…or perhaps too much.
There are way too many words in my head, most of which elicit emotions that have no words to describe – wistful, irritated, I don’t know – not the positive ones though. It seems like it has been a while that I felt happy for no reason. I kept attributing it to PMS, but now that I don’t have that to blame, I can only take it as an attitude failure.
The irony is that I have no reason to not be happy. A satisfying family, an exciting job, good health – I can’t even find a reason to complain. Yet, I have a feeling of ennui, which sometimes morphs into abject panic. As much as I try to get the past and future out of my head and stay in the moment, the moment seems always coloured by them – the past raising anger, and the future, fear.
I am not sure if this is a pathological condition that needs medication or merely poor attitude that needs a complete overhaul. Even dreams are psychedelic – last night was fraught with so many of them – some fantastic, some banal, but all of them leaving behind an aftertaste of something unpleasant. Like the neem-extract your parents made you drink when you were young. No matter how many spoonfuls of sugar you crunched on after that, the bitterness remained for a long time around your throat.
Is this what midlife-crisis feels like? Last year, I was disturbed about my dwindling youth. This year, I have embraced my age with élan – I will tun 44 in 8 days, and the thought does not disturb me one bit -in fact, I merely see it as a number nothing more. My job is going great – I am fairly wellknown now as a documentation expert and I am turning down projects more than ever for lack of time. My daughter is at the age when I am loving our interactions – heck, I can use four letter expletives with her now – yesterday when she was upset about her bad math exam, I told her that to f-up is ok – I have eff-ed up my life more than anyone else – and I used the whole word to her without batting an eyelid – can life get any better? Yet, I am nervous. I am anxious. I can’t sit to meditate because I hyperventilate. And I bottle up the irritation that arises at completely banal things.
I know I am exposing my vulnerable state with this public post. The reader perhaps imagines a dark, gothic woman, staring into open space with tears in her eyes and a frown on her brows. Nothing could be further from reality. I laugh hysterically at my daughter’s Tamil, smile at neighbours, hum a tune in the bathroom, throw things around in the kitchen, get facials done in the local parlour and go about my daily life much like the next person. The darkness is inside, and now here, that I chose to expose it. During rare times that I rant aloud, my daughter jokes that I need to be on tumblr, which is full of people who are anxious and depressed- I get offended with her that she would classify me as being anxious or depressed – but deep down, I know she may be right.
I just need to hang in there and ride out the storm. There is bound to be a calm beyond it.