The patterns in life

Last week, a friend of mine was telling me about her dating pattern. She's recently started seeing a healer and says that it's made a world of difference to the way she sees herself and her relationships. And she says she's finally identified the problem that makes her fall for the worst kind of men. And I'm not even talking about bad boys. Because bad boys are predictable and almost always follow a universal pattern. The way I see it, my friend seems to have a thing for emotional wrecks. Men who think they want something and the moment they get it, they want something else. So her dating, semi-dating and fling history consists of a series of men that have spent the best years of their life fumbling around in the dark. Nothing wrong with that, but only until you don't hurt other people in the process. And my friend's been hurt, multiple times.

Her newfound realisation about her dating pattern got me thinking about the patterns in my life. And the only unfailing constant in my relationships is that all of them are destined to fail. From day one. So my pattern seems to be impossible relationships. I seem to be incapable of being in a healthy, happy relationship. You'd think that the realisation would leave a bitter taste in my mouth. But it didn't. Because I guess it's one of those truths that my heart has decided that my mind can finally handle.

Thinking about this pattern also got me thinking about the reasons behind it. I don't know why, but all of last night, I wrestled with my comforter, almost like my mind refused to shut down till I found an answer. Like it was imperative I find this piece of the puzzle that very night. And so I did something that I haven't done in a long long time. I called V.

Because he's the only person I know who can make sense of my madness. Maybe that's the reason we lasted for as long as we did. Because I could cling to him every time the questions in my head scared me. Because he could make me believe that eventually, I'd figure it all out. I needed to know if he'd seen my relationship pattern before I had. He had.

V has a theory. One that makes sense but is too awful to contemplate. According to him, I have so little faith in people, particularly men, that I gravitate towards the ones that will do exactly what I believe they will--hurt me. And the ones that seem like they won't, scare me. Because then I'd have to relinquish some control over my heart. And because I am a creature of the mind, this is something I will simply not be permitted to do. And so I go along life, one hopeless date after another.

V also believes that my lack of faith comes from that time of my life that I never let myself think about. But yesterday, the memories refused to lie still. And V would not let it go. When I was 10, someone in my family did something bad to me. I was in his house, sleeping next to his daughter in her bed, when it happened. He didn't rape me, but I felt violated. I remember shrinking into the bed, confused, scared and guilty. Confused because family shouldn't make you feel threatened, scared because I didn't feel safe anymore and guilty for thinking such thoughts about a man who was supposed to be like my father. I stayed in his house for three more days and we'd go out every night. And every time we went out, I wondered whether it was pure coincidence or design that he happened to be seated next to me during the movie, at dinner, at the ice-cream parlour. Each time there was even the remotest possibility of him touching me, I would scurry around the place like a demented child. I didn't sleep a wink in the time I was there. But I'd lie huddled next to my cousin, pretending to be asleep, as still as a dead body, while he stood looking at us in the doorway. The tears would come only after he'd finally go away.

Time moved on and eventually, I forgot about it. Completely. I buried the memory down so deep that it was like nothing had ever happened. It was like someone had wiped that time from my memories. I still saw uncle at family functions and during vacations. He'd joke with my parents, praise my marks and I'd smile back happily. But somehow, I never went back to his house.

Then a year-and-a-half ago, while V and I were going through a particularly rough time, I went to a hypnotherapist to seek answers. And that's when the memories came rushing back. And now, every time I think of Uncle, all I can see is his large looming figure blocking the doorway, blocking my only route to escape, as I peered, petrified, from under the sheets. For all the years that I buried them deep inside, hoping that they'd die, the memories are now more alive than some of the people I move around with.

V says that the doorway is my relationship pattern, that I always have one foot jammed at the entrance, keeping the door ajar, in case I need to bolt. Which is why I only go for men that allow me to keep not just a foot, but one leg out of the door. Because I don't believe there can come a time when I won't want to run. V says that the closest I've come is with him, and although I'd let go of the door, I still had my eye on the fire escape. And when the time came, I did use it.

Is it time to finally leave my spot near the door? I don't know. Should I decide to do it, will I be able to, even? I sure hope so. A few weeks ago, I was in bed with one of the Mr Inappropriates. Our relationship, or at least one part of it, is over. But I was still somehow in bed with him. Because that night, I just needed to not be alone. And he's actually a nice guy when he wants to be. Sometime in the middle of the night, I hugged him. It wasn't a sexual touch, it was an intimate one. Because I wanted to be held. And I wanted to feel safe. It's surprising how often one has every luxury in the world but not a basic need. But he shrugged me away. And although it shouldn't matter, because I've been equally blase about relationships based on nothing in the past, that night it stung. Painfully. Maybe that was the cue my heart had been waiting for, a sign that it could now go ahead and tell my mind something that would cause it distress. That maybe it's time to make a conscious attempt to break my own pattern.

It would be easier to put it off for another day. Give myself some more time to accept my truth. But deep down, I know that it's time to let the wound heal. It's been festering for too long. And writing this post is the first step in that direction. I hope some day soon, it sees the light of the day.

Life is larger than logic

Life is larger than logic

It was a dialogue in a movie. But when I heard it, it first made me smile and then cry a little bit. Now normally I’m not a very tears person, but this year promises to compensate for the previous 23. The dialogue struck a chord. Probably because lately, I’ve been feeling rather down and out. A little useless and hugely untalented. And it doesn’t help when people close to you decide to pick such a time to tell you how illogical and juvenile they think you are.

Which made me wonder, what exactly does juvenile mean? And considering I don’t quite seem to see juvenile-ness where others do, I probably don’t understand what maturity means either. So I thought I’d define it. Does juvenile mean walking out of the house at 3 am because you’re too scared to sleep, or is juvenile the act of taking someone’s demons and converting them into social currency? Is it juvenile when you either never ask for advice or never take it, or is it when all you ever do is agree with a more worldly-wise person's views on how you must lead your life? Is juvenile the spoilt little princess, or the adult who resents her her accident of birth? Is it juvenile when you make a mistake knowingly, even if you’re prepared for the consequences, or is it when you’re so afraid of finding a glitch in carefully laid plans that you never take the risk? And most importantly, is juvenile a function of age, or a story we concoct so we feel better about the choices we make and the life we’ve chosen to lead?

I was talking to my friend Z the other day and she said that as often as they’ve landed me in trouble, she would have loved to make some of the mistakes I made. Now Z is a girl who has spent the better part of her life trying to get me to “mend my ways”, as she calls it. In kindergarten, it was by getting me to sharpen my pencils before class; in middle school, it was by ensuring that my homework was done; in high school, she’d stop me from needling my most-hated teacher; in college, it was by calling me five thousand times a day to remind me of all the horrible things that would happen if I went out with the bad boy. Ever since I turned 18, she’s been terrified that one day, I’ll fall in love with a man twice my age and end up pregnant and barefoot in his kitchen. She often jokes that hopefully, when that day came, at least I’ll be married to the asshole and can claim the one-bedroom apartment in the chawl that we’ll no doubt live in. She is like a mini-parent, but in a nice way, because she won’t embark on emotional onslaught to get me to do what she thinks is right. She’ll just sigh and mutter “sudhar jaa” 500 times, every time I tell her about my latest adventure.

Considering all this, I was rather surprised to hear Z say that she envied my “mistakes”. Because Z is one of the most practical, poised and perfect people I know. Her responses are always measured—whether they are to people or situations. She does what needs to be done and when it needs to be done. I have never seen her as grossly underprepared for exams as I usually was. Nor have I seen her lose her temper over nothing issues, stamp her feet in irritation or be impolite unless it can be helped. The one time she called me up at midnight to cry and wouldn’t tell why, I decided that either she was pregnant and didn’t have the money for abortion, or was being blackmailed by an asshole ex-boyfriend over a vacation she may have lied to her parents about. I remember furiously calculating how much money Z, D and I could raise for the abortion/ blackmailer to shut up, if the three of us didn’t shop, eat or go out for a couple of months. I can’t recall what the “emergency” was, but I do remember laughing my guts out when we finally found out, huddled over a corner table at Barista the next day. We were 17 then. And I hadn’t still figured out that such situations simply didn’t arise in Z’s life. She was much too sensible for that. These things were more up my alley. Not quite, but close.

I must admit that it felt good. After the battering that my confidence had taken at the hands of my more “mature and together” friends, it felt good to hear someone like Z tell me she envied the very thing that was making me feel like the black sheep of my social set. Because she’s one of the very few people that I have ever respected. We may not always agree and our way of living life might be diametrically opposite, but the respect I have for her is impregnable.

When I asked her why, she went quiet for a few seconds. And then asked me, “When was the last time you did something stupid and regretted it?” And I didn’t have an answer. Because I could say that I regretted having gotten involved with some people for all the heartache it has caused me, that I regretted picking the bad boy over the nice guy, that I regretted quitting my job without finding another one first, and I regretted running away from home every other weekend. But the truth is, I don’t. Because even while I was making these seemingly wild and pointless decisions, I knew why I needed to do it. “So as long as you know why you did what you did, the reasons make sense to you and you’re prepared to deal with what the ‘morning after’ will throw at you, why the fuck do you care what anyone thinks?” she said, almost as if she was bored of the conversation, because the answer was so painfully obvious. “Of all the times that you refused to listen to anyone, you decide to start now, when you’re finally old enough to make decisions and not have them questioned by the world and its cousin?”

Again, I didn’t have an answer to her question. Why did I care what anyone thought. I never have, then why did I suddenly start? And then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “Sure, there are people who’ll think twice and then reconfirm before making a decision, but amidst all the thinking, we miss out on the feeling part. You don’t. Which is fantastic. It might be illogical, crazy and wild, but people who know you, know that when you feel something for them, it’s one hundred per cent true. You know how loved you made V feel? Why do you think that idiot can’t stick with his wife? And D and I can’t imagine you cheating on us. You know how rare it is to feel this sure of someone?”

And that’s when I teared up again. It feels good to know that someone gets it, gets you. Because no matter how much you tell yourself that you live life on your own terms, everyone needs someone. Like I’ve said earlier, up until a while ago, I didn’t really believe in soulmates, but maybe such a thing exists. In my case, my soulmates are my friends. There’s B, who’s long accepted that asking me not to overthink and overfeel is a massive waste of time. Then there are D and Z, who, after almost two decades of friendship, still don’t know what to do with me. So they just love me. Without questions, judgements or conditions. Illogical, as my relationships might be, they’re precious. Because life is larger than logic.