Apne dil ki baat kehne se koi aur apna nahi ho jata—baat parayi ho jati hai.
(Saying what’s in your heart doesn’t make someone yours—it just makes the feeling no longer yours)
Wording is everything. Sentiment is everything. My father always tried to drill essentially the same thing in my head since I was young but it had the opposite impact on me. He wanted me to be private about my affairs, not show my cards, and be selective in what I choose to disclose and to whom. And sure I was always a rebel. The kid who wore fluorescent pink socks and grass green converse to high school that had a strict uniform dress code. And I lied about where I was after school. And I cheated on tests. And I used cuss words since the age of seven. So is it truly shocking that the one thing my father kept trying to get me to see the wisdom in—being sus of others, being discreet, never revealing your true thoughts and emotions—I decided to go completely against? In fact, I not only chose to completely ignore or go completely against but a third worse thing: I became a writer.
But yeah now I hear these words in softer words, emotionally laced, from another man and it speaks to my bruised heart and my wavering faith and my exhausted soul.
Did telling him about my abuse get him close to me? Or did just leave me feeling exposed and still unheld?
Did telling her about my empty fridge fix anything? Or did it just leave me alone still trying to figure out what my next meal will be?
Did telling them about my battle fields get them to understand me or love me? Or did it just give them more strategies to strike me?
That is not a statement you will hear me say often. But I’m nothing if I don’t give credit where credit is due. So, yes, my father was right.
I want to be done telling people my thoughts and feelings. But I write. Isn’t that such a catch 22?
I want to tell a story without having to confess anything.
And in doing your best to not reveal yourself, you inevitably will reveal everything.
So shall I then speak to the collective people instead of the singular person? Any one who knows me as me, not me the writer, let them no longer know my heart. I’m shutting it down. Out of order. Go back to where you came from. Leave me alone.
I’m exhausted of the feeling of being left more desolate, more cold, more bare, more empty than before. These conversations? They drain me. They take away from me. They make a mockery out of my suffering, a circus out of my brain, tea out of my people, a joke out of me, and a punchline out of my heart.
Oh, no, wait—that last one is all me.
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