Having ranted about this for three days on Twitter, I’m worried I might be putting-off some people who follow me there. I’m also worried that in the larger scheme of things, despite how I feel, I will forget how I felt. I don’t delete tweets so those aren’t going anywhere but it is one thing to rant in 140 characters and quite another thing to formulate my thoughts for a blog post.
This blog isn’t what it used to be. I used to be freer about writing about anything, any time, with little regard to, “what will brands think?” As the business of being an “experience collector” has flourished, I’ve been spending more and more time either writing directly on paper in my Moleskine or skipping it all completely. I like writing but sometimes it is much easier to just think, re-think, over-think, down a glass of wine and hope the thoughts will disappear. They never do. Till I put them on paper, they swim around in the dark recesses of my brain, undulating tissue drenched with thoughts. I’ve tried meditation but I don’t do it consistently.
This is just the third time the boy has set off sailing since we got together. Some aspects of missing him get better, but some get worse. For example, when he left for his first trip and reported from the boat that it was a shit crew and a shit boat, I was worried. Six months of continual worry. Our frequency of contact was maybe once in seven days, if that. It was excruciating. Then he changed companies and sailed with one of his favourites. I wasn’t worried about his safety any more but I still missed him. But it was still just his second trip and we were finally not worrying about rent, so it was passable.
This third trip is just something else. It feels like someone’s sucker-punched me. I can’t breathe. There’s a weight on my chest that just refuses to move regardless of the number of wine bottles or NetFlix series. I have to force myself to draw breath and all I want to do is curl up into a ball and disappear into the blanket.
It is temporary I know. On the one-hand, the “old” me revels in this kind of self-pity and forlorn love. On the other hand, the “newish” me is appalled at said self. This fight is continual. When the “newish” me takes over, I get things done, respond to emails, take phone calls, do the laundry, shower… I’m a girl of action. But when the “old” me returns, I vegetate. As the number of days of the Boy having being gone goes up, “old” me shows up less.
The most convenient way for the Boy and me to communicate is Whatsapp. Mostly texts but sometimes voice notes too. One of the messages I sent him yesterday was how I thought this feeling of abandonment or the feeling of a void was probably good practice for when one of us dies before the other, which is inevitable. Six monthly practice, so when the actual blow hits, we’ll be able to handle it. The Boy did not respond to that, wisely. It can get morbid sometimes.
In the middle of moving house ( on my own! HELLO! ), and pitching to brands for the fashion week in March and planning the trip to Mechukha, Arunachal Pradesh in April, and planning logistics for February / March / April series of #MadeInIndia, one would think I’d have no time for self-pity. One would be wrong.