Ho ho ho, tiny mango!

*engages in frantic Cossack dancing without falling over - HAHA, ONLY ON THE INTERWEBS!*

Since I somewhat neglect the business of writing when not angry or upset, this post is intended to buck the trend.

I do indeed have a tiny mango. I sat down to eat yesterday (dinner) and it was looking up at me, laid cosily by my plate. I looked at my sister and mother in bewilderment. They returned fire with 'Yes? Your question is?' faces while chewin' away.

The mango WAS MINE!

However, I was apprehensive about taking a knife to its little baby contours and had ten billion twelve pieces of work to hand in, plus several forms via email, so hi ho, hi ho, back off to the PC I went. What felt like years later (midnight), I had sent every last mofo off. I have a horrible feeling they are going to be all 'What the fuck, why is this one written exercise in four parts?!' To which I reply: Move to Gmail so you can send and accept up to 25MB of attachments, biatches!!!!

Thus music was not made with the tiny mango, but it might be at lunch today.

Meanwhile, my sister is reliving my teens. I have told my parents again and again and again - I should just make like Joseph the stalker in Amélie and record myself saying it, to play as evidence whenever needed - getting angry at her for being upset about her divorce is USELESS. Not only is it useless, it's actively damaging. Yesterday reached a sort of break-point.

We were having dinner when my mum started talking (as she does) about how the previous day, my dad had asked her why women feel the need to be scantily-clad. In typical Mater fashion, she brought new gravitas to the phrase 'beating around the bush,' going on about how dressing like that makes people hate you (yup, I've seen that, it's often called misogyny), cotton and making my sister feel bad about the fact that she was wearing a strappy top.

Increasingly irritated, we both asked what her point was. She fired off another rambling anecdote. This one made me angry. She was talking about our sort-of-aunt criticising her 16-year-old granddaughter for having worn a top that was off both shoulders. She implied that my 16-year-old sort-of-cousin's parents were not guiding her sartorially, as they should. We asked her to get to the point. She did - and I wasn't disappointed. In classic victim-blaming style, she announced that 'if you dress like that, you invite crime upon yourself.' My sister and I retaliated, me by quoting rape figures at her and my sister by pointing out that if my mum were to get mugged, would she like it if we turned around and said 'You had a handbag, you were asking for it'?

I was quite pleased with that. However, before we even got to this stage, my sister dropped a (deliberate, I think) bombshell saying that she missed her ex. As I went back to the PC, my mum discovered that she had called him the night before. My mum went into the usual 'come down like a ton of bricks' mode. I tried to be calm and warned my sister that I would let it go, but that taking such measures wouldn't help her in the long-term, especially if she started to do it a lot.

Now, normally I wouldn't jump to my parents' line of thought so quickly, but an incident from the weekend made me worry. I went with her to her former home to pick up some things, and was shocked at how frightened she was. She almost jumped out of her skin when I got out of the car and joined her, and was shaking all over when we entered. She actually dropped her keys twice as a result. Despite my trying to gently usher her along, she went to the front room where he was and spoke to him, making small talk. Then she broke down crying silently and didn't really stop till we'd left.

So, I was worried that she was actually thinking about going back, and my mum's input didn't help. My mum told my dad as soon as he got home, which made him get angry of course. A bit later, my sister was called downstairs and then everything went horribly wrong. I was busy sending off my stuff (or trying to) and I didn't want to make things worse, so I just listened to what was said for a while.

The whole thing turned into a horrible testament to my parents' inability to listen and accept things outside their immediate understanding. The point my sister tried to make - eloquently and honestly - was that she has to keep up a front for everyone outside, and that she just wants to be able to say how she is feeling at home without my parents jumping to conclusions. That means: my dad should stop telling her to 'go back, then' just because she is upset that her marriage ended.

As I said - I have tried to emphasise enough times to my parents that they are speaking from a position of distance and logic. Sure, she SHOULDN'T be upset because she escaped an abusive twat... but that's just it - she's NOT sorry she left! She is mourning for herself and the death of her hopes as much as she is mourning the end of the marriage. Why my parents can't get that through their thick skulls, I DON'T FUCKING KNOW.

Anyway, my dad proved her point by not listening to her and getting steadily more defensive. She said that their reactions, accusing her of being weak and like my dad's sister, made her feel worse and feel like a disappointment. Despite this my dad kept:

a) saying 'I don't know how a child of mine can be so weak-minded'
b) getting aggressively defensive and making her feel guilty for not accepting his anger, because (to simplify) he rescued her and he's her father and all he does is care, and he has a right to be angry IN HIS HOUSE!
c) muttering about how she must have a 'sick' and 'twisted' psychology and saying 'Well, I just want someone to explain this to me LOGICALLY.'

I tried hard to mediate between the two parties. My parents had a point in saying that she should reduce communication with her ex - but she has. She made the point that she can't cut communication altogether just yet, and even if she did, it wouldn't make the feelings inside of her go away. That's NOT TO SAY she regretted her decision to divorce, just that she was feeling bereaved. Having gone through a break-up myself, I reflected and realised that I do understand her decision to occasionally have minor contact. It can be better than sitting there, dwelling on your ex, becoming nostalgic and then collapsing into tears and masochism.

The whole thing ended with - what else? - my sister bursting into tears while my dad grumbled and raged and then she walked out and went upstairs whilst he still sat there muttering about how 'it is a sick psychology - twisted.' I went to her a bit later and told her to just not bother trying to explain grey areas to my parents. The thing I realised, whilst speaking to TL about it all, is that my dad lives in a very black-and-white world, and - crucially - he's never had to listen. In his life to date as the head of a gurdwara, he's accustomed to being told what we wants or needs to hear. When I pointed this out to my sister, I said 'He's used to 'yes' or 'no' - there have never been any grey areas.'

It's interesting to see how much I have taken after my parents in some ways. In personality, I can be much more like my father and now I can't help wondering if he's ever had depression. I can believe it, though he'd never tell anyone or let anyone get close enough to see. It's sad, because he really is a good man, surprisingly open-minded at times, but he has grown up so defensive about what's his, and the respect and obedience that he is owed, that he can't hear others. Everything becomes an attack to which he must raise his defensive shield and fight, even when the 'attacker' in question is his own child and in need of understanding rather than rejection.

I despair!

Existence-based guilt

I meant to write a post on this before. I have meant to do it many a time. Fear of making some invisible descent into irredeemable humourlessness/congealing self-pity held me back. Plus, y'know. It's BIG SHIT. It's like serving up an elephant turd in a kitty litter box. Haha. I would be presenting you with the elephant turd (existence-based guilt) in the kitty litter box (my blog) and your eyes would roll collectively back in your heads before you fainted. Or you would go 'That's not cool, man. Get over it' before continuing about your business.

But - y'know what? THIS IS MY BLOG! That basic elementary fact eludes me sometimes - rather too much - and that in itself says a lot. I've never really had a physical place in which I felt 100% 'safe,' especially not a place which could be accessed by others. That's probably why I forget that my blog is such a place. No-one has tried to hound me out (yet). It may never happen. The length of my posts probably wears them down. Haha.

Anyway, the nub of my gist is that while my place is 'publicly-accessible,' I don't have to tolerate whatever. I take a similar line to many feminist blogs, although I've not had anywhere near the level of trolling that they have. I set it up and it belongs to me, hypothetical bitches! So now, I can proceed at last to offload.

I think I've mentioned this particular issue of mine before. In this post, here <--- look! :-D I brushed over it quickly though, as if I were simply glazing pastry with milk, or egg or... Anyway. I need to explain the whole meguillah properly. 'Existence-based guilt' is when I want to die. It's not that simple, though. Take two. 'Existence-based guilt' is when I am hurting inside - for WHATEVER REASON - and then I proceed to reach into said pain, pick it up, stretch it out even further and then stab metaphorical sharp objects into it. I make it bigger and more acute. I try to make a whole, functioning personality from it, because, you know what? When I am depressed, I am like broken pieces of a mirror. Lots of little fragments which should be related, but which aren't. I chose the mirror image not for emo appeal, but because a mirror shows a reflection. It passes no judgement in its own right. That is what my mind does when depressed - it doesn't pass judgement, it simply reacts to external stimuli in a completely irrational and suspicious manner.

I don't know who I am. That's not me being melodramatic, it's the result of a very genuine FEAR and confusion. Do you know me? Have you met me in real life? Whether or not you have, let me tell you something now: I have lived my whole life rooted in fear. You may reflect now, and think that actually, yes, you can see it. You can see slices of the fear and uncertainty in my responses to things, in my social interactions. I don't think I hide it that much, though I have been told that I am 'remarkably well-adjusted.'

Plus, y'know, you get used to living a certain way. You can FORGET that that is your life until the mirror breaks.

Ever since I was little, I have been very emphatically 'the odd one out' of my family. Now, this is nothing new. It led to a situation which was also 'nothing new': the second-generation liberal Asian female child rebelling against older, more conservative, more religious Asian parents. That is FOINE. Well, it's not, but for now it is.

The problem is not that particular conflict, but another one altogether: that of the crazed, wrong and abnormal VS. the sane, right and normal. My mother must be singled out and accorded special status here. Bluntitude time: this woman should not have had children. Or married. She should have been working on projects at NASA.

However, she was born in the India in the '50s, so... dream on. Here we are today, and here I am. For whatever reason (and I strongly suspect that it emanates largely from her own disappointment and resentment), my mother has somehow bypassed the whole 'maternal instinct and human empathy' bit.

I am extraordinarily sensitive. I don't know why, I didn't ask for it and that should be the end of the story. Unfortunately, I was (as I said) born into a family much in the manner of a cuckoo appearing in a nest. I had two older sisters who were 10 years above me, and then I got a brother who was two years younger and the youngest. My sisters hence were on the receiving end of my parents at their most energetic, erratic and maladjusted. Immigrants to this country, they underwent cultural displacement, racism and a late swing towards major religiosity inspired by guilt. Great. Naturally, the deeply-conservative values that this all reinforced, were passed on to my sisters.

Social conservatives, let it be said, do not generally look kindly upon difference. Maybe, if I had not had two older sisters, or if I had been the youngest, things might have been different. I found out years later that apparently my parents thought I was going to be a boy, which may have explained a lot.

My mother despaired of me as a child. From the start I was shy, artistic, imaginative and rebellious. She thought for a while that I might be autistic; I apparently refused to do anything but draw, and would not learn to read English until my drawing was threatened. Eventually, I started to get it together and by year 2 I was top of the class and apparently 2 years ahead of my peers ability-wise.

Then, disaster struck. I got into books. My mathematical ability vanished; my artistic inclinations deepened. My natural shyness and bullishness prevented me from being especially sociable. I've pretty much been that way ever since.

My mother despaired. She couldn't understand me - so she condemned me. In the harsh Indian world she grew up in, her father smacked her hand repeatedly when she said she 'couldn't' learn times-tables. The fact that I wasn't like her, or any of the others, meant that she had nothing with which to 'manage' me, and my brother, the much-longed-for boy, made an appearance before too long. Instead of taking time to treat me as a human being, she criticised me incessantly. Why was I so slow? So lethargic? This lethargy was not only physical but mental too, according to her. Why did I not have Asian friends? Why did I give her trouble, by refusing to acknowledge teachers who were mean to me?

On its own, I might have dealt with this. However, seeing the love my brother got made me intensely jealous. One of my earliest memories of him is of scratching out his eyes in a picture everyone loved, and being put in the garden as a punishment. I paced, weeping 'Nobody loves me, nobody loves me.' I knew that what I had done was wrong, but my parents didn't allay the terrible anxiety that I had about being replaced. My brother was beloved, and I was a problem.

My sisters, supposed to be the elders, also could not help being resentful of the lenient treatment and spoiling that my brother received. While my parents constantly made a show of how we were all equal, the hypocritical truth was always there. One way my parents made us equal was to turn any telling-off of one person into an attack on all the others. Imbibing this, my sisters were resentful not just of my brother, but of me too. In some ways, this was useful for me. In many others, it wasn't. Both were training to become healthcare professionals in the NHS - a stressful job - and had to look after us too while my parents worked. Hence it became 'OK' for them to take this out on us, particularly me. My brother, detecting his inborn advantage early on, started exploiting it before very long and would cheek them constantly. In a strange way, I think they themselves ended up seeing him as superior; he was rarely punished though empty threats were frequently made by my parents.

I took their attacks because, well, I couldn't not. When you are one of six living in a house and the second youngest, where do you go to escape? I didn't have my own room, and the toilet was hardly a place to relax. I had to deal with being told that I was fat, lazy, useless etc. etc. constantly. My brother and I bickered a lot, and soon my sisters refused to intervene at all, so the only one who could avenge what he said to me was ME. That got me in further trouble. I ate my sisters' low-fat snacks because... well, it was something to do, I suppose and eating made me happy. More trouble for me. When my sisters had PMT, I knew I was going to get bullied. They often ganged up on me, making bitchy comments together. My boobs were too big. My dress sense was weird. I breathed too loudly. I dragged my feet. I thought I was 'so clever' and a 'tortured poet' (as if! Just because I wrote). My mother in particular gave me life-long insecurities about my nose. She kept saying I looked like a duck, that I had a 'duck' nose; she would then say it was going in the wrong direction, seize it and try to 'pull it back.' The others subsequently made the same comment, and I became paranoid about my nose. I only tried to stop her yanking it - and stopped doing so myself - after blood came out. Even now, I do it without noticing.

My brother joined in with GLEE when I got older, and then I was well and truly alone. My family repeatedly impressed the notion of not trusting anyone outside the family on me. I felt like I couldn't tell anyone about what was happening to me anyway, because it was normal. They all told me it was normal; no-one behaved in any way that indicated that my position was especially hard. When I threatened to commit suicide, I was laughed at. Everyone just thought I was a weirdo. It didn't matter that I was good at some subjects because in my family's eyes, they weren't useful. Besides, they were not subjects we had ever done in our family before. When I said I wanted to study English, my older sister said 'Over my dead body'.

The thing that I learnt better than anything else was that you could not question ANYTHING. Question my sisters' authority, and they and/or my parents would punish me. Do the same with my parents and ditto, but even worse. Question my own or my brother's position, and I would be made to feel guilty. Any deviance from their beliefs was asking for trouble. I spotted my family's hypocrisy over religion early on, because I became devout for a while. I did a lot of reading and realised that a lot of their actions and claims didn't match up with how Sikhs were 'supposed' to be. This led to me becoming agnostic.

The turning point came when I confessed to being agnostic. Big fucking mistake. My whole family sat opposite me. Now that I reflect, I remember that I was literally up against the wall. As if I were facing a firing squad. I sure felt like it. My second-eldest sister, who I partly wanted to be like, smugly asked me why, what my arguments were. I could make none, I was terrified. My father had just accused me of betraying him, stating that he couldn't believe that a child of his could live under his roof and say that. My brother thought it was hilarious, naturally. I didn't want to be kicked out or shunned. They kept me there for three hours, until I was wilting with tiredness, then I was watched like a hawk for months.

(Apologies if I've described this incident already...).

See, I got into a relationship and my ex-boyfriend slowly started to make me see that what was going on wasn't normal. My family had no right to shoot me down just because I didn't agree. My mother had no right to say that I was a psychopath just because I refused to obey her. I got the courage to tell friends, and slowly but surely I got to the stage where I am today.

However, the problem is that along the way, I lost my anger. Much of my teens were consumed in a burning rage, I would literally sit in my room, reflecting on things that had happened, until I was shaking with rage and crying hot tears. I wanted to kill one of them, but I sincerely believed that I would be arrested and/or killed myself if I tried. I came close to striking my mother once, and she used the guilt against me like a billy-club.

Just as girls are trained to do, not just in South Asian culture but very acutely and particularly in SA culture - I began turning the anger and hatred inwards. My parents HAD worked hard to support us, my sisters HAD been like mothers to me. I couldn't reconcile these facts with my anger at the way they'd treated me. So, I absorbed them. I got myself into a destructive relationship, repeating the same dynamic of harsh criticism and inferiority that I had with my mother. He was always seeking to change me, to 'improve' me somehow, and I thought that was good because of my messed-up values.

This relationship absorbed a lot of my self-loathing. In some ways, it was a coping mechanism - though I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. I spent five and a half years not being quite right, pouring all my energies into my partner who had problems of his own. He emotionally blackmailed me; I gave him money. I don't even think he was doing it consciously, but it happened nonetheless. My outbreaks of PMD (pre-menstrual depression) which I was then unaware of, baffled him. He could not listen; he tried to tidy me away. Like my mother, intense emotion was beyond his comprehension.

Away from him in France, I got myself into a similar relationship with a friend. Our intense friendship impacted upon my mood severely when it was in a 'down' (which it was for many months). At one point, I deliberately endangered myself, subconsciously hoping that something bad would happen to me. I wasn't sure what, but I 'reasoned' with myself that I didn't really matter enough for it to be an issue if something did. That was the first time my mind 'fragmented' and the evil depressive demon appeared. It justified my decision to me, and after I took it, I regretted it. I was reeling with guilt, and my then-boyfriend's reaction made me suicidal. The friend who had 'replaced' him expressed relief at my safety, and that brought me back to something resembling normal.

When I came together with The Libertarian, I finally got what love was supposed to be about. I realised early on that I was going to fall for him. The day we met after kissing for the first time ever - it was our sixth meeting - I told him how my sisters had shredded my self-confidence. He did not respond. He stopped walking, let go of my hand, turned me to face him and then pulled me into a tight hug. Things finally made sense in me; I felt delighted. This, THIS was what I needed! How could he understand that so instinctively, so easily, when my boyfriend of five-and-a-half years couldn't?

In a relationship with a wonderful man and realising that I had trustworthy friends after all, it was me VS. the demon depression. I determined that I was NOT going to let it wreck things like it had with my ex, even if he was wrong for me. I would prove my mother wrong; I was NOT going to turn out to be a serial killer. I was NOT a psychopath. Sadly, it's taken a lot of hard work to convince me that I can trust people and believe in myself. Even now, I belittle myself and my needs, especially when PMD strikes. I cannot believe that love - whether platonic or romantic - is unconditional.

That is where existence-based guilt comes in. A lifetime of negative thinking that was both passively inherited from, and actively reinforced by my mother, kicks in. This links neatly up with the ongoing pressure on women to be perfect, especially in SA culture. Add fear of being 'unwomanly' and a desire to change the order of things as a feminist, counterbalanced by the ugly knowledge that nowadays 'feminist' is a dirty word that carries a huge burden. I cannot settle for my contradictions, like most people can. Ever since I was young, I have to 'choose' whether I'm British or Indian. However, it's always other people who set the parameters of those categories for me. My mother framed the choice cleverly, in terms of health and the greater good. My family specialise in hyperbolic distortion with a tiny grain of truth embedded in it - and when PMD strikes, that little grain flies like a fishing hook, embedding itself in me. I wish I had never existed, I wish I was dead. I wish this because I cannot wish to be what my parents want - for emotional reasons (my mum's never happy and it's already ruined our lives) and logical reasons (they already have my brother).

I wish death upon myself because it would be 'easy.' I am not an 'easy' person, I'm always analysing shit and refusing to be gift-wrapped as 'Asian' or 'English.' After my family's bullying, the LAST thing I want is to identify myself with a group of people. A whole, hurtling boulder of pain and guilt is too much for any individual to bear. I do not want to wear out the love and patience of those who I always turn to. There are no human Atlases for me; I have outgrown mythology. That is when posts like this one pop up, and I tip the load off my back and into the depot of cyberspace. Forget gods, forget humans - machinery's the future!

Why I Write (Pt. I)

Oh. Oh, I know, you've seen that little 'I' right there and you're thinking 'Oh Godddddd. Is this going to be the first in a series of long and unbearably pompous self-obsessed rants?'

Short answer: yes! In indie shoe-gazing-fashion, I will attempt (as always) to reflect on myself. Although I will not do so whilst wearing dark colours (not intentionally anyway), tight denim (fuck that) or 'exciting hair.' Guitars and abstract maudlin wailing will be absent for the time being.

The reason I'm writing this is because a) I haven't posted in a while and I think it's making me crazy - I NEED TO WRITE and b) I need to clarify posts like the previous one. I had to explain this to the Libertarian once, after I posted something without speaking to him first, and he was (understandably) somewhat hurt. No major revelations had been concealed, but he wanted to be my rock. I then attempted to say what I'll say now, but more succinctly and clearly this time.

As was meant to be evident by the tag, posts like that serve a paradoxical purpose relating to my depression. That particular one was written (as was quite flaming obvious!) after having issues with TL. It wasn't a fight, but a series of compounded and painful misunderstandings. The fight itself, involving plenty of meaningless snark and inflating-of-self-for-anger purposes, came after.

Before I go any further, I must just comment on how much that strikes me. Fights in themselves are not bad; we might think that they are. They're actually a relief, coming after the egotism that misunderstandings generate. You are open about your feelings, clear in your aim to lash out and destroy. Often when misunderstandings occur, however, there's no-one to blame. Instinct demands that we blame someone though, that there be no grey areas. As a result, there can be a whole disgusting grey area of feelings. Despair, at the preventability of the whole thing, at missed opportunities for maturity. Irritability at the other partner, maybe partially founded, partially unfounded, for just not understanding, for being as human as you. Frustration at yourself for being human (read: 'failure'); guilt at yourself for blaming them.

I spent much of that day feeling like a raw wound. It wasn't helped by the fact that I was crying constantly. The post was the height of my fucked, depressed self-indulgence. I fashioned betrayal from a misunderstanding. Why? I knew TL loves me, I knew that he didn't really think I expect him to plan my life around him - but I was in the zone. The depressed, pre-menstrual zone. I have worked out now that I may be a bit miserable for the rest of the month, but being pre-menstrual triggers depression proper in me. I become incredibly irrational, lose all sense of perspective and balance, have suicidal and self-denigrating thoughts...

Let's not forget that I'm also pre-menstrual, so I have a lower pain threshold, general increased sensitivity (physical and emotional, as a result of hormones). The more severely pre-menstrual I feel, the worse I am overall. I often don't sleep as a result of being so uncomfortable and unable to relax at night. So, I'm pretty much a little time-bomb, waiting to blow. Blow I do, at the same time every month. ALWAYS before I'm due, and ALWAYS once I start, the suicidal tendencies and despair lift considerably.

However, normal rules do not apply when I'm 'in the zone.' I am a solitary person generally (although I have realised I need to work on this!). PMD finds me in an awkward position, reduced to calling up people and begging them to save me from myself. Since I am not accurately able to conceive of how others view me, I cannot do this. I imagine concealed irritation, better things to do, frustration. The worst part is that lived experience informs these fears. I loved a depressed man. Depressed people are hellishly trying. If they retreat into a self-destructive downward spiral - that is, if you get to them just a bit too late to head them off at the start - you may well find them simultaneously 'boring' and 'infuriating'.

Again, however, there's little logic to that fear. You'd only feel that way if you were in the position I was, of being a person's go-to rock. Being on the receiving end of that kind of thing for hours a day. Plus, (and this will sound really awful, apologies!) I don't last very long in the self-indulgent phase, unlike my ex. I move quickly into heavy self-loathing. Not 'I can't make people like me,' or 'I'm not cool anymore' self-loathing. 'I shouldn't exist/ My mother was right, I AM a psychopath' self-loathing. It explains why I could handle my ex's depressed spells, but mine destroyed him. He became like that when he felt wrong-footed. Paradoxically, I was the opposite. I became like that when I was fully, bleakly sure; I become like that when I feel that my internalised bullies have been validated. 'They' are right after all; right about everything; right and they always will be. I think I really will have to get therapy at some point, because having my family's shadow over me for the rest of my life will destroy me otherwise. However, living away from them for a sustained period of time (like, longer than 2 years) may do the trick... here's hopin'!

So. I'm in the zone. I need help, like URGENT HELP. Platitudes and attempts to deploy logic have, and will always, fail. My mindset crystallises back into the world of binaries. There is a black and a white. The dichotomy that interests me at that point, though I obviously don't realise it then, is that of action and words. Telling me I am loved and that people would miss me if I died MEANS NOTHING. That is my breaking point; I risk everything, I trust nothing. I test belief. Love must be demonstrated, not promised. I need to be held, in a touch which is firm yet yielding. Not stiffly, not as if I'm being restrained. TL excels in this department, and hence I felt the first terrifying butterfly-brush of awareness that I could fall in love with him on only our sixth meeting.

A university counsellor observed this too; that I have moments when I really test my partner(s). I have gotten a lot better at not doing this, with TL; that might have a lot to do with us actually being emotionally suited. I don't quite know how to break that pattern, although I know what formed it. Years of being ignored and mocked have made me terribly insecure about whether my voice matters or not. Whether I am sane or not. Whether anyone is really listening or not, and do they care? Can they care, when the people who were always meant to didn't? Especially when those same people told me they wouldn't care?

This quote sums up the situation rather well, I think:

second generation Punjabi women – being the product of patriarchal culture – are either depressingly servile or terrifyingly aggressive… Sikh girls don’t have personalities, they have post-traumatic disorder. They have to fight so hard and so persistently for their independence that they become brutalized by the experience, and even when they have their freedom, they can’t stop fighting.

This has a grain of truth, rather than being 100% applicable. Not least because it fails to appreciate that many girls can - and do - flit between those two states. I find myself doing so... The thing about not being able to stop fighting seems very apt here though. Paranoia and fear of betrayal - two states of mind which are, interestingly, embedded into Punjabi Sikhs, especially many who are now British Asians - make me challenge everything that I should believe in.

In such a state of mind, not quite on the verge of total despair, I am on the brink of escaping. Thankfully, the part of me that wants to live seizes it and runs like hell. If I can trust no-one, I can tell no-one. I can, however, suck out the poison and spit it onto my blog, which is after all intended as a literary mirror of the inside of my head.

So I do, and then paradox frees me. By writing down my feelings, I can almost 'seal' them on an imaginary page (a Web-page?). They leave me to course, like insignificant minnows, into the cyber-stream. I don't have to worry about them any more because I have 'set them free' - and myself in the process. Yet simultaneously, blogging my depressive states also does the opposite. It sets them as if in concrete, to remain there for all to see. They cannot get away into the safe darkness of forgetting. Not just an exercise in humility and maturity, they are also evidence. Proof, to be exact. When I blog a foul mood like that, I let it go AND I own it. Afterwards I have the proof of my own survival. Evidence that I made it, and can thus do it again. To quote the glorious Gaynor: 'Did I crumble? Did I lay down and die? Oh no, not I! I will survive!' From that point, I can face my own part in generating a misunderstanding more honestly. I can call and apologise and tell him that I love him. I can save myself - not a psychopath, but a survivor.

(Speaking of which, one of my best friends recently told me in her usual calm and direct manner that my mother is a sociopath, as she lacks some basic human ability to relate to others. I agreed, noting that it is her ability to empathise which appears to be, ahem, seriously fucked. It was all v.heartening!).

Time to go sleep now, though, almost 2 a.m... Whoops. This is what happens when you artificially prolong wakefulness by Jeff Buckley's sexiness and being determined to be organised and efficient and all that other shit you aren't in daylight. Don't look at me like that, I know Jeff Buckley is dead, but he's still sexy, goddamit! His voice AND his physical form *chuckles idiotically.*

Putting Things Right

A while back, I had a go at Laurie of Penny Red. I feel pretty bad about that now, to be honest. Not that there wasn't some truth to what I said - but really, what was I expecting? That she should be able to represent the likes of me? Of course she can't; and it's totally unreasonable to expect such a thing of her. Furthermore, although I hope she ends up as an investigative journalist (I imagine she'd be super-duper at that!), she can do what she likes in the meantime. The whole thing did perhaps come off harsher than intended; essentially what I was saying is 'you can do better than this' when it comes to some of her writing...

But who made me an arbiter of what is good? Who am I to tell someone else (especially someone who ain't listening, haha) to 'do better'? This - this post right here - is about me trying to put things right. There's a lot that needs to be put right. This v. good and simple post on PR has inspired me to try and begin to do so, if nothing else.

What I was expecting of her is the same thing I expect of myself. To do better. To strive for perfection. To achieve consistency all the time, blah blah blah. As her post so ably describes, we are all prone to this tendency. It is worse in some ways for women, than it is for men. They're not free of it either, though.

I appear to have indulged in classic projection and lashed out at a fellow struggler rather than stopping and thinking about why I did that. Having said that, I do still want her to go on and become a Socialist Superwoman, and I sincerely hope that she won't lose sight of herself in striving to achieve success. That is a genuine warning, because in trying to sell an unpopular cause to people, one can find oneself unexpectedly compromised. Everyone knows that... I am also developing some rad-fem tendencies, thanks in large part to this blog (and the assholes on Cif but also seemingly EVERYWHERE ELSE on t'Interwebz!), and so I got a bit unfair on someone who I felt didn't have to be quite as 'feminist' as me.

How stupid is that, eh? You live and you learn, though, I guess. I think that is true of many Asian feminists though - there is quite a gulf between what they, and their white (middle-class...) counterparts are concerned with. That is nobody's fault. We have to deal much more with really barbaric things like honour-killings, and the pressure of being sandwiched between liberal society (not free of misogyny and sexism for all that...) and conservative families.

For example, Laurie mentions in her post how:

I've just been watching Meera Syal's documentary about self-harm, in which she asks, amongst other things, why Asian women in particular are so very high-acheiving and yet so desperately unhappy - being the group statistically most likely both to graduate with high honours and to deliberately hurt their bodies.

There you go. We have more freedom to work than is still permitted in India, Bangladesh, China et al (though those countries ARE, in some cases, getting better for women...) yet in many cases, our cultures don't sensitively adjust to this. Instead, it is expected that women will work full-time - AND be perfect slave housewives. It's not just the job market, but also the marriage market, we have to grey our pretty little heads over. British middle-class society also still has this mindset in many cases, but not in the same way as the Asian community.

Paradoxically, no-one wants to touch with a bargepole any woman who doesn't have a high-powered degree (that means I'm out of the running, eh?) - think Biomedical Sciences, Accounting, Medicine, Law... teaching as well. Yet in most cases, she also has to be a housewife. Getting 'lucky' involves all or any of the following:

a) Your husband doesn't hassle you about housework (for the most part) and/or sometimes even HELPS (aka my father).
b) You don't live with your mother-in-law.
c) Your mother-in-law doesn't expect you to become her.


Quite simply, you're not allowed to be thick, dark, rebellious or lazy. Given that I am both rebellious and lazy, my mum actually used to mutter: 'Thank God you have fair skin.' My mother has also tried repeatedly to break my spirit, claiming that she's just preparing me for my mother-in-law. Alongside this, she harangued both my sisters to learn Indian cooking (including how to make a full dinner in one go, even though NOBODY I know, us included, ever eats that). Despite both successfully doing so, she subsequently tried to blame all marital problems, especially my eldest sister's, on cooking.

So, my second-eldest sister and I have a lengthy discussion with my mum about how our brother-in-law is a psychopathic abuser, who enjoys publicly humiliating my sister and refuses to either let her come see us, or come to see us with her. This may last 20 minutes or longer. Mother nods agreeingly and even participates. Two minutes later, she is ranting about how it is all my sister's fault, and talking about cooking. (Although she dropped cooking-as-cause after about a year-and-a-half of ongoing strife...)

The thing is: my mum means well. 'Nine times out of ten,' she informed me with a faded bitterness, 'the woman must bend.' It didn't matter that I actually had a boyfriend at the time who cooked for me and shared the housework (at one stage when he briefly lived with me, just before finishing his degree, he was actually preparing every meal and doing all the washing-up while I worked on a project). She had seen what it is like for us Punjabi women, the sham of Sikh equality, and she wanted there to be no hope to so cruelly give way, treacherously feather-light, to betrayal and disappointment.

Despite having a decent boyfriend at the time, I could see myself falling into the patriarchy's tentacles. I sincerely believed that I would never make it to 21, and that if I did, I would find myself in a marriage that would eventually drive me to suicide. How could I continue my mother's cycle, and raise children that I resented? Why would I want to raise another child like myself, plagued by self-doubt and devoured by the family pack?

I was so hellishly afraid of this happening to me that I clung to my now-ex, despite not being happy. The fact that he largely didn't mean to upset me became a handy guilt-trigger, for when I wondered how the hell I could ever love him. I went through my degree, picking up Firsts and even winning a prize. The initial hostility of my family to my education choices gave way to a less-antagonistic but not-much-more-satisfying complacency. They told me 'Well done,' and then would add that I SHOULD be getting marks like that. Their congratulations were always severely compromised by the fact that they neither understood, nor particularly cared, WHAT I was good at. There was also an underlying assumption that what I was doing was not really that difficult or worthwhile.

This last attitude infected me deeply. It birthed in me a painful and schizophrenic feeling. I regarded my mute and detached contemporaries in seminar rooms with a kind of superior hatred. How many of them had been told that they would study English 'over my dead body' by their sisters? How many of them had earned the right to be there, like I had, and were capitalising on it feverishly, like I was?

Even as I felt like this, I kept myself 'humble' by reminding myself always, in a back corner of my brain, that I wasn't doing anything useful or important. But I was also doing French! But I wasn't going into business with it. Even though I hated the French part of my degree at times, it gave me a further edge over the other losers. Were they struggling like I was struggling? Did they have to dilute their favourite subject, just to be taken remotely seriously?

The evidently gigantic chip on my shoulder was carved into deeper by this 'humility' I enforced on myself. One of my best friends inadvertently contributed to it when she joined in with my mocking of other students saying that to those kinds of people, she would say: 'I'm doing SCIENCE, bitches.' I must never get above myself because literature was not essential to the world the way science was. Yet this attitude allowed me to mock those who were fanatically devoted when I didn't understand things - they were out of touch. They didn't see, like I saw, that science mattered more!

Ironic, really. I had tried to take science at A-level, had found it a nightmare (though definitely interesting) and then made a defiant show of taking arts at uni, because other people got to, so why shouldn't I? Deep down, though, I had internalised my family's beliefs and knew that I had failed at perfection. It was bad enough that I was lazy and rebellious, aware of the sexual inequality around me. Now, I had to mess up the career thing too. I was not ambitious enough to reply 'journalist' quick-fire when well-meaning people Qed me about what I would do afterwards.

The one thing that galvanised me above all else, was injustice. Especially the treatment of women by our community. I knew this wasn't exactly a 'career choice' though, and I resented that it was so deeply embedded in my being. I resented others, as just described, because they were normal. I superficially belonged to their world, but behind the facade of shared interests and economic/educational status or political views, lurked That Bloody Awareness. My aunt abandoned. My cousin, believed to be murdered. My other cousin, forced into marriage then deceived and abandoned. My sister, pushed into marriage when she was not, and might never be, ready.

These women were in me and with me, and I couldn't relax and make small talk like normal people. I'm still very socially inept.

[Interlude: My mother just came down because I am STILL up, and when I told her I was writing and that I had to do it, called me 'weird' and said 'You'd better come down to Earth, you're flying around in the clouds.' Thank you, mother...]

I was, and still am, wrong wrong wrong. Odd, and wrong. I'm the lightest in the family. I'm the only one who didn't pursue a science degree. I'm the first child (and until my brother, the only one) to have lived away from home. I'm also the only agnostic, and the only one to date two very 'wrong' men. One, a non-6-foot, non-Punjabi atheist. The second, a 6ft, fair-skinned, believes-in-God dreamboat... only he's a) white b) a historian, with a penchant for reasoned debate on just about everything. Given that my parents like to subscribe to Daily Mail worldviews and a, er, 'Sikh-centric' view of history, it's going to be interesting (i.e., the other day, they were watching a man talking about how Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale was a saint, and totally right to agitate for a separate Sikh state...). If they ever meet.

So ja, I am a spectacular failure. I plan on raking myself over the coals some more in later posts (ooh, what fun!). Even my body is all wrong for a supposed 'Indian' woman. I'm slightly taller than a lot of the Indian girls I see (despite being about average for a British woman), and I don't really look Indian at all. I'm most frequently mistaken for Iranian and Greek, but also Spanish. I'm not tiny and petite and delicate-looking. To quote Laurie again:

I weigh almost nine stone; I have fat on my upper arms... I have d-cup breasts, which I despise, and a tummy which no amount of sit-ups will flatten.

Sorry, Punjabi Sikh community of Britain! Sorry British society! I don't fit either of your notions of 'conventionally attractive.' Believe me, the shops have drummed it home by now that an apple-shaped body is NOT GOOD. I'm not Kelly Brook, and I'm not Freida Pinto either. I didn't trade in my plait and glasses for feathered/layers and contacts as soon as I hit 16. I want to aim for more than a car, a house near my parents and a husband that doesn't hit me. I won't pretend stoically that the guilt and shame that keep us locked into deceiving our parents and beating ourselves up are to be respected or tolerated.

Call me pathetically feminine if you will, call me 'coconut' and 'posh' and whatever else. I will cry in your faces about the fact that I have been, and still am, hurting. No 'put up or shut up.' How about 'fess 'up, or fuck off'?

This post will get ugly. And uncomfortable.

I'm writing this because I'm sort of a little bit worried about myself.

Just admitting that has made me feel slightly better, already.

Something is wrong with me, and particularly in the way that I approach my problems. I have always been somebody who tries not to attract attention, who tries to be 'stoic' about things (I put that in inverted commas, because I think no truly sane person can really be stoic about things). A certain amount of pragmatism is obviously necessary for continued survival.

People so often slip blithely into the Oppression Olympics, because they are trying to balance the good, old-fashioned need to vent with an enlightened awareness of the greater suffering of others. I think this is stupid, on reflection. Provided that you don't just moan on about how hard you have it all the time, without any acknowledgement of those facing bigger problems elsewhere, you're not betraying anyone. It's one of the things I find the most silly amongst feminists and left-wingers. A sense of injustice is (provided it's not obsessive) healthy. 'Liberal guilt' is not, because guilt isn't really healthy. Small doses of it enable us to become better human beings, but the complex that so often constitutes 'liberal guilt' can't really be called small.

I'm sure I've said that before...

Anyway, because I find myself falling prey to this same stupid mindset that I've just condemned, I try not to moan. I've had things easier than my parents' generation when it comes to race, and it's not like I was around in the nineteenth century - or even the 1950s - when things were a lot worse for women, and particularly Asian women. The stories about marriage that I've heard - even within our apparently fairly 'modern' family - are pretty appalling, and thankfully I can say confidently that that sort of thing WOULDN'T happen today to the best of my knowledge. Not in our family.

Still, I am lying. In the desire to not be another fucking cliché - another urban liberal Asian female talking about how she was so oppressed and suffered so much OMG - I have become another fucking cliché. God, irony is so neat.

I did not want, and could not see, myself alongside Jasvinder Sanghera, or any of the other women who have written about their experiences within their families. I was never locked up by my parents, or forced into a marriage. My person had received no notable harm. What right did I have to complain?

Repeating this like a mantra, I would keep spurring myself onwards to Be A Success! Act Like A Success! Think Like A Success! An evil little voice mocked my endeavours. It never occurred to me until very recently that the voice that told me to just KEEP GOING and the voice that told me to FUCKING QUIT could be related. Strange that I never spotted the relation, because every now and again, the compartments fused, dividing walls crumbling. Then, the voice that told me to fucking quit was on form. It rambled like an alcoholic, horrifyingly unstoppable, about how I was trying to run from my fundamental emptiness. How everything I did was a pathetic search for validation and meaning of the most primitive kind.

I effectively watched lies evaporate, whenever this happened when I was talking to somebody dear to me. Be it my ex-boyfriend, The Libertarian or someone else, it was like I could hear the stimulus withering in my voice. Feel the sudden absence of balance and optimism, as if against my own ears. Note the sudden loss of language and expression. Those who've ever had to deal with it have said that it is not what I say, but my silence, that scares them. I crack apart into jaws, and the tongue of beast reaches out through them.

I will NOT be taken, though. I am not going to be pulled underwater until I drown. I have tried to suffocate the grief. It simply imploded, resulting in me putting myself in danger, or wanting to. Telling loved ones about the way my family behaved was, I thought, a way of fighting their order to (essentially) not tell the truth. I tend to hate psychobabble, but one word is OH SO USEFUL. Internalised. I had internalised my parents' values to some extent, and seen them heavily reinforced by British society. Keep your feelings private. Mind your own business. Don't air your dirty laundry.

I knew I was never going to be on Jeremy Kyle, and I probably wasn't going to write and publish a book, even though I like writing and it's one thing I seem to do fairly well. So I cursed myself. I was the (sort-of) middle child, the eldest of the two younger children. I was the one who tried on the whole to be responsible, whilst my brother could be bad. Yet I also demanded equal treatment. I could never brook the fact that he was somehow better than me by virtue of his sex, and that paradoxically I was expected to behave better because of MY sex.

I took crap from my sisters when they needed to take out their feelings on somebody, and was tossed into the ring to control my brother 'because you're his age-group.' This despite the fact that he was very aware of his superior male status and only afraid of one person - my second-eldest sister. She barely controlled him, whilst my mother continually undermined both my elder sisters' authority. In a household full of competing personalities with similar interests, I shut my mouth. And I died.

When I was little, I was confident, friendly and assertive. Everyone thought I was cute. My aunt once mistook me for a doll. When I got a fair bit older, I realised that there was a time and a place for unconditional love. It was certainly over by the age of about 11. By that point, I was most definitely different. It had begun around age 7, when I became a bookworm and stopped being good at maths.

My family fell neatly into little units: my sisters, my parents, my mum and brother, my second-eldest sister and brother... The two 'units' I was supposed to be part of, were myself and my eldest sister and myself and my brother. Both were deeply flawed by the lack of equal status: she was a second father, 10 years my senior. My brother, increasingly aware of his privilege as both the youngest and the only male, was supposed to be below me in the hierarchy but knew the reality.

I read, greedily. I was inquisitive and sensitive. I wanted to be good at maths and science, but I was better at English. I had originally wanted to be an artist. Aged about 6, I revealed this to my mother; she laughed and said I would be penniless. That dream crashed to pieces pretty much there and then.

As I grew more and more different from my family, it became more visible to them. The thing that could always unite them, was me. My sisters worked hard to make sure that I would not have any more freedom than they did. Being not particularly aggressive in nature, I went along with most things. I always protested to some extent, but what was the point? My parents, perhaps feeling guilty at their lack of presence in our lives, always bowed to pressure from my sisters. Not that their own conservative values helped much. My mother was very reluctant to let me pierce my ears at 11, and had to be persuaded by my sister.

My brother, as spoilt children do, tested the boundaries as much as I did, and emerged victorious far more frequently. Something I like to tell those close to me occasionally, sums up the difference in our power and importance within the family. For my 18th birthday, I received £20. For his, he received a Nintendo Wii. His laziness, arrogance and obstinacy often allowed him to endure my sisters' attempts to treat him as they did me. Resultantly, he escaped having housework/money-based guilt rained upon him all the time. My mother also kept him somewhat separate from us because boys were a separate and sacred species. He never had to share a room with either of my sisters; nor did he, on the whole, have to put up with their PMT.

My sisters weren't fairer than my parents though. They spoiled him at times too - my eldest sister being worse - and every time I was thrown into the ring with him, they did not want to know. Even if he started fights, it didn't matter. They didn't want to know. I hated him - really hated him. It wasn't a stereotypical, murderous hatred - more a corrosive and grudging loathing. I relished hurting him. I have no shame about that, even now.

And that is because my mother, like my sisters, refused to see my brother's unbelievably spiteful side. When I was being told off, he was allowed to join in with completely superfluous bitchy comments, only being told to butt out when I protested repeatedly. If I was criticised - as I was repeatedly - he somehow had full license to join in, despite my apparently being older. He delighted in calling me 'fat' and 'stupid,' and when I was with my ex, Internet-stalked me, looking for proof to reveal to my parents. He also loved stirring, making completely false allegations about me for no discernible reason other than he enjoyed it. When I came back late from a friend's party, my coat smelling of smoke thanks to her parents in the conservatory, he kept trying to accuse me of smoking.

I'm not done with my anger. For a long time now, I have tried to forgive and leave all this in the past. However, until I document what happened - the major incidents, if not everything - I will not find any peace at all. Now that everyone's older and my sisters married and moved out, everything has been magically forgotten. Swept under the carpet. I disclosed slices of my grimy little history to a number of people. Many of them, I fear, found it slightly ludicrous and unbelievable. Just as many, if not more, made the common mistake of trying to provide solutions rather than just LISTEN.

Part of the reason that there have only been about 2 or 3 people in my life who I can really trust with this, is because it sounds so preposterous at times, like a Goodness Gracious Me sketch. My best friend, who actually heard for herself the transition between my sister's 'outside world' and 'home' personalities. My cousins, who are also 'in the family.' However, it is a history that needs rescuing and confiding not to one at a time, but to this. My patch, my home, my blog.

Partially revenge, but much more closure - I will save my soul. I spoke earlier of the curse, which I transferred to myself. The curse, in effect, of my mother. The woman who would condemn me to a life like hers - or worse - through a lack of faith. She doesn't know it, of course, but I internalised the curse. Like Rosemary's baby, it became something else altogether inside of me. I told you guilt was unhealthy, didn't I? How can I be so bloody sure about it, eh? you ask. I'm not a psychologist, or a psychiatrist.

I know that guilt is unhealthy, because like all noted hypocrites, I suffer it myself. However, I absolve myself somewhat in telling you that it is not liberal guilt - but existence-based guilt that I feel. It is just unacceptable. I do not deserve it, and I'm not going to take it.

Continued, when I have the time/will/inclination...

Easter Monday

What a wonderfully flat title. It imparts factual information (telling you of the day and the date), without hinting at anything within the body of the post. Yet that is just the point. For once, I am writing as I need to. Writing as I used to. I have no game-plan, no conclusion.

I cannot seem to accept myself as I am. I realised the other day that in many ways, I am a desperately lonely individual. I am that 'ivory-tower intellectual,' although of course, I'm not because life is more complex (read: nuanced) than that. I have the humility and apprehensiveness of a religious person trying to live in adherence with a detailed religious code - without the certainty of a Supreme Being. 'Believe, then,' you might say. 'You did once, you can do it again.' I'm not sure if belief and obedience are the same thing. I'm not sure if a desire for stability and genuine religious devotion are the same thing at all. I think it would do the genuinely-devoted a real disservice to claim that they are.

Everyone reads. Even people who boast of never reading a book, or having read very little in their lives, read to some extent. You can't help it now, can you? I read, like a thirsty little sapling drinking in all it can get, when I was younger. A very strange mix - abridged Reader's Digest novels, autobiographies, the Reader's Digests themselves, books for my own age-group, pizza leaflets, recipe cards... If it came under my nose, I would read it. Family (my cousin in particular) compared me to Roald Dahl's Matilda. I always smiled uncomfortably. Keen to learn and imaginative, yes. Child prodigy, no.

That desire to learn, when not checked by the pervasion of specialist jargon (or for that matter, any sort of foreknowledge) or the presence of complicated mathematical figures, has never left me. I still trawl sections of the Internet for articles, for blogposts, in short for literature. I don't get to read as much as I'd like to these days; obsessively swallowing large quantities of text and then being pressed to produce focussed critical analysis at a rate of knots can really leave a bad taste in the mouth. The terror of enjoying a book, and then finding my brain mechanically deconstructing it afterwards, makes the pursuit of reading more complicated than it ought to be.

So yeah, I read a lot of stuff on the Internet. Lest we forget, the Internet is a communicative rather than an educative medium, and so much of what I read is accompanied by comments from ''readers.'' I put that in inverted commas because what strikes me, especially when reading things on Comment is free, but also occasionally on Liberal Conspiracy and Pickled Politics - never mind on other sites - is how little people actually seem able to 'read' now. The smooth and steady process of information does not appear to be happening. What actually happens is reaction. Lots and lots of it. Even those who think they are being witty very rarely are and are simply indulging in smartarsery that brings to mind the big-mouthed kid in the playground who wants everyone to agree how funny he/she is.

To return to what I was saying, I've discovered a new motive hiding away, like a stow-away, alongside my desire to learn. It is a desire for companionship, for agreement - in short for community. My loneliness is amplified by being a solitary individual by nature. I also have an intense need for guidance (being young and confused) which sits uneasily with a distrust of dogma and diktats. I don't distrust authority per se, but I have an absolute horror of groups. This comes from being an 'outsider' within the most prominent group of my life - my family.

So of course, I'm trying to resolve all those paradoxes by creating a new one: finding other 'slippery fish.' Other people like me, who are almost a walking 'stream of consciousness' in themselves. I feel a sense of spiritual kinship with some people I read, people I don't even know, sometimes. I may never meet them, I may not even agree with them completely. Nonetheless, they reassure me that I'm not totally alone. The world is changing, and when I find another, in search of nothing quite so grandiose as truth - just in search of honesty - I feel safer. I am no longer just part of the present, and I sincerely hope that all the knobs who co-opt the writings of others, to grandstand and ridicule them, will become part of the past in time. To them, all I can say is: you don't know everything. Nobody does. I don't. The sooner we halt this ridiculous trend of pretending we all know all there is to know, the better. As Forster wrote, 'Only connect.'

Reading is that most wonderfully paradoxical of things: a private communication. You are inheriting histories, facts, opinions, fears - in short, the distillation of a person when you read, particularly when you read fiction (given that fiction has more room for the personal and the subjective). That is why I find it so ludicrous the way the majority of people respond to articles. They deny the communication. They simply seek space to posture (funny that a lot of them seem to be rather unreconstructed males). It's a World Wide Web, you fools. Not a clean, linear Tube network. Yet even a Tube network goes in both directions.

So a paradox is what frees me, ultimately. Pinning down my thoughts to the (web)page frees me. I read, committing myself to the thoughts of another, to escape. A private pursuit offers me companionship, offers me freedom. And hell, if I like the 'look' of you (and you don't live abroad...), I'll stalk you and make you my friend (just ask Ala...) Scared? You should be.

Identity, Culture and All Dat 'Ish

As any fule kno, the um, 'situation' with the Gaza Strip and Israel has provoked a lot of what I can only term sheer utter fucking lunacy everywhere. Pop along to Pickled Politics and scroll down a little to marvel at the sheer volume of articles on it; or if you're a rubbernecking connoisseur, wade into the brain-rotting depths of personal insults and virulent misunderstandings and misinterpretations that tend to make up the comment threads of such articles. Sheesh. I have heard several times how mental people go over I/P, but to see it in action is really something else. Some brave commenters, such as one douglas clark, ventured to say that British Jews should not be forced to shoulder the responsibility of Israel's actions and expected to 'make everything right' from a tiny island far away (I paraphrase). Now, that seems like common sense, don' it?

It got me thinking again on how so much of the danger that comes from having a religious identity (as far as I'm concerned) is in that symbolism. I'm far too timid to say anything like that the world should be rid of religion; I like to throw up my hands on these matters and say, I don't know, and if pressed, I could give you an answer, but not a simple one. I can't ever see myself becoming famous because I don't on the whole do snappy soundbites or 'big ideas' - but back to religious symbolism. It scares me because it allows, nay in many cases, demands the establishment of a connection of oneself with a much larger body of people. The way I see it, many people 'get into' religion for the community and stay for the God (forgive me if that sounds very cynical, and just to elaborate, I'm talking here about the things that keep people born within religion within it, but especially of those who leave and 'come back' or those who enter for the first time...).

Now that is all very edifying and so forth, but it becomes hugely problematic when you start to think about what this means. What it means, as I see it, is a declaration by the individual of surrender to a collective, over certain things and at certain times. In short, it's like hazing or any sort of unpleasant club membership, and even if you were BORN with those privileges, you never know when the tide of mass opinion might turn against you. Hence, though more shored-up than the new convert, you're still forever at risk of being undermined by the very fact of your 'membership', paradoxical as it sounds.

(Might I just say how painfully paradoxical this strikes me as? A significant part of the promise of religion to many is as an access of ready-made identity, culture, history, yadda yadda yadda... and instead it gets to the stage where you're always having to prove yourself. Well, I guess as the popular maxim goes, in life, nothing (but nothing) is free!).

Now, it must be averred that this risk of being undermined is not always greatly present. It tends to emerge handily with the arrival of an Other. I suppose the process works something like this: your 'identity' and 'culture' are threatened, hence you are threatened; by aggressively reasserting these, you refuse the attempt of the Other to undermine you completely. However, as we have already established, this shadowy Other (which may not be as much of a threat as imagined to be, who knows?) will then become projected unconsciously upon your fellow-believers for whom you must perform the rituals of belief. Isn't it ungracious? Isn't it undignified, how the best and brightest of us find ourselves bending the knee before those we know, know, in our hearts and minds to be stupid, ugly, and generally inferior... and yet whom the deranged reach of (oft-bigoted) zeal places on the podium, above us?

I commented disparagingly on a thread about a Sikh 'holocaust' museum, saying that I don't think the word should be bandied about quite so readily. Aye right, I fuckin' don't - the word means 'burnt sacrifice' and was applied to the full horror of the Nazi plan (need I really mention the gas chambers here...?) in light of the specificity of how this plan was implemented. I am a writer; I have the most enormous respect for words and it really annoys me when people don't use them properly, or use them out of context. Fuck you if you think that's precious - you wouldn't say the same of someone like Ben Goldacre seeking to debunk bad science now, would you? Miscommunication, apart from when it's deliberate, has a lot to do with making our lives harder than they ought to be, and the misuse of language is one of those things. Call the suffering of other minority communities 'genocide', call it 'mass murder' - but given how saturated this word has become with meaning - and that too after a prolonged effort by History not to let us forget such an awful happening - don't go bandying it about. Especially when the events in question are lacking in the same scale, type of mass-murder and specificity of evil intent.

(Rumbold helpfully intervened to explain what I was saying before I even could myself, so I have left no further comment 'pon that thread. Please head over to Charlie Brooker to see, fully and perfectly expressed, how I ultimately feel about Internet 'debates'. Ta for that Rumbold, true to form you put it rather clearer and more polite than I probably would've managed... comment threads often fill me with impotent rage, and then I feel dirty, as if I've just rubbed myself all over with The Daily Mail, and vow to do something REAL when my degree is over).

To return to the point - I can't help thinking that such things happening - such ridiculous abuses of language and over-aggressiveness - come, because with things like I/P, people's 'imagined' ancestry begins to come to the fore. Hello, trouble. The collective, baying for blood, seeks its recompense of the individual - now is the time to prove yourself, Sonny Jim! Now show your ideological colours! Lo, and so it comes to pass that people in Great Britain set about each other from the screens of their computers over something which is happening far, far away and to which they are not (short of having relatives in Gaza or Israel) directly connected. I mean, ffs, the link between Jews and Israel is imagined and symbolic, just as the link between Muslims and Muslims in Gaza is imagined and symbolic. Why do you suddenly feel the need to multiply yourself into a fucking representative of your whole religion? Because your people are being attacked here - your people, that's who! Jayzus.

I think here of all the times in the past that I have been forced to say things that I don't believe and agree with statements I find abominable in order to avoid attracting my family's negative attentions. I did it up to a certain age, and then I realised that I didn't have to any more. I could use the power of silence against them. They could infer what they wanted from it; I would not agree, and having got in serious grief on past occasions, I would not condemn either. If this was a coward's way out, I didn't care. My objective was to protect myself and to emerge intact.

My mother has made the observation in the past - very accurate, I feel - that it is only wealthy, middle-class people who have the time to dwell on these things. While this is not entirely true (I'm sure there have been some suicide bombers who weren't fairly financially stable too - or does that only fuel my mum's theory, in implying that poverty only added to ideological frenzy?), there is a LOT of truth to it. While discussing things is all very well and good, I often feel that if you are going to spit blood so, then why the heck don't you get off your arse and do something to help directly? Complain to the BBC, give money to the DEC, hell, fly out there and do something. Just spare me the bitching, and the soapbox-ing, which begin frankly to dive towards unsettling levels of moralisation and dogma, for me. A minority of disenfranchised people will, inevitably, react badly to the injustices that have befallen them - but since when was stooping to that level acceptable? What of all the other people who just want to fucking get by? Like me, they're more concerned with survival rather than ideology. Life is hard enough 'secular' as it is.

Religious fraternity and perspective is not enough when terrible things like this happen. People must remember that we are all ultimately human and that ultimately all the vitriol begets no solutions and no progress. Of course, there are always those who profit from such quarrels, but if people learn to practise a bit more forgiveness and a bit more forgetting, hopefully the planet can proceed on to the future.

Just to bore you senseless a little further, all this really churned about in my brain like clothes in the washing machine when my mum read to me a hilarious, and I fully believe, fictional account of a Sikh wedding (in two parts) from a Punjabi newspaper. Apparently in the duration of this story, some 'sensible observer' remarked how there were far too many women at weddings these days; if you went to the marriage palaces, all you would see was women, and that in the old days, women weren't even meant to be part of the baraat (the wedding procession, otherwise understood as the arrival of the groom and his party at the marriage venue). I immediately stiffened, my brain standing to attention like a guitar-string being pulled taut. My mater had not noticed this; nor did she notice the sudden, emergent incongruity of this remark peeking its ugly, goblin little head from the narrative.

As I glanced idly at the sheet she was holding out before her, a dim sort of epiphany set in. I tilted my head, casually covering the sheet with my gaze - yup. I rolled back my memory to previous glimpses of this paper (I think it must have been the Punjabi section of The Sikh times) - yup. The overwhelming majority of the participants in this production were male, bearded, turbanned and for the most part, pretty old (late 30s onwards). There were women (or there was one I knew of definitely, anyway) in the English part of the paper, but the only columnist I could think of, Rupi Gohlar, was consigned unfussily to a slim, 6cm-wide column somewhere near the entertainment section, which, if I was not looking for it, I would have likely failed to notice (first couple of times, I did miss it).

(To any Private Eye Readers, I appeal to you to recall the E.J. Thribb column. Do you see it now, in your mind? Yes, that's very much what her column resembles, in its slender insignificance. I am struggling now to recall if there are actually any female stalwarts besides Rupi).

I continued to take in what was being read to me, almost laughing at the right moments, but inside I vibrated with epiphany spreading, like the opening of a curtain admits more sunshine. Had I not, upon viewing Channel Punjab, only ever viewed the blurry outlines of women stereotypically 'dancing in the fields' (or had I imagined that too?) and consigned to women-only programmes such as Trinjhan (as far as I know it, a women's talkshow where they had writers and so forth on)? Other than that, women abounded only in the horribly cheap Star-Plus knock-off soaps, where a stereotypical mother-in-law bitch-from-hell would try to undo her stereotypically butter-wouldn't-melt daughter-in-law. Things might be complicated by the arrival of, or transformation of the latter into, a stereotypically gold-digging Westernised 'un-woman'.

I cast about in desperation, but the awareness was glaring me in the face. This was simply not me! None of these were me, and a slow, snakelike rage bubbled luxuriously in my veins. To think that all my life I had been told - had it insisted upon to me - that this was the right and the true, the tradition in which I belonged! I had grown up thinking that Punjabi culture and Sikh culture were one and the same. As I delved into Sikh history, I became much more conscious of the guiding principles of that religion, and as I began to find out more about Punjabi culture - through talking to people other than my parents - cracks began to appear. I discovered that Punjabis had a reputation for being big drinkers and loving fried chicken (that'd explain our local high street then, I tell you...) and, above all else, I began to notice the almost obsessive and deranged sense of male privilege that underscored Punjabi society. I suspect this went something like this: Punjabi men, being among the tallest, strongest and fairest-skinned in India (remember how colour-conscious India is!) were not only superior to women as it is taken for granted that men always are in Indian culture, but also superior to other Indian men! Hence they had extra entitlement!

The fact that the Punjab abounded with rich landowners whose sense of self-worth was only further pumped by laying claim to the glories of Sikh military history won't have helped. And so it came to pass that I watched Long Da Lishkara (a cult Punjabi film made the year before I was born) with my family, I think around the age of 11 or 12. I had not understood the obsession, in some films, with showing women jumping into wells. My young brain established that this must be for them to kill themselves - but why were they killing themselves? The screen soon brought me the answer.

A turbanned, well-dressed man - a man with a neat beard and moustache, and a fair complexion, almost like my own father - was holding a tumbler of whisky. I knew not the name of it, but by the shape and design of the glass, and by the colour of the liquid it housed, could discern what it was. I was horrified. Here was, to all intents and purposes, a Sikh man taking alcohol. Did he not realise it was forbidden? I was to be more horrified still, however, as he advanced upon the servant tidying the room. He seemed delighted by her; she was terrified. He continued to advance on her, I think breaking the glass, if I remember correctly to further frighten her, with his wrath. He managed to trap her on the bed somehow, her horrified shrieks and pleas for mercy only irritating him. Though the next part was obviously absent and left unelaborated upon, my precocious mind made sense of it. He had raped her, and she killed herself for having borne an illegitimate daughter.

My brain struggled. So the stereotypes were true, then? Punjabis were capable not only of drink, but of roundly disregarding the respect for women and acknowledgement of their equal status that lay at the heart of Sikhi? My world was painfully jolted. A man attired, as I said, not unlike my father, had committed a grievous crime against a woman who was, both socially and physically (I was sensitive to the former fact too!) as his female servant (and an Indian woman, thus hardly practised in self-defence) at his, the rich male landowner's, mercy. He had refused her his mercy. He had used her, and then left her to dispose of the evidence of his crime by disposing of herself altogether. Meanwhile, his wife, who had found out about it, did not leave, or punish him. Nor did she adopt the poor little girl. If anything, she began to get angry and worried as, now adults, her son fell in love with she who was technically his half-sister (eww!).

As I looked at my mum reading to me, all this came back to me. My mind whirred with the cascading visions of tiny, rectangular 'mugshots' of old, bearded, turbanned, male faces. I looked upon the writer of this 'humorous' article. His fat, round face was just about visible in black-and-white. I wanted to spit on it. More than anything, the urge to slap my mother fizzed dangerously in my arms. 'What the hell do you think you're doing?' I wanted to cry. 'How dare you try and sacrifice me to these people who have never had a period, never worried about leaving their family, never feared their wedding night with awful dread? OF COURSE marriages are full of women now; we all know the awful suffering that many Indian marriages entail and women turn up in sympathy and commiseration! They too remember how it felt to pin your scant hopes to this one day of grandeur, wishing for its flashy charm to rub itself off on the union forever sealed afterwards!'

However, it wasn't really that strong - gone are the days when I came anywhere near doing that. This was the merest flicker, and it gave way, as always to sadness. My mother is a compromised woman, lost in the values of the time she grew up in. She still moves within the fug of '50s India, and all I can do is cast it off. It is not me, it is not my culture, and I feel elated that at last I can express myself with a concrete example. So you say that these white club-going 'goris' aren't me? Well, those old, sanctimonious bearded twats aren't either! Nor is that overweight, high-blood-pressure-suffering housewife, who dares not even suggest things to her husband any longer for fear of provoking dispute! I'm not the virtuous bahu! I'm not a gold-digger! I don't want my children, my sisters or any of my immediate female relatives to suffer, and that is why I keep trying to take them all under my wing! I may not know my American cousin too well yet, or the daughter of my mum's 'brother' (I think he's actually her cousin?!) whom everyone discusses in low, disapproving tones for having married an older, white man. I may be estranged from my eldest female cousin, Rani - but I'll fight for them, I'll fight for them all in any way I can, just like I did for my eldest sister pre-wedding, when her husband started shouting at her over her wanting speeches. I got in trouble, but I was proud - because that, that is who I am, and for a brief, shining minute, I was no longer leading a double life. That is who I am, my 'identity', my 'culture'; that is me.

Giving Up, Giving In

Oh dear sweet blog, what an utter, utter relief it is to be tappin' away on you again! I have had a seriously bad week (things really kicked up on Sunday morning, but I will only talk about that once I have the strength/anyone asks).

I read this article which got my mental cogs whirring rustily. Maybe I'll even write on it like I used to, who knows??! Lack of sleep, serious emotional stress and general need-to-cry have left me clogged and murky upstairs. What I really need is some sort of anonymous guardian angel figure who will kidnap me, appease the various people who are baying for my blood asking me to do the bare minimum expected of me when I signed on to take a chunk of Governmental money to be educated. I get told that I am a good person, who makes people happy (chiefly by The Libertarian, bless him) but I do feel like a tremendous failure when things pile up on me. The knotted narrative of my life so far, in which all the events connect and nothing can be left out to fully understand the enormity of current problems, makes it that much harder.

After handing in an essay two days late by accident, after having spent all day writing another which WAS due today, I almost fell to pieces. Never had my skin felt thinner in recent memory, as I stood in front of the office of the somewhat perplexed Administrative Director of the School of English and Drama! I could feel heat creeping upon me; I knew how it might look to them, and I was ashamed. 'I'm not your common or garden layabout!' I wanted to shout with some sort of perverse pride. 'No; I'm in this situation because I'm pathetic enough to be deeply affected by the suffering of others! GO ON! PUNISH ME!'

Defeatist, much? I managed to recover 'Fight Mode' once they, very kindly, gave it an on-time stamp after all, but I was afraid. I knew that my memory, taxed with misery and fatigue, would probably fail me. Sure enough, it did - the essay was of course due in two days ago. Everyone else isn't always wrong, my mother used to say to me. It's YOU. I went to see my course organiser, quivering on the brink. She was very considerate and my skin thinned further, dangerously. She had misunderstood things slightly. I clarified. She went to recover my essay, and my skin collapsed altogether. Sat right there in her office, I cried. Oh, how much I wanted to cry my eyes out! How I wanted to slide to the floor, pull my coat over my face and cry pathetically in great, big, bursting sobs! Embarrassingly enough, my eyes are filling with tears in my university library as I type this.

Instead, I hyperventilated my way back to some semblance of composure. I could not embroil this poor woman - who had once asked me if I was alright after the seminar, because I hadn't contributed - in my personal failure to handle emotion. So, head dipped and shoulders shaking, I 'sucked it up'. A vague numbness settled over me and when she returned, I could occasionally flick glances towards her. There was an awful, genuine kindness in her eyes when she (repeatedly) apologised. She could probably tell from my shrivelled eyes that I had problems. Hence my inability to meet her eye. She advised me to speak to my advisor and submit an Extenuating Circumstances form. I comically imagined entering his office to meet with him and descending into a disastrous, weeping wreck.

A fear and pride held me back, just like it does. I want to resolve my feelings somehow. The urge to live, to be something is strong in me - but so too is the urge for destruction. Why? Why do I want to lie across a stranger's table and cry out my whole life? Why do I want to invite them to stamp over my feelings? Deep down, I know they probably won't. They'll just be appalled. They will probably, as many already have, give me credit for coping with the amount of familal bullying that I took.

I am a hypocrite though. I usually like grey areas, I like things to be complicated. Yet when it comes to the whole 'I need to get away from my family, but they have made more vocal expressions of love towards me recently than ever before and I feel horribly guilty. Plus, I'm the only real adult in the house emotionally' - I wish I could pass. I really do.

The source of much of this angst is that, when I returned innocently home last weekend to work on the essay I handed in today, I was served up the information that my elder sister (who was there, as I complained in my last post) is there for good because she has left her husband. He has always been abusive (not physically, thankfully for him). Much to my amazement, it was my parents who had told her to come back. A giant psychological shift has taken place - both my parents and my sister are being forced to reassess the way they see the world. My sister, at the age of 31, is being forced to consider life without a partner and children. I know that sounds dramatic; but that's how it is in her head. Remember that as a card-carrying member of the community we live in (unlike me), she subscribed fully to all the bullshit dictated to us by my parents, and especially my mother.

My mother, in a manner which really shouldn't surprise me, obviously feels both relief and guilt in great measure. I don't think she's quite emotionally developed enough to realise that, but as somebody who has borne the brunt of her tactlessness my whole life, I can see it. She keeps talking about how glad she is my sister is back, bringing up family skeletons and saying in an accusatory way 'I don't know how you stayed with him!'

GREAT, Mother. Just great. She's already feeling guilty of betraying him, as the abusee often feels upon escaping their abuser, and trying to make sense of why he married her in the first place when he obviously didn't love her. Make it worse, why don't you? Truly, we can do no right. We actually pointed this out to my mum ('If she had come back sooner, you would have accused her of not working at it') but my mum seemed rather oblivious. I don't hate my mum like I came close to in the past - I despair of her. She had the sheer presence of mind to bring up my sister's ex-fiance the other day (who broke off the engagement unexpectedly and without contact, and then tried to hide from her afterwards, fucking asshole) and say of her soon-to-be ex: 'It must have been something you did that really irritated him.'

Fucking hell! Though I know it really doesn't sound like it, she meant well in her completely cack-handed way. As my sister sobbed into her fleece, I turned and refashioned my mum's bald statement into what it was probably intended to be. 'You see? You see?' my mum leapt in eagerly, as she often does when I comment on the sorry affair. She flags up the evident sense in what I'm saying, I think with some relief, because Mater REALLY doesn't know how to do emotion.

So yes - at a time when I was already under hideous levels of pressure (two essays, Master's applications, a French presentation which should have been done LAST YEAR, behind on general French work and barely keeping up with my reading), this landed slap on me like a big, fat, fucking turd. This kind of shit makes me angry enough as it is, but the fact of it happening to my sister, my mum bringing up similar family history and meeting an old friend who had put her daughter's in-laws behind bars after a long fight increased my sense of despondent rage. At the very least, I wanted to be at home to look after my sister for the short period of time she has off, but nuuuuuu, I have to keep going and do fucking shit. Well, I am only human. I fail. I failed today. By a miracle (i.e. making it probably quite obvious that I would not refrain, if pushed, from crying in the English office), I was saved - but this is bullshit, yo.

I shouldn't have to be in this position. Maybe I sound like an ingrate for saying that, but that's how I feel, I'm afraid. I have no bitterness about all the time I lost looking after my sister (why the fuck should I?) but it just seems so very fucking unfair that this kind of bollocks happens to me. Furthermore, when I grovel before my advisor and the evaluatory board that may or may not condemn me for my failure of memory, I must reduce this all to one paragraph. How shittily pathetic is it going to sound, do you think? 'Sorry, I think I'm developing a stomach ulcer because my sister's getting divorced.' I know it's not right - but good God, part of me almost feels like I deserve it. Maybe I do. Maybe I should have been professional to the end, as my mother no doubt would have been.

Ah well, fucking bullshit essays handed in, still not had a shower and the French presentation looms over me like an executioner. Time I went back to the flat, had dinner and leapt out of the window forced myself to read until I fall asleep with exhaustion and then stay up later than necessary for no good reason because I can't relax and the fridge is too loud.

Well, I'm a regular bundle of joy - but so run the joys of blogging. It's like offloading on people without actually doing so. No need to make small talk, no need to force myself to be suitably smiley. I am free of social convention's oppression and I can wallow in my mounting unhappiness. Not a joke, not a hint of a smile. Sometimes even krazy jelly beans lose all their colour.

Reader, I... Met His Parents

So. Given that my life has been nothing short of terrifying recently (chronically miscalculated my student loan and thought I was going to die, penniless and half-eaten by an Alsatian as combined work and poverty pressures induced my heart to burst like a tomato in the microwave)... I thought I would go for the best form of catharsis there is available: 'publicly' embarrassing myself on my public blog. See now, this wouldn't be real humiliation, I told myself, since virtually no-one reads this anyway. The 3 people who happen to follow probably know enough about me to divine that I am a huge embarrassing mess of a laydee anyway. Well, as huge as you can be at almost 5'4'' (almost! almost! Talk about being cut to the quick! 'So that I may calculate your BMI, please tell me: are you 5'4''? You look like a 5'4''' *shamefacedly* 'No, I am afraid I am 5'.37''...').

You - people who have read any recent posts - will know that I am in love with a man (scandale! you cry derisively. As if we thought you were in fact in love with an oversized cucumber!). Not just any man, however. He has sort of a 'web presence' like myself, and so I threatened to very slightly roll back the sunroof of anonymity last time. However, I got an email about it, so he will now be referred to as 'The Libertarian.' He jokingly referred to himself as 'im upstairs' once, I believe, but I know that I for one may confuse this with God, so for now he is, very simply, The Libertarian or TL if I'm feeling very slovenly.

Anyway, The Libertarian is very, very good to me. He is, in fact, so good to me that I was terrified he was actually a hologram for the first month of our relationship and I occasionally woke up afraid that he would have disappeared from my side like a hallucination (usually to be greeted by the halcyon view of his back while he slept peacefully...). He brought me a rose on our second 'real date' - which he carried intact from effectively one side of the city to another for about 2 hours or something. He took me to a formal dinner at his alma mater and introduced me to one of his best friends. While this was occurring, he got slightly tipsy and preceded to grin at everyone around him, especially me, squeezing me close to him affectionately and rubbing my arm. The next day, he showed me around the town there, refusing as always to let me carry my own bag and insisting on taking a picture of me, be-shawled, because I looked 'so cute.'

I could see, very early on, that I was going to fall in love with him. I could see it coming like Michael Jackson can see facial collapse coming. I reacted badly when I realised I loved him, managing to scare him in the process. Romance-novel-esque as it is, it became clear to me that I'm really not used to being treated well, and I don't trust it, tragic as that sounds. He is determined to make being treated well the norm for me, and I thought I might almost be getting there, but today came a warning.

I went to his house to help him ice Christmas cookies with his mum, and had a very good time doing so, because I tend towards the artistic and got carried away doing elaborate decorations, like a randomly-shaped cookie which I turned into a little Christmas scene with two tiny carollers, two giant musical notes, a bell and some snow. I received many compliments from the pair of them, and then his mum went out to get some things. A fair few hours later, as I was preparing to leave, she said she had a present for me (!!) and it turned out to be a cookie-icing book, with all sorts of elaborate designs and suggestions.

Now that threw me off balance enough as it was, but then she joked about how it would help me when I 'start my business' and said that 'you have a real talent there.' TL agreed with her and smiled at me while holding my hand. We flipped through the book together, commenting on the various designs. They kept being very encouraging and kind, and I felt like I had just swallowed a brick, all wibbly and sure that my face or voice would soon slip out of my control.

Soon afterwards I left - and made it back home without bawling my eyes out. However, the whole episode made me wonder when I am ever going to get used to this whole 'people being genuinely nice to me' business. I just can't get my head around it. Compliments are not compliments to me - they are spiked apples, which I scan for concealed razors. Kindness is a Venus flytrap, waiting for me to hover over it so that it can snatch me into the black depths of its jaws and rip me to shreds.

In short, I love him but I'm just so goddarn AFRAID to have faith that it might be OK. That I might NOT end up eroded and cynical again. I didn't even get dumped last time round - it was me who left - but that didn't stop it from being a thoroughly painful experience which made me get the way I am now. TL and I have fought once, and we made up within an hour, but the feeling I got was so strong that I will never forget it. In the brief stretch of time when I believed we were 'over,' I had a terrible pain in my chest and I felt sort of numb inside my head. I was travelling to Waterloo and when I got there, I burst into tears. What worried me was that I didn't feel surprised. I felt resigned. Something was always going to go wrong, and now it had. Oh, well done me, I had vindicated myself.

I need to lose that feeling. Not so that every hint of friction comes as a huge, unsettling shock, but just so that I am not looking to create a self-fulfilling prophecy. 'You want to be careful that in worrying about not being too clingy, you don't drive him away,' my wise friend told me. Indeed, and I don't want to feel that my unfortunate childhood has laid some inescapable curse on me.

Yet, the free, relaxed, equal nature of TL's interaction with his family hurt me. I would say, 'for want of a better word,' if it were true, but - it did. It hurt me. I have been unable to shake off the feeling, despite my horror of marriage and lack of sentimentality about love, that this is the 'One.' I don't believe in 'the One' because there are many compatible people out there, but I do believe there's probably likely to be a 'One' you're more able to marry than the others, and oh boy are the warning klaxons sounding about TL. He has the same feelings about me, he says, but I am his first love, so... eh.

Looking at his family does not make me jealous, but it does make me feel aware of how inadequate my own relationship with my family is, even though there's not a lot I can do about that. It makes me want to be part of his future even more, to be part of that small but intimate family circle. Yet I have stop thinking as if it were certain with him... I need to CHILLTHEFUCKOUT and for some reason I just can't. It is what I have always wanted, being dangled cruelly in front of me. This is where, if I were certain of 'im upstairs', I might raise my two fingers skywards and cry 'Feck you.'