Traveling is a pain because when I am shutting out the sea of strangers and thoughts of possible mishaps, a lot of unaddressed trauma, repressed memories come to the surface in quite an unexpected manner. People who know me know that I am an anti- natalist since forever. Well, I am what I am for reasons that make sense only to me perhaps. I do like children. Only when they belong to others. Back in 2018, for a small fraction of time, I did contemplate having one of my own with a man I loved. It was just before lightening struck our marriage and annihilated it. I envisioned having a perfect little daughter, calmer and stronger than me. A happy girl capable of being the brightest sunshine in whichever life she touched. I used to watch a lot of Murakami movies. They have an ethereal quality to them. One of such movies was called Ponyo. Ponyo means soft and squishy. Ponyo was the perfect little girl that I thought I wanted as a daughter. Bright sunshine, a beautiful empath. So, when I conceived late winter, within no time I planned a whole life around my Ponyo. I was ready for the leap of faith and for everything, good and bad that was to come along. Most importantly, I was ready to compromise on everything precious I ever held on to, including sleep, for the rest of my life. And sleep is the ikigai for me! I know it sounds strange. Anyway, getting back to the strand of memory, I lost her in early spring. When I began bleeding, the doctor said I'm having a miscarriage and asked me to take a painkiller. I refused. Despite my professional knowledge, I hoped for a miracle. I prayed to any power that might hear me, was even ready to sell my soul to the devil, to stop this devastation and bring everything back to normal. I kept hoping till I expelled her out completely. It was barely three months but I had formed one of the strongest spiritual bonds with the life growing within. I don't even know if it was a girl but that's one child I truly wanted. For the first and the last time. For the first time, I writhed and screamed in pain, crouched on the floor, bleeding profusely and did not let anyone come close. I have a good pain threshold but this wasn't the physical pain but the mental agony of something that meant the world to me, getting snatched from my closed fists by ruthless sharp claws. In this chaos, I saw how much my parents loved me. My mother is very intelligent, calm and logical. She expresses herself better through warm gestures rather than words. I saw her break down looking at my state. I saw her crying out my pain. Though he looked quite composed, my father stood there as a steady support, waiting for the storm to pass. It will be unfair to not mention the former partner. He was there too. A broken man who held my hand while I was inconsolable. He tried to be strong for as long as he could and once we got home, exhausted and empty, he cried. He held me and he cried. We mourned. Together. For the last time. After that, events followed which pulled everything apart.
I am glad I got this off my chest. For years, I did not even acknowledge something like this had happened and that it almost killed me. I am no longer the same girl. This snippet of the time gone by was painful to address. But now it's just another event that has shaped my present self. The residues are some fragmented pieces of a narrative, some scattered, shapeless shadows and some life altering realizations. Most important of the realizations being, people come, people go, but there are some who stick along till the end. They are the ones life is worth living for. Sadly, they are also the ones who are taken for granted. So, as an apology, I send a warm energetic hug to all those who have lingered around. The next question is, do I feel sorry for myself? Absolutely not. I am exactly where I am supposed to be in life. It is better to let things unfold in their own time. I trust the Universe.
