of safety blankets

I lay on our bed last night, wide awake, worrying that I didn’t know what to do with the blog. I haven’t been feeling like writing lately, because I never have the time.

But as I stared at the ceiling in the dark, I became aware of how his arms and legs are always wrapped around me like a blanket as we sleep – a blanket that I couldn’t, wouldn’t ever want to imagine having to sleep without. If I pull away, he’ll ask if I’m okay, and fall back into sleep without waiting for an answer. In a few moments, he’ll realize I’m not glued to him, so he’ll find me and tuck me back into his chest. You may see this as corny but I can’t tell you how exhilarating it is to feel safe and loved and protected, especially if it’s something you have not experienced before.

And then it hit me. It’s not like I don’t have the time. I just don’t want to do anything without him. Every waking moment is somehow about us, about him and me and our love. I barely survived his trip to Bangalore. I had to wear his unwashed t-shirts, go to sleep in his dirty shorts, stalk his Facebook profile for hours to be able to live. I can’t live like this is all I could manage to say to him every time we spoke before breaking into hysterical sobs.

And now that I am expected to travel for work for a month, I don’t want to is all I can think about. Because when he’s not there, I feel like I’m drowning, like the world will consume me and there will be nothing when he gets back.

Ironically, that’s exactly how I feel when he is around. I feel like he’s consuming me and there’s nothing left for the world. I feel irreverent for so casually sidelining all the other blessings in my life.

This is how I was with my first husband, and it bothers me.

Could it be that I am always looking to be in a relationship that draws me in and keeps me safe? Do I need to pull away a little bit to be able to see things clearly?

I don’t know. Do you?

of malice

At first I decided not to write about this; to not tell you what happened tonight. But I’ve come to depend on this sharing. When I can’t figure out how I’m feeling, writing to you seems to be my only way out. So here goes.

Much against Mister’s advice, I went out dancing, alone. We fought about it – he was concerned about my safety and I was concerned about my mental health. I haven’t done anything other than work-sleep-work for the last two weeks and I’ve had it. My life is a fucking nightclub, and I’m starting to feel out of place. Again.

I’d have let it go, but today was one of those days when I just couldn’t bear being indoors anymore; I couldn’t bear being the. weaker sex. It felt like I was dissolving into the shadows little by little – becoming nothing in his absence. Like I didn’t exist as an individual. Who says good girls can’t go dancing alone?

So I went to that club to sit in that stool by the bar. And secretly, to see if A. was going to be there. I hadn’t met him since he told me he was in love with me. After what happened last time, would he even acknowledge my presence?

Maybe not. But somehow, I needed to know tonight – I needed to know that I owned his heart. It’s not like I wanted to act on it, but I have been attracted to him for a long time, and I needed to know he was still in love with me. Does that make sense?

To be honest, I wasn’t sure whether to go in, so I stood outside for a few minutes, trying to make up my mind.

Another couple that frequents the place dragged me inside, and A. was the first thing I saw.

But he was wrapped in a pair of arms – and those arms belonged to someone I know intimately. Someone who knows about my history with A and how I feel about him. They were swaying to a song. My song. And when I asked Giggles to meet me today, she told me she was busy with work.

How long has she been lying to me for?

of flaws

She’s so… spunky, he’s saying. Obviously they’re talking about you.

I’ve always wanted to be with a woman like that. Driven. Independent. Confident. Sexy. She walks into a room and turns heads. She’s the hottest woman and the coolest friend rolled into one. You know what I mean?

You’re inching closer. You don’t want him to know you’re eavesdropping. She’s the kind of woman that makes you always want to hold on to, he says. You smile. You believe him.

Well, almost. You know he loves you, but always? You’ve never liked the idea of always. You know either of you can’t be absolutely loyal. It’s not in you. Both of you like being loved too much for your own good.

Also, he likes to be needed. All men do. You don’t know how long it’ll be before he realizes that you’re too driven. Too independent. Soon he will see that you can find your way around the world even without him; you don’t need a man to give you safety or money or happiness.

You know his reverence will eventually turn into resentment and that’s why the whole concept of always is so fucking flawed.

 

of little ironies

You know how when you’re little you want your wedding to be just perfect; how you imagine yourself in a bright red saree with a gold border, gold jewelry that is just the right size, hair done up in a neat little bouffant, and makeup that makes you look radiant; how you just know your family and friends are going to fawn over you as you get mehendi applied to your palms; and how much you want the photographs to be beautiful and candid at the same time? You know how you play that gooey-as-hell Kabhi Kabhi song again and again in your head, picturing yourself and your dreamboat in the sequence instead of Amitabh and his ugly consort?

I don’t.

of blown covers

No time today except to drop a quick note to document how he knows about me being anawnimiss. He was suspicious for a long time and I had no idea what gave me away at first but it was this post that confirmed his suspicion. Apparently I’ve told him I think he is a little like Howard Roark.

So much for anonymity!

Sure, I want to pour out my soul, want him to know everything. But I don’t ever want to talk about these things.

I want the transparency, but not the judgment.

That is why he’s not going to read my blog anymore. He promised.