A not so happy mother’s day

All I want to do is post a cute picture of my mother with me, and caption it, “I love you”,
Only if I had any picture with her.

Maybe i will just upload a quote, thanking her through the internet or maybe it will just stay in my gallery,
Because in this household we hesitate to express love, online or offline.

All those years of her trying to awkwardly hug me, and me pushing her away,
Because I never knew how to hug, maybe she didn’t either.

Maybe one day we will give it a chance, but not today.

Mothers? Everything.

I grew up idealising my father, placing him on the pedestal – worshipping. He wasn’t the perfect father, I was terrified of him yet loved him.

I always brushed my mother’s existence aside, she doesn’t love me, oh wait, it isn’t like my father does either, but he is still my ideal.

Mothers? So dramatic. Fathers? So practical.

I idealised him because he knew how to bounce back from the downs of life. I admired his courage, patience, endurance.

My mother, on the other hand, cried on every little thing. I resented how emotional she would get, because it made me guilty for not being able to do anything.

Mothers? Weak. Fathers? Fearless.

Years later, I realise, my father wasn’t always there when I went through something. My mother didn’t help me either, because I never shared, I wanted to be courageous like my father.

But my mother was there, a silent character, but there. It took my years, and time away from home to realise her presence.

Mothers? Everything.

A plate of fruit, a cup of chai, a blanket. She was there in the little things. We never talked about feelings. Communication? Who does that. Never verbal, but there.

It took the acceptance of the empath in me, and realisation of a patriarchal society to understand her emotional outbursts. Doing everything, getting no acknowledgment; how long till one breaks down?

Mothers? Enduring.

Took a rainy day, drenched clothes, and no one to offer a towel or clean clothes to understand my mother’s love language. I worked to understand my friends and partners’ languages, but when it was about her, ignored just as her labour.

Always taking her for granted, because she is gonna stay, right? That’s how mothers are. Warm food even if I wake up at 2 pm in the noon, or sleep at 2 am at night.

Mothers? Misunderstood.

She is braver than my father. She brought up ungrateful kids, no thank you ever. She stayed silent, when he let out his frustration, no sorry ever. She made the favourite dish, ‘the spices aren’t in the right amount’, no appreciation ever.

I, too, get teary eyed when I am angry. I, too, regret words I say when I am angry. I, too, let the frustration of dealing with everyone’s remarks get to me. I, too, never give a verbal apology – a cup of chai and some biscuits.

Foreign words and untranslatable emotions

I am not sure why I run out of words, when all I want to do is say what’s on my mind,
‘I don’t know’s & ‘I am not sure’s.

Sometimes the meanings get lost in the translation,
Forming words from thoughts and emotions.

I spend hours going through posts after posts to find the one,
Which resonates with the thoughts and emotions weighing me down – a poem, a meme, a quote.

I am not good at translating my emotions into words,
I turn to google, type in random words I want to tell you and hit enter.

Some days, I find a perfect thing, describing everything going on in my mind and heart,
Select contact, share, wait.

Do you read every verse as if it is coming from me?
Or do you just take a random look and send an appreciative emoji?

I can write you poems, but I will always worry that I will leave out something important,
I love you or please stay.

My mind does not believe in breaks, it is never tired of thinking,
That’s the thing, I will lose the track while writing you a poem myself.

The verse of my feelings for you will get lost,
Verses for your heart, your beauty, you: check.

I turn to strangers for easy translations and fancy words, making the emotions look exquisite,
Some days, it takes me a second to find something, other times, I go days without saying anything to you.

Survival of the angriest

I don’t believe in the word ‘hate’, it is too strong,
Shard of glass slicing through cloth and skin.

The world is a home to fragile souls,
Stepping on leaves, trying not to make a sound.

I don’t believe in the word ‘hate’,
but I hate the anger in me.

Some days, I think I inherited it from my father or his father,
Slamming doors and beatings.

Some days, I think I inherited it from my mother,
Broken cups and beatings.

Don’t get me wrong, they are really kind,
Always remembering to tend the wound they give.

I rarely get angry but when I do, I run,
Out of the room, away from the people, to the quiet.

Shaking body, trembling hands, head pounding,
Afraid of what my anger is capable of.

I run away from the crowds, my friends, my family,
Because I can’t slam doors or break cups, but I can yell.

I resent my anger, because it takes over me,
Words leaving my mouth before I can regsiter.

It puts Darwin to shame, questioning his evolution theory,
We evolved but still need therapies to tame the anger – survival of the angriest.

When my anger comes out of the dark room,
It overpowers all the other sensations, like it was replenishing the energy in the dark.

I rarely get angry, but when I do,
I am not myself, and I hate it.

Whatever

My mind tries its best not to experience and accept emotions. If you meet me and ask me,  “what’s going on in your mind or in your heart?” it will make sure I stumble upon every word. Native language or not, there will be a pile of words; incomplete, left out, repeated. 

I write about my feelings, because I feel if written my emotions will turn into fiction – abstract. I write after weeks, therefore, I go weeks without ranting, venting or whatever. During this time, if you ask me, “what’s going on in your mind or in your heart” I will reply with, “I don’t know” or “I am feeling whatever”.

I love the word ‘whatever’. It gives me so many possibilities, so much uncertainty, everything or nothing or whatever.

Unspoken words

You know those situations where you just wanted to say, “please stay” but choked on your words and bid them a farewell, when those memories pay you a visit, you welcome them with the thoughts of you wondering how things would have turned out to be if only your heart and mind weren’t in a state of rivalry.

It has never been a warm welcome, as time passed, the memories started using the back door to visit. They have never been welcome, but they somehow don’t care. I wish, I could not care – what a privilege! Uninvited guests turned into familiar faces. They are so comfortable to visit and check up on you.

You scorned their visits, they always left the house messy, and you; exhausted. You have learned their pace. You let them wander around, and you do not ask them to leave anymore. They leave, on their own – unattended. With time, the words you choked on, they do not really matter.

What if you could’ve stopped them, what if they stayed, what if the world wasn’t such a terrible place – fantasies.

Trans Visibility Day

It was trans visibility day today. No one can imagine the happiness my heart felt today, even I have no words to describe it. I am so happy for each one of them. I kept going through posts after post, my heart was blooming but there was a tinge of sadness – heartbreak. I am a woman, some days I am really proud of my identity; maybe the trauma womxn have endured forces me to take pride in this identity or maybe I am too used to being the one who is always overlooked. Some days, I hate belonging to this category. I have never ending questions about my misery. Couldn’t god do this the other way around? Can I wake up and just be? Don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t be more ecstatic for my trans friends, but my heart also feels envy. I spent countless nights tossing in the bed, I was told to get rid of these sinister thoughts – sin. Everyone craves home, and what do you do when your own body isn’t a home for you? Explore it, decorate it, exhibit it. You will get used to it. You have to get used to it. I am still homeless. This body unnerves me. I am getting by, but some days, I want my existence to cease. The pain leaves me exhausted, and I can not fight it anymore. Oh, only if I had the luxury to build a new home, my own home. Only if god had done it the other way around. I would have decorated my home.