Disclaimer: Don’t read unless you absolutely want to. Stream of consciousness ahead.

If you think I don’t deal well with my own distress, you should see me deal with the distress of my people.

Maybe it’s a good thing that sonofabitch predicted a childless life for me. I just wouldn’t handle the stress. It would be a contest of who will cry more when my baby falls and wounds its knees. Maybe that is why I have people often reassuring me how I am just a three year old at heart. Still. Too soft. Too easy. Too open. Too fucking frail these days.

It sucks to feel like a wife and see your man cry. And not be able to do anything. It’s worse to be a mom and watch from the sidelines. To feel totally wrecked and wrung out and to feel fucked for your child’s sake.

So I had me a little breakdown.

23 days after I put down my papers at work (that’s another story for later), after 20 days of physical agony, 15 days of pilllessness  later, I finally cracked. It took a neck with a catch and radiating pain to bring me literally to my knees. I succumbed. I wailed against the injustice of it all. And my frightened parents rushed me to the doctor who stuck a needle full of painkiller and that was it. The sobbing turned to soft weeps. And I am hazy now but not hazy enough to forget the pain.

So I turned to my man and he said, ‘Write, sweetie, I know that helps you. It sucks being us.’ And boy does it ever! So here I am.

Then I turned to my God and found the words I couldn’t speak.

My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me. Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak. What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? I never know what you are thinking. Think.

There is nothing you can do except stand and wait.

John Milton, do you even know what you started?

Love, it’s fuckall. But when you do find it, it’s worth everything there is. Even the whole fuckedness of existence. Even having a breakdown. So we need to fight, and it’s worth that fight. And it is worth the wait.

But now I will have to explain to the yoga therapist tomorrow that the pain was unbearable. That I had to take pills and eat food. And see that look of disappointment on his face. I have to look in the mirror and see whom I have become – and see the look of sadness on my face that never leaves no matter what shade of lipstick I wear. And then I have to tell myself in Monty’s voice. ‘It will all be fine, relax.’ And then I have to unclench tense muscles all over my body. And remind myself it will take patience, more than I think I have, to be back on my feet again. And just this once, you fucking God, you can’t cut me some slack, can you? Just this once you can’t keep my people happy so it spreads to me. So I can maybe heal. But no, you want to be a fuck about it all. You want to hurt those closest to me and that is going too fucking far even for you.

Okay then, do your worst.

I will turn to my favourite band and I will keep the patience and I will tell myself it will all be okay. For all of us. For all my men and for all my women. And we will be fine. You will see. Because this is going too far. This is too much fuck.


About Bhumika's Boudoir

I love to laugh, and end up being a part of high drama and stormy emotion even when I don't pursue it. Being creative, and communicating with people get me going. I enjoy all the good things in life especially those that are slightly risque, and apologise little, if ever, for all that I do. Literature is a passion and so is music.
This entry was posted in Blue Funk, In Sickness and In Health. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Patience

  1. Marvin Grey says:

    It is scary what you are going through. It takes a lot of courage to face it. And you do. It also takes a lot of patience. I think you are being harsh. The prayer on lips of every person, who as done a courageous deed, is “god let my heart be strong the next time too”. And there are no guarantees. Patience. It is fucking hard. But you are a hard nut to crack. Believe it.


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