How are you?
It has been almost 10 years since I told my parents about Ram. Since I told my parents about the possibility of me being gay (I wasn't so sure of the term myself). Since I went up to my mother and bawled in her lap, not knowing where to start and what to tell. It has also been 10 years since my parents have asked me anything about it. 10 years since my parents have come up to me and asked if I'm okay, if I need any help with coping, or just asked me a simple question - how are you?
So, I ask it to myself - how are you?
The first thing that comes to mind is disappointment. Why is that even after 10 years have passed, the memory of that time continues to occupy my being, continues to rule my mood, my reactions, my conduct? Why is it that that face still doesn't escape my imagination? For some reason (maybe it's naive) I had imagined that the more distant I get from home, the better it would be for me to forget what all had happened. And honestly, I did forget it for some time. However, in no time scenes from that time started gradually creeping into my mind - sometimes in dreams, sometimes when I was wide awake. Sometimes in settings which had no reason for triggering any such memory, but it anyway found a way in, and I would be left blank-faced, trying to make sense of it, and failing miserably at it.
I'm also angry. Rather, livid. Sometimes I feel like a ticking bomb, ready to explode at the slightest touch. Although I crave my parents asking me a question as simple as how are you, I am not sure how I would react to them asking it. I might just explode or I might just not say anything. I might scream, hurt myself or hurt them, I don't know. I'm also angry at the hypocrisy. My parents (my mother, more so) insist that we have "healthy communication" at home, tell each other about everything. Why is that despite such strong belief in this 'principle of communication', there has been almost no attempt in communicating with me about Ram? Why is that the burden of communication in this case (and especially in this case) is on me? How can one expect someone who has had a history of abuse, someone who's tried taking one's life at multiple occasions be suddenly so open about everything? Don't they, as parents, have the most basic (and simple) responsibility of coming up to me (and not approach me indirectly) and ask me - how am I? how did I cope with it? or. have I been able to cope with it? do you need any help? what can we do for you? These are really simple questions and all I want for now is for things to be as simple as they can be. I don't want them to make these grand gestures, compensating for things they should have done/said instead.
The rest is a muddled pool. Rather, I'm not sure what I feel about it. Or how I can get out of it. But the only learning I've had from this is that time doesn't heal shit. It just places memories under several layers, that too at the fringes, and one is never sure when they might spill out. And when they do, you are back to where you were - in that room, on that bed, that body moving up and down tearing through time, spilling its effects on you in the present. And all you wonder - how the fuck do I clean this shit?
So, I ask it to myself - how are you?
The first thing that comes to mind is disappointment. Why is that even after 10 years have passed, the memory of that time continues to occupy my being, continues to rule my mood, my reactions, my conduct? Why is it that that face still doesn't escape my imagination? For some reason (maybe it's naive) I had imagined that the more distant I get from home, the better it would be for me to forget what all had happened. And honestly, I did forget it for some time. However, in no time scenes from that time started gradually creeping into my mind - sometimes in dreams, sometimes when I was wide awake. Sometimes in settings which had no reason for triggering any such memory, but it anyway found a way in, and I would be left blank-faced, trying to make sense of it, and failing miserably at it.
I'm also angry. Rather, livid. Sometimes I feel like a ticking bomb, ready to explode at the slightest touch. Although I crave my parents asking me a question as simple as how are you, I am not sure how I would react to them asking it. I might just explode or I might just not say anything. I might scream, hurt myself or hurt them, I don't know. I'm also angry at the hypocrisy. My parents (my mother, more so) insist that we have "healthy communication" at home, tell each other about everything. Why is that despite such strong belief in this 'principle of communication', there has been almost no attempt in communicating with me about Ram? Why is that the burden of communication in this case (and especially in this case) is on me? How can one expect someone who has had a history of abuse, someone who's tried taking one's life at multiple occasions be suddenly so open about everything? Don't they, as parents, have the most basic (and simple) responsibility of coming up to me (and not approach me indirectly) and ask me - how am I? how did I cope with it? or. have I been able to cope with it? do you need any help? what can we do for you? These are really simple questions and all I want for now is for things to be as simple as they can be. I don't want them to make these grand gestures, compensating for things they should have done/said instead.
The rest is a muddled pool. Rather, I'm not sure what I feel about it. Or how I can get out of it. But the only learning I've had from this is that time doesn't heal shit. It just places memories under several layers, that too at the fringes, and one is never sure when they might spill out. And when they do, you are back to where you were - in that room, on that bed, that body moving up and down tearing through time, spilling its effects on you in the present. And all you wonder - how the fuck do I clean this shit?
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