When you are afraid of your own life…

Its Sunday night. Tomorrow’s Monday. Such an inane beginning to a conversation about how scared you can be of your own life. Every person on this planet goes through disappointments, some experience a lot of it, some are let off quite easily. But heartbreak is written in the stars for every soul who takes a human body.

I don’t know about other people, but I have gone through disappointments, tons and tons of it. I used to feel very victimized because why do I have to have such bad luck. Why does God want me to suffer so much? Then, I moved on to logical reasoning, maybe I experience all of them at once so that the rest of my life can be slightly smoother. Then, pride. Look I’m still alive even after I never got to do all the things I hoped I would. Say for example, my father had a job offer in Scotland; however, he’s a dead-beat dad who never gets up from the couch, so my dream of growing up abroad has been smashed to pieces. I always rationalized that one day he’ll get up from that couch and go win the world for me. Never happened.

That’s when I learned not to have expectations from people. That and eleven years of bullying in school. Stuff happens. We move on. As Gandhi said,”be the change you want to see”. I believe in that adage with all my heart. I’m living proof of that. My transformation from a timid young girl who was bullied to the manipulator who saved her skin from befriending the same bullies, from being green with jealousy at happier, healthier, richer cousins to accepting that everyone else is safe from the cruel knife of fate, had indeed set up my self-esteem at a high enough level. What I couldn’t change was life.

I couldn’t stop life from making me a square peg in a round hole. Wherever I went, unhappiness and failure (lots of it) in spite of backbreaking hard work and enormous amounts of will-power. At 24, I’m in a PhD program. I got accepted into the university which was my last choice, however I’m glad. I met my two best friends here. I tasted freedom and responsibility that comes from living alone in a new country. I became independent. I have a career now, or so I thought. I did miserably in my placement exams at the beginning of my first semester here. The coursework for the first semester was so bad I ended up on the floor of my apartment more often than not, bawling my eyes out. I barely passed my courses. My second semester, I joined a research group, rallied myself around, worked hard and got my 4.0. All is well. Or so I thought.

The summer of 2016 brought with it a humungous change in tidings for me, maybe I should say my life went back to the norm of screwing with me. All through those two and half painful months, whatever instruments I touched broke down. I worked 14 hour days with no positive results to show for it. I spiraled into an existential crisis when I realized my research is not some ground-breaking, earth-shattering project. I’m not even going to make a blip on science. I mean, what’s the point of my miserable life? I have seen so much pain and devastation in my 23 years of my life, more than some people see in a lifetime. My suicidal thoughts began then. Right then. I wanted to end it. My chest ached that I’m still alive. Because I can’t. I can’t take it anymore. I never had the courage to kill myself though. I’m too chicken for that. So, I lived on because I have no choice. Life turned into an enormous burden for me, one that I have to carry, drag my feet under all that weight. I was in a body that I don’t like, studying in a program that I abhor, lonely as hell and slapped with failures multiple times a day.

I’m afraid of life. I’m so scared of my own life. And I have no choice but to live it. I’m scared to go to the lab tomorrow. I am broken into a thousand tiny pieces and I can never put them back.


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