Thank You

When I was young, I really want to be good at something.

I would enviously applaud those we celebrated walking across stage to collect their awards.

What would it be like? I wondered.

To feel special. To feel talented. To feel worth celebrating.

I wanted to feel like that too.

Why did I really feel that way? Am I evil? Would it be because people would love me more if I was successful? Would my parents finally be proud? Would I finally be at peace with myself?

So I put myself to work. I thought academics was my strong suit.

I finished high school not first. But second.

Let’s not talk about my university days — I wasn’t any contest.

Fast-forwarding to my working days, my then-partner worked at an ophthalmology clinic. She would always return home in zeal.

Their work is like art, she would say.

What could I do? I thought.

I didn’t feel good at anything. I didn’t feel special. I didn’t feel worthy of love and admiration. This was such a painful feeling.

So, I began to write. And I’m glad I did. I love writing. My thoughts, feelings and pain to share out to the world. Get it out there. Share. Maybe, I can find someone who will care.

I like to write about my emotions. I like to talk about the inner workings of my mind. Not many people do (maybe for a good reason?).

I’m not the best writer. That’s what my English teacher told me. But what’s a English teacher really good at? But I’m not writing an English essay with well structured paragraphs; this is self expression.

By the way, because I’m South Asian doesn’t mean I’m terrible at English and only good at science and math.

Before all of this, I thought to be good at something, you have to be born with it.

There is some element of truth, but I later discovered that it’s not about

I wise man told me, if you enjoy what you do, you will excel at it.

I enjoyed this. I finally felt like someone. I felt special.

Before I started writing, I was usually an open person. But that’s a problem? Men are supposed to be closed books.

When did the journey of self expression truly begin?

There was this girl in my first year of university, A. You could say ‘A’ stood for angel. She was - platonically. Thank you, A. You made first year of university so bearable. Thank you for making me heard and feel special in a hostile place.

She would be the ear to my thoughts. She was a person I could talk to. A friend I finally felt comfortable with.

Years later, I learnt men don’t talk to women about their problems, only to other men. Sorry for breaking that rule.

She eventually moved on with her life.

Thank you.