Grief

Note: While the photography ‘project’ was on my mind ever since I wrapped up Indrajit Khambe’s Find Your Creative Voice workshop, the words you see down here accompanying the images are a result of ‘automatic writing’. There’s no thought or a chase for perfection happening out here.

The photos themselves are two years in the making. Constantly marinating in my head whenever the topic of grief came up, I never felt I could do justice to them based on my current skill level. This, until a ‘fuck it, I don’t need it to be perfect’ moment hit me like a tonne of bricks in the last couple of weeks.

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I feel like I have been in the throes of grief since I was 14-15. My coming of age came with a lot of questions and I was worried these questions I had weren’t good enough to be heard by an adult. It’s a different matter that I didn’t trust the adults around me to be empathetic, or keep me safe and understand what I had to say.

And, I feel there in begins my journey with grief. At 42 (There’s a famous Arsenal twitter meme: You’re 42 until you turn 43 and that’s how it works), and thanks to about 5 years in therapy, I have been able to put some words and images to it. And they go like this:

The grief of my birth

Why this body. Why this mind? Why this intelligence. Why this ego? Or the lack of it? Why these caregivers? Why this generational trauma? Why the lack of emotional work from anyone else that I call family? Why be born here…in this time? This age.

I felt a sadness overcome me when I was very young. Shouldn’t have read books that opened my eyes to the workings of the world. Or be intelligent enough to understand that this way, the one preached by family, the church is not my way. But was I courageous enough to carve my own way? Or mature enough to understand what was my way?

Nope. Hence the unending sadness…

The grief of performance?

Am I myself? Or is this an act…a mask? Respect this one for they’re an elder. Take this path ’cause society wants you to. Can I be true to myself? Will I fit in if I am true to myself? If I speak the truth. Will people love me, like me, tolerate me if I am myself? You got to perform. To play a certain game. You got to fit in. Else, you’ll be all alone. I never once stopped to ask myself if I was okay with it. Loneliness scares me. So, I cling on…to whoever you want me to be. I will be that. I will be good. I will behave. Not swerve from the script…a script written for me, by you.

I want to break free. Not act, not perform. The longer I stay in character, the one scripted by you, the sadder, the angrier, the more petulant I get.

The grief of unrequited love

“You don’t always get what you want.” crooned Mr. Jagger. What I usually get is rejection and words, some kind, some unkind.

“You’re not as mature as him.” “You’re not that ambitious?” “Why can’t you be a little more outgoing?” “More of a go-getter?”

“You’re too chill…” “You are too much!” “Too much texting…” “Too little talking!” “Do you even know how to flirt?” “You’re too flirty!” “Too clingy…too needy…” “You’re the villain of my story.”

Then grief says, here, take another lesson…another sad ending for your sad miserable life.

“You’re seeking the love you received in childhood and not what you deserve…” What do I deserve? Investment, curiosity, accountability, honesty, and little love, maybe. “Look again, you settle for a little.”

I wanted to take a little…as little as I could get. I thought that would make me happy. But no…

The grief of meaningful sustenance

For the last 25 years, I have been running away from my grief. Unable to face it. Filling the holes with everything unhealthy I could find. Disconnected, disjointed, numb, cold, zoned out…away from this world, unable to fully feel. Initially, there was fear about talking to someone about it. Now, when I can, there are very few who are willing to listen. Do I listen to my body? When I don’t, how can I expect others to listen to me?

The grief of death

“He died for your sins!” “He is dead because of you…” “You were never good enough!”

Does everything I touch die?

I don’t know how to grieve. How to console someone in grief. I enjoy death because that living thing doesn’t have to be here anymore. No more misery. No more thought. No more anxiety, panic, or an emotion to feel. No more 9-5…no more competing, no more rat race. But what does it mean to those they leave behind? I wouldn’t know…’cause I love to numb myself. I hope the folks left behind also know how to deal with death. I can’t. Why would anyone want to feel the true depths of their grief? What good will it ever do?

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After having written this out, I feel like some of these words aren’t mine. The conditioning, the learning, the hammering done over the years is unfathomable. The process of untangling and rewiring is slow, but I will get there. I feel like I am now ready to befriend my grief. To understand what she is trying to tell me. To hear her out, I am trying to stay sober. Off alcohol for the second time in two years…off THC for the first time in 25. I did smoke a couple of joints for the shoot. There’ll be times when I slip up. But I’ll be okay. Just like how I’ll be okay through my various aspects of grief.

As a thank you to myself for getting through this, I shot a few self portraits once done. Love the way they turned out 🙂