Dis-Ease

But now this disease has changed me so much I can't come out of it. I can't discard it. I just can't think positively. Actually that is the disease - you cant go out of it. And I pity myself. And I am scared. And I feel things that are completely alien to me. I don't know myself. Sometimes I look at myself and think that how can I let myself be such a wreck. I have become so wretched - how can I allow myself such degradation. I am an innately positive person. I try to buck up, I try to make a resolve that I will be strong and I try to collect back my confidence - but its just not there. Its just not there. That is the disease. Do u understand?

Debalina,

That was eight years back. I thought I understood what your long letter meant. This was just the last bit. By the time I had reached the end, my attention was long gone, I was surely bored, and desperately looking for a way to escape your horror. I was running away, rather than being there for you. I realized I could not understand what you meant. You were my best friend till some days back, laughing, gossiping, teaching, being severely kind, and yet, here was what I secretly feared the most -- your mail in my inbox, convincing me what I feared, did exist -- your vacuum that was eating you up. All the while as you were trying to hold on to me, I knew it was deeper, I would and could be your support, you could depend on me. But that was not to be. I coaxed myself into things of sudden importance, over you. I escaped into a better built world of being busy and it didn't feature you. I left you stranded. 

I do not recall what went into me. Did I think that if I lent you my support, I would be devoid of my soul too? Was I that useless? Was I scared of being worthless? Oh, I just know I have been such a devastating friend. Over the years as our communication grew weaker, I was thankful assuring myself that the separation has led you to become stronger, firmer, even if that meant I proved myself to be a betrayer, a loser.

Yes, that was eight years back. I returned to your mail today, trying to find out if I am feeling the same things as you said you had felt then? You see, I have no face of returning to you, but the very assurance that someone else might have survived what I am going through now, is enough for me. I cannot reason this dis-ease, I cannot explain this lack of life within. I do not see how the degradation has happened to me and what has led to it. And I am ashamed that I have several hands holding out to reach me, making me all the more guilty about how I behaved with you. 

I too resolve, each second, in a matter of a sleep, I will return to become the person I was, I am, or I was? I have lost track. It took me eight years to come to the same unhappy plain and I have no hope of this clawed beast ever leaving me, but of one thing I am certain -- of what is not anymore, I understand.

With you,

Sucheta.