Friday, February 20, 2015


It was his commendations that bothered me. I neither sought his approbation nor desired his wrath. Usually he was accustomed to function within the interstices. And his marked propensity for irony, usually latent and unarticulated, suddenly attenuated into shards of diffuse praise. And praise for nothing else but my sagacity in not letting him down which he misconstrued as a proof of my regard, a regard which obviated his unexpressed misgivings about his own reality.
As for me i seethed with animadversions but kept silent. His self regard took a twofold form. Not only did he convince himself, with unequivocal conviction, of his singular veracity but also impugned, though unconsciously, my own intelligence. Uncertain as to how i would negotiate this troublesome development i eschewed excoriation. I played along, fabricating my biding of time as a demonstration of my authenticity. Fool that he was, and how i now regret this pat objurgation, i became complacent.
I often wondered why i strove to please him so. Why when his empty grandiosity was palpable to me i protracted my involvement in this space i should already have relinquished with precipitant promptitude. That i did stay on proved to me that a metaphysical inanition desiccates me at the prospect of having to choose. It is a proclivity i hesitate to label escapist. Its inertia and ennui is imbedded in my psychologically. The engendering of inaction prolongs discomfiture and that is exactly what did occur.
What happened then was that two levels of intersection occurred between the two of us. At one level he superimposed his blueprint and i succumbed. At a substratum i grated and chafed against this containment. I was pinioned, entrapped, albeit ,in a certain measure, with my own complicity. Our consciousnesses diverged psychically though a simulacrum of coherence was externally discernible. But the battle of wills was fought silently. In me half hearted self abnegation mingled with unconstrained anger coalesced with complete immovability of any sense of volition.
Insidiously though i began seeing his worldview. Initially it augmented my piquant empathy for him but subsequently it became a worrisome self denial which was inveigled though as i said, with my collusion. While his incandescence preponderated in my mind my own reality became subfusc, tenebrous. And it wasn't even love. I alluded to my subterranean awareness of his machinations. But processes of inner transmogrification and nebulous and ineffable. To guard against this lapse into primevality requires self awareness.
When my disquiet metamorphosed into volition is another process that is amorphous. I daresay an analyst would put together a makeshift explanation. I incline to a view that the mysteriousness of our inner psyche transcends rational explanation. Had i listened to my unconscious would i have show a truthfulness to a part of me that was intra real? Or was my extrication from my predicament, rendered ineluctable by self protection, a higher form of apotheosis? I can only hazard that the truth lies somewhere in between.

Thursday, February 19, 2015


It was his sympathy that unnerved me. When i told him, with barely concealed self pity, about my history of depression ,i was surprised to find, instead of incredulity , a certain compassion. I had thought that by evincing self composure i had waylaid him from his misgivings about me. I felt i concealed quite adroitly. Yet my disclosure seemed to affirm to him something he had already worked out and thought through beforehand. Either, and this remains indeterminate, i was crystallizing his preconception or affirming his doubt.
Over a period of time i began to doubt his compassion itself. He never impugned me or judged me but he demonstrated, in his mien, a certain stoicism that hinted at an unarticulated objurgation. I wasn't behaving embarrassingly. I was carrying out my work , if not fully competently, at least unobjectionably. Granted a torpor beset me at times, an inertia assailed me but i bounced back pretty fast. Throughout it all he was inveterately patient , self effacing and non interfering. These had always seemed to be attributes that augmented my sense of independence. Suddenly they hinted at a detachment,a philosophic dispassion that i found unbearable.
Compassion became condescension, at least in my aegis. His averred impersonality intensified my loneliness. At times i wished for an interchange, a mutual converse so that he didn't inhabit a superior position. I could discern his self righteousness but eschewed pointing it out, fearing that our already growing gulf would become unbridgeable. Besides his own pathology was unbeknownst to him. Any intimation from me would be highly unwelcome and might precipitate an irrevocable sundering. That was what i feared, more than anything else.
There was a phase of depression that lasted three months. I was in a bottomless abyss that seemed unending. I couldn't move, eat or perform ablutions. He ministered to me assiduously but the absence of any emotional interchange, did, in retrospect protract my phase of unhappiness. I was lumpish, an encumbrance and he bore the weight of my distress heroically. At any rate that is what he thought himself to be doing.
But i was tired of this facsimile of a life. I wanted to penetrate his self complacence . I wanted to break through the barricades of his self regard. Would the knowledge attendant on such a course of action be bearable? Could i survive it? Or would we get to a point where we could really talk to each other? This festering uncertainty traumatizes me. I can't find a way around my predicament. A confrontation is unavoidable. It is likely that my latent preconceptions might prove to be true. It is equally likely that i may discover something unexpected and unanticipated. Or i could just walk out, to seek a reprieve from this incessant self doubt.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015


I seem to have been unable to forget my father's death. He died of non hodgkin's lymphoma. It was a protracted suffering and his last years were very painful. We were witness to his inexorable demise. There were many moments when we wished he'd die sooner and faster, if only to be relieved of his suffering. He was never querulous, demanding, fractious. He bore the burden of his illness with calm courage. I think consciously he knew the end was near but never when. He extracted from this interlude of ill health all the intellectual joys and delights he could. He left behind stacks of diaries, culled from painful experiences, redolent of past healthier days and suffused with penetrating observations about how to negotiate a life with the exigencies of ill health, with the accompaniment of good cheer.
After his death, the very after i felt anger, anger that his suffering had been extended so long and that he felt profound discomfort in his body.Chemotherapy had failed him. I was angry with his doctors for not devising a better prophylactic, i was angry with him for bearing up initial signals of distress than take speedy action. His lump he dismissed as a lipoma and the cataclysm unravelled therefrom. We all loved him deeply but towards the end i felt for him a yearning, piquant, astringent emotion that i couldn't quite define. In retrospect, it was this anger.
I told my partner the day he died to come over. She stood by me, her hand on my shoulder, with a gentle squeeze. I regretted calling her, having her witness my grief but i needed the presence of someone calm and composed to get me through this traumatic interlude. Any death, however anticipated, leaves behind a bewilderment. And despite my rational coming to terms with the fatality, even in advance, i couldn't contain the tides of tumultuous feelings that buffeted me.
What i also bemoaned, though never articulated, was the absence of rancour on my father's part. I was experiencing anger as much on his behalf as of mine. My partner and i fucked indefatigably throughout the night. In the shadow of mortality we strove to, with the gentle rhythms of our undulating flesh, affirm a modicum of life. The morning after i was numb and undemonstrative. So our commingling was but a simulacrum but one that still obviated the distress of a lonesome night which, given that my siblings were away, would have been inevitable.
I've been reading through my father's journals.It seems that he had an insight into my unconscious as he wrote. He enjoins ,in psychic despair, the intervention of an analyst. He counsels patience in allowing the process of grief to take its natural course, the necessity of a communal sharing and giving back in reciprocity. And all this he adumbrates as lessons he learnt himself when our mother died before him. His words, transmuted from her unconscious to his now make their way into mine. I feel momentarily a burst of resentment at being talked down to. I experience a moment of hatred so intense that had my parents been there i'd have murdered them. Eventually, though, love prevails.

Monday, February 16, 2015


He was habitually accustomed to awkward demonstrations of regard wherein his proclamations seemed more like objurgations. He used to tell me 'I love you despite everything you are'. It always seemed incredibly condescending to me as though he were conceding or deferring to my dark side. He felt it evinced his veracity in love. I didn't protest or inveigle my counter balancing rejoinder. Rather our repartee continued though i inwardly withdrew from him.
It is not as though i don't know i have a dark side. Everybody does and it is wise to accept it. With him, it felt like he was patronizing me because whenever i tried to point out to him things about him i did not like he would shut me up or detach himself. I sensed a double standard there. Why must he not accept his own darkness given that he was so keen on pointing out mine, telling me, in effect, that he loved me in spite of it. I wanted my good points focused on, i wanted my brighter side given importance. And he was having none of that.
I exist on no easy terms with my unconscious. Its intimations discomfit me immeasurably. If i were adroit enough to repress it or circumvent its insidious encroachments i might be better off. But committed as my conscious mind is to honesty, considering its ineffectualness in effectuating a process of denial and avoidance which, though indicative of dissimulation, are also survival tools, i forbore to suppress. Though i did try to sidestep its more precipitant suggestiveness. I needed to survive.
Which is why when he tells me that he loves me despite my dark side i feel doubt. Because who could love my dark side. Would anyone not leave me to be with a better person because my darkness is so negative. And as i said earlier he resists my pointing out his own. I've given up any attempt at closeness. It is bound to fail. I hope, though against the very grain of the hope i hope for, that things would change. I don't think they will.
Ultimately, though, his negation of my iridescence bothers me the most. Whenever he speaks of love he draws attention to the crepuscular, never to the luminous. His own evasions are his mechanisms to stay afloat and i am generally respectful of such self concealment in any person. But he has yanked open, with importunate though, to him, loving intent , the antechamber of my unconscious. My visage is grotesque, my consciousness disembodied. In making me feel agreeable he has instituted a self scrutiny so irrevocable that i can do nothing but surrender to its overtures. Had such a process of excoriation been unrealized i might have forgiven him this lapse as contretemps. But i intend to drive home to him, through the darkness he has unearthed in me, the animadversions and antipathies immanent in him. Such recompense seems befitting.


I remember, when he almost raped me, the supine terror i felt. For a moment, i felt a sense of stupor so intense that i almost collapsed with torpor. But just at the moment when my limbs unwittingly froze i felt an energy seizing me. I bunched up my fingers into a fist and smashed his nose and kept smashing until he let go. His nose had bled and streaks of blood striated my palm. Poltroon of pusillanimity that he seemed, he rushed off. I was still shaken and atremble but i had averted a danger, a danger that had seemed insuperable but one which i managed to circumvent not only assiduously but emphatically.
Strangely enough whenever i dreamt of him, i recalled, not his physiognomy or countenance prior to my reflex action but after it. His mashed nose, which he cupped in his palms so fearfully, rose up disembodied in my dreams. His eyes were reproachful and his mien congealed with incredulity. In my tenebrous dreamscape i was often raped by him or lay spreadeagled after the monstrosity he inflicted on me. What i was imagining was an alternate scenario where he had triumphed and i had succumbed to the helplessness of my slumberous limbs, rendered supine by terror. I complimented myself on my perspicacity, with certain self congratulation. I had acted instinctively, in blind panic, unmindful of future causality. I had felt entrapped and wanted to strike out because being pinioned stifled me, made me breathless with constricted breathing.
I saw him again,travelling by bus, a few days afterwards. His nose was heavily bandaged. Our eyes met, across the distance and i turned on him a gaze of such ire and withering scorn that he dropped his eyes. I kept fastened on him, the contemptuousness of my gaze and perhaps the incandescence of my rage unmanned him sufficiently to avert his gaze. Whether his execrable propensities had been uprooted by my precipitate counter onslaught remains uncertain to me. But his self assurance had received a dent and i was grateful for that.
After the bus incident many other dreams consecutively followed. I alternated between dreaming of being raped or affronting the rapist. His face, always lucid, blurred and was superimposed by many other countenances, some shadowy and indistinct, others emanations of my unconscious mind. Suddenly.though I had managed to avert rape I became obsessed by rape. The thought of rape had been inhabited in my consciousness only spectrally, in a subterranean vault of forgetfulness. Now it reared up and overwhelmed me. I have to confess that some of these nightmares turned into pleasurable fantasies where I wasn’t being raped but was in control in the sexual mechanism, often seeking pleasure from the very men who I had dreamt were raping me in my earlier dreams. The oppressor and the pleasure giver coalesced on many occasions, much to my discomfiture. Where I had anticipated and projected disquiet, where I had felt threatened, even if unconsciously, now became a pleasurable realm.
What also seemed realizable, consequent upon my analysis of these dreams was the disconcerting fact that very often, be it in the sexual realm or otherwise, those who give pleasure can give immeasurable pain too. Had I actually been raped my consciousness would be completely altered. I would be traumatized, beset by unutterably horrifying nightmares. Nor do I think that my own ambivalent dreams demonstrated my ambiguity about sexual predators. All I did was transmute the unknown into the familiar only to come to terms with the complexity of my unconscious. Yes, I was nearly raped. But that doesn’t mean my life is over. It means that as a woman I have desires too which I have every right to fulfill as a man would. A cataclysm is not an end but a new beginning for me, with a stronger, self contained and evolving me.

Sunday, February 15, 2015


His craftiness is adroit and his patina of agreeableness deceptive. And this carapace is discernible to me right from the beginning of our friendship. I don't pay it too much credence because a certain guilelessness deepens friendship. Yet it is a misgiving i cannot negate.
I do ,you know, figure people out. I think it's because i am smart enough to realize that what people say is not what they are. And if i trust what you say and you prove unworthy of that trust then i will be hurt deeply. I won't be able to get over it because it is a breaking of trust.
Penumbra predominates. Lucent surfaces are chimerical. The luminous and the tenebrous conglomerate into indeterminacy. But the kaleidoscope is variegated and reality multifarious. The mosaic is ,after all, a commingling of different arabesques. Each turn and shift reshapes reality, transmogrifies consciousness. It is a prestidigitation that is imperceptible yet immutable.
He has a definite sense of ego boundaries. But i am sagacious is locating a narcissism. It is a self regard that seeks regard for itself as it would regard itself. Sometimes his superego makes him impetuously reproachful.He has repressed his id very effectively. Yet it continues to act up , raise its repressed indubitability in many ways. His patina ,which i alluded to, is compensation for an intrinsic inadequacy. Sometimes he seems almost borderline in this vacillation of which he is unaware though he dreams vividly.
There is a dissonance between his being and becoming. In that the self he believes he is or is and the self he would like to be are underpinned by a schism, the schism of an interface between the actual and the possible.Though the actual and the conceptualized do ipso facto, converge and ricochet off each other. It is a logos whose epistemology is its own telos. And the telos becomes fluidly, continually.