Tag Archives: living in denial

Living In An Illusory World.

Writers and readers are hopelessly romantic. They live in a fictional world, and tend to be unacceptable to the real world. They immerse themselves so much in a world, which does not exist that they deviate and forget that they live in a world, which does exist. They seek pleasure in something, which is unreal, and shirk their responsibilities towards reality. They live in denial; they live with indifference. They do not live in actuality. Myth engulfs them so strongly that pragmatism and logic become their adversaries. These writers and readers do not know how the real world works.”

This, my friend, is an allegation on me today. But what can I say to this?

May be I am irrational. May be I don’t think practically. May be I shed off my responsibilities, may be I do live in too many worlds at a point of time. May be I am hopelessly romantic. May be I do live in denial. May be I live in a fictional world, and may be I really do not know how this “real world” works?

But does anyone actually know the difference?

All I got to say about this is,

“I have lived a thousand lives and I have lived a thousand loves. I’ve walked on distant worlds and seen the end of time. Because I read.” –George R. R. Martin.

Yes, I read and I write and most of the times I immerse myself so much in these two things that I forget the real from unreal. I can barely make what was true and what was a dream. I forget the real world in the process of making a beautiful world for myself where I can live. And many a times I don’t want to come back from there, well, most of the times. And what’s more? I can’t. I can’t just do that. I have to come back.

So is that not enough? Is it not enough that I have to come back, and I do come back into the so-called real world and try to live in it.

Is it not enough that I live a life, which I don’t want to?

My story: Of how I started writing!

A few years back, back in 2010-2011 around, I wasn’t this person that I am today. I was scared of everything, I was may be the most immature person you would have ever met, and may be, even the most depressed one. No one could tell then, not even my friends and family members. I had that talent in me, of hiding things, of hiding feelings. Come to think of it, I still have that talent, but I can safely say that I am not that person now, not anymore. I have moved out of that zone, for my own good.

It took me three years? Yes, I am that slow. I spent three years of my life crying and being helpless. I know you’d say, I should have known that no one is going to come and help me. I had to help myself. But I was lost then, and that’s what lost people do, they sulk. I am not saying my life stopped for those four years or so, it moved on very well. I went to school, I completed graduation, I did everything that most people my age did, but something was missing constantly.

I am sorry I am not going to mention what exactly happened, but I can mention three pointers,

A personal trauma relating family issues;

A social change,

And, being thrown into the ocean, when I did not know how to swim. (Metaphorically of course)

Anyways, my life moved on, yes it did, but I did not. I was in complete denial of what was happening. All at once.

Why did I not talk to anyone?

You think, I wouldn’t have? I did, but parents had raised a ‘strong woman’ who wouldn’t need her parents’ help every now and then, and my friend’s, well, they never seem to get me. Partying is more fun, I agree. It was not their fault. Whenever I would sit and want to talk to any one of them about my problems, it seemed they weren’t interested or at least they didn’t get me. And how would they, they weren’t in my position. Instead they felt that I kept repeating my problems, so I just stopped talking, stopped talking about my problems to them, and eventually I just stopped talking to them.

And then I lost all my friends too. I was in no way going to make new friends; I had lost faith in them.

I said them? Oh, sorry, I had lost faith in myself.

So that went on for about some time, and then I realised that my thoughts, my feelings were eating me. I couldn’t contain anything else inside of me now. I had to hold my fist tight, clench my jaws, breathe hard inside, to not to let out anything. And I could not let out anything, believe me, I just could not.

And even if I did, who would take that all in? Who would want to be surrounded by a depressed teen?

And that’s when I realised I had to do something, that’s when I borrowed comfort from a pen, loaned some security from the blank papers, fought for sanity from my own words, from my own feelings.

I am not saying it happened overnight, I am blatantly saying it might have taken me half my youth, but I did it. I came over it. I managed to conquer the harsh feelings my heart bore and I came out the person I am today, the Moushmi you all know.

That’s my story, that’s how I started writing, though blogging is what I started just a few months back. I would love to listen to your views, or better yet, how you started writing? What made you the writer you are today?