It felt like I was on an eternal sabbatical from writing. This eternity has been a consequence of several reasons, mostly unavoidable. Nevertheless, it made me feel almost brain dead. As if I was no longer capable of a cogent thought. In the past two months, I felt anxious, bitter and regrettable on most days. I was ranting – a lot to myself, much to my husband, a little less to my mother and at times even to my children. As if my existence was under attack or worse my identity was altered into an unrecognizable being who’s only concern was to keep the house proper and running.
I have been a passionate and proud home-maker, enjoying every chore that comes with it – cooking for the family, cleaning the corners, tending to my plants, caring for the old and the young, and taking upon every task that does not make it to any list of work or responsibilities. I liked doing it, keeping my home pretty and proficient. Then why was I so acrid and irritable about it now? It was surely not physical exhaustion. There was a real anguish inside me about my mental decrepitation.
I was disappointed by the person I was becoming – surly and stressed. Finally, I sat down on my mat, shut my eyes, and observed the overwhelming storm of emotions creeping over me. It wasn’t easy to deal with it because the truth about yourself is the hardest to accept.
I have created and carried an image of myself – an image which is a product of 42 years of innumerable encounters, accounts, achievements, failures, rejections, applause, relationships, conversations and more. The end outcome is that I look at myself not with arrogance but a certain unmistakable elitism. I assign myself a seat of intelligence, privilege and opinion at the table. And writing has been instrumental in achieving this. A pivotal personal validation. The only way to conform to myself that I am more than what meets the eye. At the same time, others’ reactions to my thoughts and words only reboot and revitalize this carefully constructed self-image ever so instantly.
But now, while I was doing little more than organizing the kitchen and vacuuming the house, my silk-stocking self-image was thwarted. I wasn’t able to live a projection of myself that I have liked to build. However, as I observed my every jangled nerve, it dawned on me that it was neither the work that I was doing nor the work which I wasn’t doing that caused the unease. It was the inability to accept a different/diminished (in my own eyes) version of myself that was upsetting my ego. I was a prisoner of my own image, trapped in its narcissism and suffocated by its expectations.
The realization has set me free somewhat. I am more at peace with myself whether I do something, anything or nothing at all. I am attempting to break my own mould, fall out of love with my own image and accept myself anew every day.
Photo by Darya Sannikova: https://www.pexels.com/photo/woman-about-to-step-on-mirror-on-floor-2383196/
