Lullaby

I don’t really know how or where to start.

There were too many; thoughts, prayers, wishful thinking, hopes, battles and emotions involved in this blog. Mostly, it consists of the terrifying things in my head that are most likely to be true or makeup.

My mind as I have discovered recently is wired to invent things that scare me. Health issues, relationship issues and all sorts of malady that for some reason, perhaps as a thought of entertainment just comes out of nowhere to ruin my sleep. Like a carnival of scary things and they march along with their band to keep me up at night.

So here I am a 2 o’clock in the morning, restless and can’t find a better sleeping post.

I decided to write. Obviously. This is better than lying awake in the dark while the rest of the world snores. Nothing good comes out of envy. So I pulled myself up from bed to perhaps, be productive like everyone else.

I knew that self-help books on anxiety and sleep can provide me better understanding if not a cure to my current circumstances. But I made the decision to delete the plethora of ebooks on my kindle because I don’t want medication and treatment to be my resolve. They are all a good read if you want to be informed. If you want to learn. If you want science to manage your stress and relieve you from restlessness.

But what I need now more than cure, is plain healing. Just to reach out to God and make his miracles work on me. I want comfort at night and peace in my sleep. I want to feel refreshed when I wake up and blessed and grateful and relieved…

But the past few days are just different.

I am terrified, most nights.

Most days, I’m just exhausted of being terrified.

I know Sam has tried his best efforts to comfort me at my lowest. But he has his own set of issues that need to be addressed. OCD. Anger management. His painful past. And so on. It was hard for him to carry the weight of my baggage because his, is too much already.

And vice versa.

I would love to make his burden light but I always fail him miserably.

I remember one night when I was weeping, unable to contain the hurts and fears I have, he asked me. “Would things be more different if your mom is still here? You will have someone to talk to. You can tell her about me. How much you’re hurting because of me. And she will tell you what to do.”

And just when you thought he has exhausted the profound words on earth to hurt me (comforting or derogatory) he all of a sudden brings out the best ones that break you down.

I’ve never thought about my mom for quite some time.

He hugs me and I hug him back.

—

Have you ever loved someone but it hurts so much?

That’s what it is all about.

I love him but I am hurting.

And I thought that if I just go on loving him the hurts will eventually heal.

But one hurt comes after another and another and another that there was no sufficient time for healing. And there was no resolve to it because it has nothing to do with intentions but just being. This is him. This is me. And as much as we try to change for the better, we will always be a part of who we used to be.

The people we love, we hurt them unintentionally. At least most times.

I ask myself over and over.

Are we in a wrong relationship? Am I being punished for being a disobedient Christian? Was I not ready to be a responsible partner to someone? Is he too dominating and am I too submissive?

I can’t question God’s purpose. I just hoped that his plans were aligned with what I want. But sadly, what if not?

I’m hurting and so is Sam. So I surrendered. Just give it all to God. Because at the end of the day, I don’t just wish joy for myself but most importantly I wish joy for Sam.

I want him to be happy.  And I can’t make him happy if I’m hurting.

—

Sam is my first love.

If the basis of first love is giving yourself completely, living together and introducing to your him to your entire clan. Then he is my first.

My first kiss. My first Valentine. My first travel. My first break and makeup. My first rinse and spin laundry. My first grocery shopping. My first walk in the park and fireworks. My first movie date. My first waiting at the bus stop. My first greet and meet with friends. My first let’s get married and have babies and grow old together kind of thing.

You can say first of all first.

And you know what they say about first?

They hurt BIG TIME. (I’m not being sensual here. I meant, Heart Break.)

If you have not been broken hearted before, then you better get yourself ready.

Because it’s going to be a war zone out there, they say.

A battle against oneself.

Moving on is hardly a real thing. It’s unimaginable in the beginning.

Like does that really exist and how does it look like?

It takes light years to get there.

The many firsts will shatter you and the one last hurrah will break you down.

And there was no guarantee as to when you will be whole again.

And that is what scares me BIG TIME.

Because every time I think about of letting go and packing our stuff and splitting the business profit and sleeping apart and waking up alone in bed, I feel a throbbing, almost surreal pain. I feel myself being torn to pieces. The part of me that was loved deeply is ripped to pages that can never be brought back together.

And I don’t know how people manage to say, life goes on and that you will find something better, eventually. I know it’s true, but I can’t bring that particular reality into my senses at the moment.

How can you just move forward one day after another, and just leave everything behind? How can you wake up every day and not look back? How does one just ignore the pieces that were once there? Coffee mugs. T-shirts. Cellphones. Laundry Basket. A closet filled with clothes. Headset. Razor. Perfume. Rubber shoes. Neckties. Pillows. and Wallets.

What happens to them?

Do we just abandon them?

What happens to the green juice I prepare each morning? Or the gram flour rotti that is definitely too Indian for my taste? What about those photos that has been deleted on my phone but is still loaded in my memory? The inevitable mention of his name? The websites and the online pages we shared together.

Things that were once there.

What about the 80% Indian men around me that will definitely remind me of him? And the many Indian things I never thought of learning about. Diwali and Biryani.

And the many couples in the street doing the things we used to do?

And the friends we have. And the people we loved. And the places we’ve been. And the clothes he wore.

Tight hugs from hairy arms.

Strong hands of affirmation and I got your back.

Soft and wild kisses.

Quirks.

Funny lines.

Dance moves.

His scent and his broad chest.

His adorable smile and child-like face.

His voice at the end of the line.

The YOU and ME, the US and the WE… that held me close and pulled me out of loneliness.

What happens to all of them?

—

I’m hurting when we’re together and I’m hurting when we’re apart.

—

Tell me now.

My sweet lullaby.

With all that’s been said

How in the world does one go to sleep?