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I hate a million things about me, so does this neighbour and that classmate and probably those people on the street too. But would we want to change every single thing on that list? Maybe yes, most probably no; because our imperfections make us who we are. There are so many resources that voice the same opinion, ’embrace those imperfections’. We should be categorizing imperfections though, shouldn’t we? Because there are some flaws which would make life so much easier without existing.

The number one on my list of cringe worthy fatal flaws (I’m not legendary enough to use the word ‘hamartia’), is overthinking. My mind is like that hamster which goes into overdrive and runs on its cage wheel at 1 in the morning. It’s a tragedy to constantly be under the scrutiny of my overthinking eyes, ears, and well sometimes the entire body. I have a five minute fight with a friend, and it replays in my head from ten different directions for the next five days with fifty different commentaries accompanying each replay. Imagine living like that, where every single thing you do/say/feel comes with a lot of, usually harsh, mental commentaries. Think of a reproducing amoeba, from two to four to eight and so on. That’s how my overthinking brain fuctions. If someone points out something that’s not right, I’ll be thinking about it all day long. I’ll get angry, then analyse my anger, then go through the other five stages of grief, and end up blaming myself and hating myself for being that way.

Exam went bad? Overthink. Didn’t find a nice dress? Overthink. Fight with a friend? Overthink. Spill juice? Overthink. Breathe? Overthink. Currently, I’m overthinking about overthinking so much. There’s also this sister problem of overthinking, which is drawing conclusions on the most ridiculous tangents. I have a mean, really mean temper. Chances are, if you get into an argument with me, I’ll drag you into the ring of absurdity, break down your words and implicate them in the most unbeleiveable way. I’m really talented in that sense.

I got into an argument with a friend the other day, offended him and then in turn got offended by him taking offence. Now, I feel I should be apologizing but I also feel like I’m too stupid of an arse to repeat the same thing, so I should probably back off.

So, congratulations on finishing reading this hardly comprehensible journal entry of an extremely overthinking person. I guess, I’ll go try and talk to this friend and make conjectures about why his phone is busy…maybe he’s bitching about me? Maybe he blocked me? Maybe? Maybe not.



  1. I’m consciously making mistakes. There, I said it. I carry these mistakes in a sealed envelope that reads “Provoked Actions”, but really, I know I’m just making excuses. It’s me from point A to point B. I don’t want to take the blame, I want to crib and complain. I am aware of the duplicity I’m brewing inside.
  2. He’s wrong for me in a million ways. So wrong, so different, just so not-for-me. But I love him. I love him despite the differences. We can’t survive, we are walking on cracked glass, but I want him there, walking beside him. I can’t get rid of his perfume lingering in all the memories. I can’t look at him without wanting to hold his face and kiss him. He’s so wrong for me. I can’t stay a day without talking to him. I want all of him, here, now and forever. Because he’s so wrong for me.
  3. How far can paperwork take you? I have read about it, researched about it.  I’m clinging onto the edges of a torn tablecloth, hoping to live a little longer. I get so tired all the time. Too tired to try. Why do I have to fight the same battle twice? It’s impossible.
  4. It’s coming back. All of it. In bits and pieces, in installments. The flashbacks are playing on a loop, the sickness is hitting again, living is becoming unbearable. The escapism, the vertigo, the breathlessness, the crying, the anger, the aggression, the hatred, it’s all coming back. Am I going back to the psych ward?
  5. I’m doing so well with the mania. So well. I’m doing great with the depression too. I read bipolarity can’t be cured. I want it to go away, all of it. I want to be cured. Is there a place I can beg for it?



It’s clichĂ©d to have hearts broken.

It’s clichĂ©d to cry over it for days.

It’s clichĂ©d to lose appetite over it.

It’s clichĂ©d to indulge in distractions.

It’s clichĂ©d to stay there in the blanket of memories and forever missing.

It’s clichĂ©d to drown the unsaid in the smoke of cigarettes.

It’s clichĂ©d to watch the sunset and not realize it’s rising again.

It’s clichĂ©d to play smiles and tears over and over like a midnight love song on a loop.

It’s clichĂ©d to not want to throw away the quilt in the warmer half of March, even though there’s sweat and tears and discomfort.

It’s clichĂ©d to stay up late watching everything that’s despicable because being a masochist is clichĂ©d too.

It’s clichĂ©d to go back to the same places and do the same things, but alone.

It’s clichĂ©d to sleep to dreams of a pulsating heart and wake up to a bleeding one.

It’s clichĂ©d to not give up on it.

It’s clichĂ©d to harbor false hope.

It’s clichĂ©d to count days, weeks, months of what would’ve been.

It’s clichĂ©d to remember the forgotten in new places and old objects.

It’s clichĂ©d to double over in pain every other night and yet vomit a little more the next time.

It’s clichĂ©d to fool the mind into believing the memories will wither and die soon.

It’s clichĂ©d to go back to square one in the spaces between laughs and sobs.

It’s clichĂ©d to die a little when the forgotten face pricks the back of the mind.

It’s clichĂ©d to die slowly and then all at once, seeing the shadows of what was in what is to be.

Because, after all,

It’s clichĂ©d to have hearts broken.



“don’t mistake salt for sugar…”

Poetry kills me. Rupi Kaur kills me, her milk and honey ripped my soul apart and I stood staring at it for hours. Honestly, I never imagined that the intense emotions I felt could be put down in words so beautifully and shockingly. Shocking, yes, that’s the best way to put it. Everything that I feel and have felt suddenly came back and hit me like a tidal wave. It hurts so bad to relive life’s miseries and tragedies, and yet, in order to get closure, you have to relive them. I don’t really know when would I be able to get closure or when would I be brave enough to face the past again. It haunts me every day, the colors it splashed all over me are yet to fade and I am still tripping in my steps. Sometimes I wonder how long it’s going to take for me to be a whole person again. The patchwork, the glue and tape, the broken pieces, all of it makes me so difficult to deal with, and it’s not just personally, everyone in my life struggles with me. Imagine that cliched instance of a doe in front of headlights in the dark, that exact insane confusion hits me every now and then. The car in front is about to hit me, what do I do? “Nothing, just blank out”, respond my reflexes. It’s amazing how negative and hopeless a person can be. I feel guilty and desperate all the time, for feeling the way I do. Because you know, it bothers people and the hopelessness travels, from me to my friend across the table and it’s really so hopeless. I shouldn’t be apologetic for the way I feel and yet I do, because I feel like a constant bother. I lose my patience with myself, hell knows what the other person dealing with me feels.

Bipolarity sucks. Everything I feel has to be in extremes, extreme happiness and extreme despair. Mountains on that ECG graph describe how pathetic it is to be a human pendulum of emotions. At times I feel as if I’m not doing enough to be happy or to manage my state, at others, I feel I’m doing the best I can and it just isn’t working. How long am I going to be this way? It’s already been almost 6 years of me struggling with depression, 3 years of being diagnosed and 2 of trying to get back on my feet. I wish I could “snap out of it” like some people advise. I wish I didn’t function according to impulses and moods. On top of it, I keep pushing myself into destructive situations, like a romantic relationship, complicated friendships and anger driven decisions. I have a love-hate relationship with almost everyone close to me, be it family or friends. Relationships affect me so much that I had to cut off a lot of them to be more in control of my senses. I give up on people, and I hold grudges, I give everything when I am in love, the happy parts are just as wild as the sad ones, and all of this makes life so complicated. I love my ex so much that I keep making up imaginary situations and hope against hope for things to go back to being the way they are; I hate him for being able to move on and deal more maturely with the whole break up phase. I constantly battle with getting over him and figuring out what went wrong. I read or watch things that influence me into being more sensible or more restless. It’s horrible really, it’s an eternal hotch-potch inside my head.

When someone says I’m doing great recovering, I question it. Is that a joke or am I really doing well? Well, my head’s a mess, I am impulsive and my immunity is completely wrecked. I am still self destructive and suicidal. What am I doing right? Forcing myself to fake it till I make it? Sometimes I repeat “I’m happy” in my head over and over, it helps on certain days, doesn’t on others. I am trying to be okay, really trying, but I really can’t figure out if I’m making any progress or am I still stuck at square one.


Three years ago, when I had taken up Political Science, every single day I would question my choice. I felt unprepared, inadequate and just ill-fitting, sitting there in that classroom with those people. Today, three years later, when I see these Literature texts scattered in front of me, I feel as if this is a challenge I can live up to, a choice that befits me, a second chance that I will forever be grateful for. Yes there definitely are moments when words just zoom past my head and speeches whizz past my ears, but it doesn’t make me want to give up. It’s okay, I can live with momentary lapses because between those moments of vaccum, I feel alive and I feel at home. 

I don’t know the entire alphabet of this discipline, but it doesn’t scare me. I’ll get there, that’s what I tell myself everyday. Beyond the lectures on Althusser or Irigaray, I will find a place, in fact, I think I see my place already, it’s just a matter of getting there.

It’s funny how in the most compressed of spaces right now, the stressed time before exams, I am taking time to realize how much I love doing what I am doing right now. Even when it’s 1.18 in the morning and I have loads to cover, I have that warm feeling of tea in a cup, that strange happiness, a strange adrenaline rush to do this and more. Rushing doesn’t tire me, stagnation does. So whether sleep evades me or whether so many things are going wrong in life, this is what is acting like my comforting cookie. 

So I’m guessing the struggle is paying off, not in medals but in this satisfactory way, the realization that I made the right decision, finally, after a tragic tragedy. 


Once again, I’ll be waking up in the morning and regretting everything I did the night before. Like pouring my heart out or maybe avoiding reality. Or perhaps, it will be something minor like skipping dinner and eating cheese at midnight. But I will do it. Inevitably. I am going to wake up, look for my phone, put on my headphones and play the stale track from two nights ago. Then I’ll rewind and replay last night’s tragedy, and forget the little happy moments squeezed in between solid everyday tragedies. I’ll drink up my medicine and wait till the warmth of the bed runs out. I’ll make a weird hair bun and stare at my weirdly round face in the mirror. I’ll spend the day being hungry after meals and making mental notes on impulses. To-do lists will be torn, crumpled and thrown, guilt will be followed by a hot cup of tea and college texts. At 4 in the evening, when the sunlight filters into a golden hue, I’ll flip a coin and decide to either go sleep while the maid plays a symphony of unwashed dishes, or I’ll pick up a soddy playlist and go to the terrace. A couple of average pictures with above-average filters will be clicked and instagram-ed, the November cold will tighten hoodies and socks will have to be pulled up. Stairs will be descended and fairylights switched on. Among those prosthetic stars in golden, silver, pink, and purple, an old lover will be missed and anxious heartbeats will creep in. Pretentious smiles will be passed on to the concerned family and excuses made to avoid conversations. Each day, it will get worse or it will get better, it’ll be an ECG graph on life’s map. By the time this head space is cleared, a cup of lemon tea will be passed around and the day would near a montonous end. More medicines and monotonous thoughts will follow, impulsive texts would be sent, some tasks crossed off the list, all on adrenaline. By the time a horrible tasting mug of lukewarm milk with a tinge of tumeric will make its way up my lips, the please-make-me-cry playlist will be blaring in my ears. More regrettable activity or inactivity will haunt the mind till sleep drags its way to my insomniac body and mind. And then, once again, I’ll wake up and clip back my hair. Maybe it’ll be a good day and I’ll wash my hair. I might blow dry and sit in the sun. I hope it’s a good day tomorrow, because today I cried after losing another battle.


This is how every single day, around this time, turns out to be. I have semester end examinations coming up and a pretty boring preparatory leave. The thing about being such a moody, bipolar, depressed, perennially pessimistic person is that you spend more time thinking of negative adjectives than actually trying to get up and feel the sunshine. I had a good thanksgiving, with a major chicken craving fulfilled. I survived another day and I am going to remember that sunset and dwarved buildings from my friend’s terrace. I will also remember the comfort of a presence on the other side of a phone call, the comfort which I lost today. Today’s tragedy has me numbed and I had been bracing myself for days, months actually. It’s funny how you can never be prepared enough for pain or heart-wreck. It’ll still hit like a horrible nightmare, only worse, because it’s reality.