the 21st century. 

There are many things that I have shared through the course of my journey, but I saw that most of my posts have been about my great loves, reading, music, family, life etc. Despite suffering from depression for the better part of two decades, I still have great loves you see, and dreams that are still meant to be realised..... Life is bad and can get better....but I still love life..... Rain, good food, the company of my mother, great music, recently Kpop dance videos etc make me happy albeit for a small amount of time, but I still have the ability to seek happiness in small moments in life. 

This random entry is by no means the great feat of literary hijinks that I aspired to, when I began this blog, but the ability to write a coherent sentence is something that I've come to appreciate more and more as I advance into my 30s. It is a confusing decade, that has brought about some unexpected pitfalls not related to the usual process of aging that plagues us Millennials. 

But the reason for this post is to remind myself that despite everything, I have still managed to keep up this blog for 12 whole years, which to my mind has been a great learning experience for someone like me, I see that my style of communicating has changed and perhaps become more of a reflection of who I am as a person, whilst when I began this it was more about following a given assignment with a guideline. I hope that I can keep this up for a long time, perhaps be more regular. So here's to another twelve years of writing this blog.  

Sometimes I yearn for something so ephemeral that I can't even articulate it. It is during these times that I find solace in music and reading and art. If I had a camera, a good one and the freedom to go places, I would go to all those wide open spaces where nature is at her peak. I would capture every single angle in frames and keep them with me forever. 

I wish I could paint the beauty that I sometimes see around. I am slightly obsessed with preserving beautiful thing, whether they are moments, or music or scenes. I actually close my eyes and imagine that I am on a cliff somewhere listening to the combined sound  of water and wind whistling through the leaves of the trees of a forest near me. I think it has become a kind of madness that overtakes me. I feel like I need to escape my skin and this scene is often my go to. 

I need sound and silence combined in a way. I wish I could listen to music for eons and I wish I didn't have to talk. I like the fact that in the 21st century we can do this without disturbing others, oh the joys of good headphones. 

I wish I could write in cursive and leave behind interesting titbits for posterity, alas this might not be of interest for two reason A. I am not really a good writer, and B. I don't think anyone would want to read my ramblings on page. Does anybody even read this blog? I think not, thus I feel completely at ease. It is like an online journal for me. 

I think that I yearn for love and acknowledgement. Lately, I feel that my existence doesn't really matter and that no one would probably remember me if I vanished.  In the end that's all anyone wants the beautiful feeling of being loved. 

 Feeling sad all the time has become a way of life for me. There are so many things I want to say. But I am afraid of being laughed at. Some may say I am too loud and some may say I talk too much. When did these become such a big sin? 

I used to think that there was some good in this world. Somewhere out there there must be some examples of kindness and morality winning the day. However as I grow older, I feel wronged, somehow. This past year had taught me that nothing is predictable and things may not go according to plans. However the fact that people haven't still learned to be kind; that oftentimes overlooked virtue, is making me sadder.

I know that this is in a way a very immature way of dealing with what I am going through, writing a blog post on a page people never visit, but this is the void I think that will absorb my embarrassing thoughts. The fact that I have been suffering from inexplicable melancholia from 2003 and having to wear a civilized mask ever since.  

I hope that in an alternate reality, if there is one, my other self is leading a fruitful life. That is all I can write about.  

 Sometimes, I feel like I have lived for millennia, I don't know what it is, but I have these strange thoughts whilst reading something or when I listen to a particular piece of music, or even when the wind rustles through my hair on my runs or walks a certain way.

This feeling of aching knowledge; of a particular state of being, is so powerful that it knocks my breath away. This aspect of existence is not new, and yet the ongoing isolation has increased it's appearances in my life. I know that all of us our pondering the meaning of life right now and the great philosophical question of 'what it is all for?' has taken a permanent residence in our minds. Yet, why has it become increasingly difficult to share these thoughts?

I find myself having out of body experiences in the middle of inane conversations. I can feel myself looking at who I am and finding myself lacking. I don't feel depressed precisely; rather, it is a curious state of judgement and recriminations about ones character laced with frequent bouts of loathing towards oneself and the world in general. 

One would be a simpleton indeed, if one didn't recognize it for what it was, ' a particularly nasty bout of ennui'; and yet how does one get out of the dark pit? I send this question out into the void with hopes that there are others in the same metaphoric boat as oneself.   

In the age of Pandemic, I can't help but feel the need to write in order to pass away the time. In an interview that I read recently, a famous writer talks about getting frequent bouts of 'writer's block' and the very inability to write, leads to further anxiety about writing, thus creating a vicious circle.

I am, to put it honestly suffering from a severe one. I haven't been able to write well for the past two years and this has led to a loss of confidence in my dealings with other topics. This is not to say that I am a writer, in fact I am a person who blogs occasionally, However, I have manged to keep this blog running for ten years and am actually quite surprised.

I have never been confident about my writing skills, thus one of the reasons that I feel that I continued with this blog was that I realized that no body was actually reading this, thus in a way the act of sending my thoughts in a written form into the void has helped.

There have been some humorous episodes and some annoying ones in my journey but what made me keep coming back to this blog has been the uncontrollable urge to write. I am aware that there will be times when I will sound stupid and ignorant, but this blog is a learning experience that I have decided I need, in order to be better at things in the real world.

It is my own private therapeutic outlet; only on an incredibly public forum, so I realize the irony, However it could be an interesting study of human nature. I actually read some of my posts from years ago and am amazed at my own naivete.

I hope that this may prove to be a record of my thoughts, my own Tilted view of looking at the world around me . Until the next one then........    

The transformative power of Books.

I have recently been undergoing a quiet emotional rebirth. For a long time, in fact for the past few years, I had begun to notice a slow decline in my capacity to feel; Anything really. In a lot of ways, I am still not at the optimum level when it comes to feelings, perhaps I was always emotionally stunted, or the onset of numbness is something all of us go through after turmoil.

I think this renewed onset of feelings has to do with rediscovering my reading prowess. I am quite impressed by how much I can read without distraction. My mother recently asked me about my progress and I happily informed her about the many books that I had read in the last couple of weeks.

The transformative power of a good book is hard to explain. An immersive narrative can take the reader through a journey that has the capacity to provide immense satisfaction. How I wish, life could be like that. If everyday was a new adventure, one might never be prone to bouts of melancholy.

Then again, constant adventures can become monotonous and lead to ennui; something I dread. I have yet to start reading poetry again. Perhaps my renewed interest in fiction will progress to rediscovering my love for poetry, one can only hope.

I know that books and reading is terribly personal. But I can't help but feel that the world would be a much better place if there were more readers amongst us. This thought stems from my own emotional growth. Because, as I've discovered, there is no experience as thrilling as reading a story well told. 

Sometimes I wonder about my life, I live a small life; mostly a self communing life, I wonder if I died tomorrow will someone mourn me....I know some would. But what kind of a life have I lead?

I wanted my life to have meaning. A few weeks ago, I read the news about someone's death, someone I really admired. It got me thinking, he meant so much to me even if he was a celebrity, I felt liberated watching his celebrated travel show, through him I was able to do things I wish I could and see lands I have yearned to see since the time I was little. I don't understand why reading about his death affected me so. He was after all a complete stranger, the persona he had created for himself tragically consumed him. But I have also found myself sympathizing, I do know what it is like to be consumed by dark thoughts, I understand the wave of melancholy that can suddenly hit out of the blue, and the control it takes to present a decent face to society.

I recently disgraced myself by giving in to my weakness, I showed emotion in public, something that I have been taught never to do, I wish I could take back my loss of dignity but alas, it is too late. I now feel like the walls are closing in on me. I just had to write it all down and expect that I shall recover, you see I have found that the true test of character is to be able to pick oneself up after a fall. 

I know, that this particular blog is not the upbeat post readers expect of me but for the time being I need the salvation that writing brings me in expressing my thoughts. In some ways it gives me the feeling of standing alone in a vast forest screaming at the top of my lungs. It makes me feel like I can express on the page what I can never do in life.   

When reading books becomes a solace for sadness...

Reading for me has become a solace, for me reading was always an escape. Books made me feel less worthless, I felt needed when I read books, now though, it is as if reading is the only pursuit that makes me feel a sense of self worth, I feel beautiful and powerful simultaneously, I feel like I matter and the best thing about reading is that I can live an relive feelings some I shall never feel in my life.....

I had a particularly visceral reaction whilst reading a book where the protagonists kill themselves. I felt relieved in their act of courage, I don't think taking one's life is cowardice, perhaps it is a cultural thing that Indians carry in their DNA, for we have had long a glorious traditions of death by self wish, in fact most religious and cultural traditions view the act of taking one's life as honourable and the greatest act of independence an individual can carry out.

Does that mean that I am suicidal? I think not; but my preoccupation with life and death has intensified for the past couple of years, I find myself pondering questions about things like life after death, the soul, the meaning of existence. I am no philosopher, but I feel that life should have meaning. What I mean to say is that one's life should be led in the pursuit of making someone else's life less painful.

I find the modern age in which we live increasingly selfish, I mean look at the consequences of the selfishness people are increasingly displaying all over the world. This had led to a rise in hatred towards others and caused rifts in society that I fear can't be undone.

In fact I have felt this in my own life and now feel an increasing need to isolate myself. In the absence of good company, I find myself turning towards my only love in life books. I feel that this form of escapism is helping me cope with a lot of bouts of severe melancholia, I end this post with a wish, that I hope others in the same circumstances can discover the balm books are capable of providing.