When she sees her friends in Spain, she thinks she’s more deserving of being there. When she sees a friend with a foreigner husband, she wishes she had one of those. Then she wants an exotic one, with mixed blood.
When she’s told her friend’s an astronaut, she wishes she had studied more. When she’s told he’s an artist, she’s unhappy she isn’t.
When she sees an ant, she feels superior for not stepping on it.
When she sees friends in America, she thinks she’s more suited to England. Secretly, she’d rather be in America, Australia, New Zealand or a hip part of her town.
She feels pathetic she doesn’t have a car, or a house in her name, or a career to make her happy. Or parents to rely on. She thinks of all the things she could have been. Of what she deserves to be.
The girl is me. And it’s hard being her.
A lot of people who read this blog now, are people who have known me as a child, a teen, a young adult. You know my family. You know superficially where I come from. You know my parents from social dinners.
I can’t tell you how glad I am that you found me and I found you.
But this is my blog. I’m going to have to say things you may not know, which may disturb you. I’m sorry to put you in that position.
But this is my blog. And sometimes, I may not talk about my dog and my husband. I may talk about how unhappily married my parents have always been. I may talk about my struggle with being happy and grateful for what I have.
I may talk about how hard I am trying to stay married. About not drinking, so that I don’t go home and try to slit my wrists again. So that Tushar doesn’t have to stay awake all night to keep all sharp objects away from me. Or push me into the shower cause I’m babbling.
Believe me when I say I am aware of how dramatic this sounds. I try not to be this person every minute.
But on days that I do, can we look the other way? Or not judge my family? Or only comment if you have felt the same and can help me overcome?
I would really appreciate that.