I’ve always been a very emotional person.
Don’t get me wrong- I’m not the kind to flood the cinema when I watch sad movies (Rather, I manage to find something to laugh about, which is quite easy as most sob scenes are exaggerated in malayalam films). I’m the kind of person who would choke back tears when I’m given a hand-made present. I’m the kind of person who’d love you forever if you go out of your way for me once. I’m the kind of person who’d search for your missing dog with you well into the night, and cry more than you when she is finally found.
And I’ve never found it particularly bothersome. Everything I saw and felt went straight to my heart, but that was the way I am and I was okay with it.
Until Ientered into a sort-of-relationship with a person who was allergic to the very notion of ’emotion’.
Lets call him Mr.S, which would help in protecting his identity and also double as an insult as ‘S’ in this article stands for Shit Head. Because I’m childish that way.
Now Mr.S wasn’t much of a looker, but he was exceedingly brilliant. It also helped that he had the same interests as me. So for the first few months we got along rather well, and some people even had the gall to name us the ‘perfect couple’.
Fast forward to a few months later and Mr.S started getting bored. He’d message me regularly through social media but never seemed to have time for me in real life. This was particularly dumb considering the fact that we were in the same college (Yes, I almost-dated a person I’d see regularly. Mistake numero uno). I began to go out of my way to make arrangements for meetings, fully believing that this was part of what a ‘relationship’ entailed. Along the way, I began to unconsciously drift apart from the few good friends I’d made. That is still by far my biggest regret- that I’d prioritized someone who was indifferent to me over others who’d genuinely cared.
I found myself shrinking away from concerned seniors who’d asked if we were an ‘item’ because I myself had no idea as to what this ‘arrangement’ meant. Sure, he’d regularly recite the three magic words to me and after a while I started to repeat them as well, like a well-trained-parrot. Right now, I think I had fancied myself in love rather than having experienced the elusive feeling myself. I had convinced myself that we were the ‘perfect couple’. I still don’t know if there was a point when I’d truly loved him or not.
But one thing was true- I was invested in our ‘arrangement’ and had enjoyed talking with him, if not more. Which is why it pained me when I found him regularly choosing others over me. Why it hurt every time I had to ask him to spare some time for me. Why insecurity flooded my mind every time he boasted about how he’s sure he’ll one day get into the pants of a ‘Russian babe or two’. I had made him into my precious person, and it was depressing that he hadn’t given the same importance to me.
When we broke up, I cried. A lot. I tried to understand, failed. Tried to be friends, failed again.
But no, that’s not why I fondly refer to him as Mr.S now. I was ready to forgive and forget and take up on his offer of staying close friends.
It’s because he used those post-breakup years to reduce me into a bigger mess than what I’d been before. Every time he offered to ‘help’, he ended up pushing me deeper into quicksand. I was sinking. Fast.
My smiles stopped. My tears didn’t. It was altogether a messy affair, and he made it worse by hanging around in the sidelines, regularly reminding me that there was something ‘fundamentally wrong’ with me because I was too emotional. He’d yell at me in public, and then act all gentle-manly with others. It was especially worse because he’d make sure that his means of hurting me were well hidden. I wasn’t learned in such covert arts, so my emotional outbursts were for everyone to see. I myself did a few things I am not proud of.
But what I AM proud of, is where I am now. I’ve reconnected with my friends, made even more friends and have almost freed myself from his negativity. Sure, I’ve lost a few people who’d sympathized more with him, but I’ve come to the conclusion that that wasn’t much of a loss. I even found a few people who weren’t blind to his pretenses and stood by me without pressing me to reveal the gory details. We occasionally pass each other and he regularly tries to pick a fight. Though at most times I can’t resist a comeback (which I’ve found delights the onlookers) his jabs don’t hurt me anymore.
I’m happy. I’m loved. And I’ve fully embraced what he’d called my ‘madness’. I’m emotional, I feel everything ten-fold, but I’m okay! 🙂
I’m aware that most people won’t bother reading something as long and emotional as this, but to the few that made it this far, thank you! Thank you for listening to me talk about something too dangerous to bring up in real life. Times like this, I enjoy the anonymity the internet provides me. ~(^ o ^)~