Tag: love

  • Of Narcissism and Doubt

    There is a dose of narcissism that is required if I am ever going to embark on writing that book about my rambles. I’ve despised such indulgences throughout my life because I’ve always felt like enough is never achieved to warrant such smugness or arrogance. I’ve been called all that and much more, but the opinions of others were usually just enough cause for brief moments of reflection and nothing more. Rarely did the condescension of others ever drag my spirit down. I was always very focused on dragging it down myself, so there was never room for others to get in on the action in that regard.

    Writing that book may prove to be the final release of all the clutter that contaminates my head space. However, it could also be the cause of even more clutter accumulating. I’m struggling to understand what my reason to write it will be. Will I write it because I believe I have a story worth sharing, or perspectives that are unique and potentially enlightening, or would I simply be writing it to finally secure the affirmation from the world that always seems to elude me?

    I still believe that what doesn’t break you only makes you more brittle. There is a point that we all reach in life, some sooner than others, where the trials and the struggles wear you down to a point where even the most basic of decisions becomes burdensome. When that happens to me, I’m reminded of how brittle I’ve become when faced with circumstances that echo the angst of the past. Trying to decide on whether or not to proceed with this book is akin to choosing to resurrect the tumultuous emotions that ripped through me each time I found myself staring insanity in the face. That insanity was not a reflection of my own state of mind, but rather the mindlessness of the troubled souls that I attracted far too often in my life.

    Every morbid joke I made about seeing the ugly side of ugly, or having more life in my years than most have years in their lives, and so much more all seem to taunt me now knowing that recalling all those lessons that informed my ramblings will test my resolve and my character, the outcome of which is anything but predictable. My book will not be a simple story, if a story at all. Perhaps it will be a collection of torment presented in a bouquet of beautiful words that bring life to the lie that this is a beautiful world as long as the words we use to describe it make it so.

    Pain will always remain what it is, regardless of whether we remember it or not. A life of selfless sacrifice does not always yield beauty. There are times, many times, when the sacrifices of others are simply the stepping stones of the self-obsessed. All this morbidity and sobriety does little towards guiding my decision about this book. Perhaps it’s not about the book at all. Perhaps it’s simply a symbol of my resistance towards acknowledging the gravity of the experiences of my life. Perhaps, writing that book will finally bring to the fore the crippling realisation that the beauty that I always pursued never existed to begin with, and the ugliness I saw in the souls of some was not just their veneer but in fact it was the essence of who they were. If that be true, I don’t think I want to contemplate what that may say about me.

  • Who do you love?

    I so often hear people giving others advice about how they should overcome negative sentiments about themselves, and I keep wondering if it’s realistic? The advice most often rendered is ‘love yourself’. Isn’t that the same like telling someone that is depressed to be happy?

    I think if we dislike ourselves, it’s not because we simply dislike ourselves, but in fact it’s because there is little that we’re doing or achieving that we find reason to be proud about. Either that, or we’re seeking affirmation from quarters that are uninterested or oblivious to how important they are in our lives. So when someone seems not to like themselves, when they’re self-harming, being reckless with their health or well-being, or just being morbid about life, I somehow doubt that telling them to love themselves is going to change all that.

    I really believe that happiness is not a choice, but is in fact a state that is achieved as a result of other conditions or achievements in our lives. Similarly I would argue that dislike for oneself is a result of inactivity or lack of achievement in things that would bring one joy. I guess, at the risk of over-simplifying it, I think it all comes down to what we use as points of reference in our lives. Those points of reference can sometimes be role models, or at other times it could simply be peer pressure. But identifying what about those role models or peers it is that influences us to want to aspire to fit their expectations is key to realising whether or not the reasons for such self-dislike is in fact warranted to begin with.

    But even that doesn’t quite answer the question, or resolve the issue. I think the low self esteem finds its roots first in trying to please others, which is easy enough to set in during childhood when we least realise the impact of such a disappointment. This later serves as a distraction that leads us to believe that just because we didn’t measure up to our chosen points of reference, we’re incapable of achieving anything meaningful in our lives. I can barely recall the number of times that I assumed the best of someone, immersed myself into the relationship relative to what prestige they enjoyed in my mind, only to meet a rude awakening when they behaved far short of what I believed their true nature to be.

    Sometimes I think we just expect too little from ourselves, and too much from others. Or perhaps that’s just a vicious cycle as well. Our expectations of others are equally as high as their expectations of us, but their expectations of themselves is just as low as our expectations of ourselves. So while we’re beating ourselves up and restraining ourselves from realising our true potential, we’re betraying the expectations of someone else, while they’re doing the same to us. Such is the cycle of stupidity when we measure our self-worth by the veneer of society.

    I guess the point is that if we are going to choose a role model, or an ideal to aspire to, we need to be sure that what we’re setting as an objective is in fact the reality of what we really want.

  • Letting Go

    Most people automatically associate the phrase ‘letting go’ with love and romance. The angsty teenager with the broken heart, or the distraught divorcee, or the one who lost a loved one. It’s so easy to allow the requisite time for mourning to pass before feeling comfortable enough to boldly tell someone to let go and move on. But let go of what? Move on to where?

    Sometimes I find it akin to hanging off the edge of a cliff holding on to a rope in the hope that something will change at some point which will make my hanging from that cliff meaningful or significant. I hold on to that rope for dear life’s sake, more in fear of what will happen if I let go, rather than because I want to hold on. Perhaps my holding on is inspired by the hope that someone may find me worthy enough to want to save me from the fall? I find the same to be true in life outside of romance or human relationships. So many erroneously assume that the act of letting go is what is important, when in fact the need to not want to hold on is really what matters.

    When we focus on letting go, we end up seeking out replacements or alternatives to make up for what we’re supposedly giving up, when in fact we’re not giving up anything, but instead only filling the same gaping hole with a different object. With this realisation I find myself back on that cliff holding on to that rope for dear life, not for a second realising that life hanging off the edge of a cliff is really not much of a life at all.

    Perhaps the cliff analogy is somewhat extreme, but the principles of dealing with reality in the face of inevitability remain the same. We’d much rather hold on to what is familiar than let go in the belief that something better may be acquired. Sometimes we dismiss this insecurity and neediness as pragmatism, or reality, when in fact it’s simply fear. Crippling fear that if we got it wrong once, or if we lost once, we cannot afford to allow ourselves into a situation that would hold the potential of such fear or loss again. And there begins the cycle of self defeat where we assure ourselves of our limitations and pretend to accept it graciously when in fact we’re really just protecting ourselves from the unknown.

    Sometimes we deny this fear and camouflage it with misplaced courage sub-consciously trying to prove that we’re not damaged or dependent on those that betrayed us, and so we pretend to boldly pursue new challenges or opportunities, when in fact all we’re doing is trying to pacify ourselves, and dissuade others from seeing the weakness and the wounds that fester beneath the surface. One scarce talent, it seems, is our ability to accept our true worth before we embrace our limitations. We’re prone to believing that we’re flawed before we believe in our ability to succeed.

    It seems we live in a time when society thrives on the insecurities of others. Our self worth is determined by how much we’re able to fill in those gaps for others, so much so that we are in tune with what others need more than we have any inkling about what we need for ourselves. The trick, I believe, is not to know how to please someone else, but rather how to find someone that is pleased by similar values and virtues as yourself. There is much truth in the saying that love is not two people looking at each other, but rather two people looking in the same direction. It’s just a pity that most people are aimless in their wanderings to find a life worth living.

    Too much emphasis is placed on the contribution of others towards determining the happiness we experience. We’re prone to waiting for life to happen while finding distractions to fill in the gaps of loneliness and purpose, instead of embracing life while being entertained by the distractions. And the same is true for bad habits, social failures, or career bumps. We look at the failure or the setback as a defining experience of who we are, rather than a defining experience of the bad choices we made. Rather than kicking ourselves when we get something wrong, we should remind ourselves that there is much dignity and reward in reflection on the reasons for the bad choices we made, acceptance of the fact that each experience affords us an opportunity to make more informed choices in the future, and the ultimate goal of evolving beyond being a creature of habit, and instead becoming a creature of choice.

    The only thing worth letting go of (it seems) is letting go. Instead, we should embrace, reflect, inform, and persevere. Otherwise we may as well just hold on to that rope for dear life’s sake, hoping that someone will come along at some point and feel sorry enough to want to help us out of our stupor, so that we can start yet another cycle of neediness that ends in pain when the one we need cannot bear the burden of being needed so desperately.

  • Integrity is dead. Self-preservation killed it.

    Cynically Jaded (via cynicallyjaded)

  • A Love Story

    Beautiful story. Inspirational enough to want to share it. They don’t make love stories the way they used to. Hollywood / Bollywood pales in comparison. 

    (Source: http://www.youtube.com/)

  • Dinner for one

    A seriously low self-esteem left me concerned that people were always looking at me and seeing how flawed and clumsy and stupid and awkward I was. My first wife made me realise that it wasn’t about them at all. It was about me indulging me. To hell with everyone else. I needed to spoil myself, spend on myself, and just appreciate myself because every day was a struggle, and I needed to reward myself for those struggles that I contended with and still managed to keep my head on straight and maintain my dignity and faith in the process.

    So now I cherish moments when I can sit alone in a restaurant, enjoying a meal by myself, allowing my mind to wander, and turning the tables completely. Where I was the one that felt like I was being observed and mocked and ridiculed, I am now the one looking at others and seeing the tell-tale signs of their insecurities and vulnerabilities being lavishly disguised by fashion statements and obnoxious behaviour…and occasionally I see a couple or even an individual that literally warms me up inside when I witness what appears to be their sincere appreciation of life, or of each other on their faces. At times like that it feels like I’ve come full circle, finally ready to embrace another lifetime of beautiful challenges.

  • What dreams may come…

    Being in a somewhat melancholic mood today, it’s easy to slip into a daze about the what-if’s and the if-only’s of life. Disappointment is born when I see beauty denied, and regrets are born when I see beauty taken for granted, by me as well as others. I have healthy doses of both in my life, but neither is strong enough to taint my optimism for the future even though holding on to such optimism is getting to be quite a challenge on its own.

    I’ve often said that I’m not built or designed to be alone. I have this aching desire to want to take care of someone, to share a life with her and to create an intimate space that is uniquely ours, built on every romantic notion I’ve ever harboured, and embellished with every ideal that I court. I want to prove to myself that a romantic life is still possible against the backdrop of horror that comprised the canvas of my life to this point. 

    I still subscribe to the naive notion that if only a few days of absolute bliss, peace and consoling comfort is experienced in my last moments on this earth, it would render every heartache and every pain impotent. It will cause every regret and every disappointment to recede in humiliation, and will leave me with an eternal smile subtly formed at the corners of my lips when I take my last breath.

    At the moment of my death I don’t want to smile only because the struggle is over. I want to smile because I was successful in proving to the world that despite their hypocrisy and insincerity, I was able to rise above it and still achieve my moment of bliss in spite of their efforts to dismiss me as a dreamer. I know it’s possible. But the fatal flaw in my plan is to find one with as much conviction as me to secure this dream that has been so elusive. But even in this I am optimistic that I will succeed in finding her. The one that will embrace my child-like tendencies, my romantic inclinations, my overbearing responsibility at times, and my overwhelming drive to achieve that which others mock in my aspirations. In return, she’ll enjoy nothing less from me.

    Edit: This was my 800th post.

  • That Last Fateful Encounter

    I’m suddenly reminded of her again. The gentle ticking of her heart and her husky soft voice. Yes, the ticking of her heart. I knew it so well by then, and I missed it for a long time before that, the way I miss it now. Her infectious smile always remained infectious. Even through the pain of life and the heartache of my insensitivity.

    Our passionately tumultuous marriage ended because of an idealistic notion that I refused to let go of. Such is the curse of Hollywood. Even worse is the curse of a childhood that left me emotionally unavailable for the better part of my adult life. After falling in love and marrying according to the cultural traditions, we seemed like the couple most likely to succeed. We were often compared to Helen Hunt and Paul Reiser in Mad About You. We really got along that well.

    At some point, out of sheer paranoia and morbidity, I was convinced that if I didn’t end the marriage, I would lose not only my wife, but also the best friend I had up to that point in my life and the thought scared me. I behaved foolishly. But there was no turning back. Our friendship did survive, but it was always a stark reminder of my stupidity rather than the true comfort that it offered me before I lost my presence of mind.

    Years later, after a lengthy time apart, we made contact again. I just ended another insane chapter in my life, and she was as cheerful as always. She had her flaws, but I always loved her enough to only ever remember her romantically. And still do. Only this time, when we talked, there was a serious under tone that she tried hard to hide, and I knew better than to pry or make a fuss of it. She didn’t like people fussing about the seriousness of life. 

    I had been unemployed for a few months by that time and was still looking for work. We went for coffee a few times and eventually watched a movie together called John Q. It was a movie about a little kid that needed a heart transplant, and one of the final scenes was the graphic detail of the surgeon inserting the donor heart into the little boy’s chest cavity and tapping it to get it going. I could feel her heart sink at the sight of it. It was too close to home for her given her numerous open heart operations that left her with the artificial valve whose ticking I grew so fond of. 

    She just smiled as always and assured me that she was perfectly fine when we left the cinema that night. She was due for another blood test. Something she did at least every two weeks to monitor the thickness of her blood so that the valve wouldn’t clog up and cease. I could usually tell the thickness based on the sound of the valve. She insisted that I take her for the test, even though it was routine for her to get her family’s chauffeur to drive her to these fortnightly appointments. I was caught up in job interviews and she refused to go with anyone else. I told her that I was due for an interview the next day, to which she looked down and said that she knew I was going to get the job because I always got the job if I got the interview. I just laughed it off. 

    The next day I landed a job in Saudi Arabia for a one year contract, and I’ll never forget her response. For the first time since our divorce a few years before, she broke down in tears and pleaded with me not to go. She told me that she lost me once before and now that I was finally back, I was leaving her again. I couldn’t understand it, but I didn’t have much of a choice either. I needed the job. 

    She fell ill the following evening without me knowing. Due to a twist of fate, her regular doctor was not available, and some reckless bastard attended to her instead. He downplayed her symptoms of her chest infection and prescribed some medication without considering her heart condition which landed her in hospital, still unknown to me. 

    I needed to leave within days for the urgent assignment in Saudi, and had planned to fly out on the Thursday evening after the interview. On Thursday morning I delayed my flight plans at the last minute because I just didn’t feel comfortable making the trip that day. So I postponed my flight to Saturday instead. On Thursday evening at just after 19h00, around the time my original flight was scheduled to depart, I received a phone call. She had died. Her heart finally gave up, and just like that, she was gone. No long distance phone calls from Saudi as I had planned, or special trips to visit her. Everything was suddenly pointless. And I didn’t even see it coming.

    I broke down for the first time in my life, despite having lost other close family members before. I was always composed. But not this time. When I heard those words on the phone I felt weak and my knees almost gave way under me. I sat on the nearest thing I could find. She was gone and I didn’t know how to deal with it.

    Her funeral was held that same evening according to Islamic rites and customs. It was a cold winter night, and her family that had despised me since our divorce embraced me hesitantly when I saw them. I stood in the cemetery and watched in disbelief as they lowered her into her grave, and the most striking memory of that evening was the sight of tears dripping from the face of her nephew as he knelt over in the halo of the flood light that lit up the proceedings in the darkness of the graveyard. 

    Two days later I left for Saudi. Alone. And the months that followed saw one of the greatest depressions of my life set in. It was truly the winter of my discontent.