The Sickness

She calls it the ‘L” sickness. I call it the complications of moving on.

If I had written about this yesterday, I am sure this would have turned into a wail. And you’d see me as I was yesterday, pathetic, utterly wretched.

It started with the friend posting the videos of our happy times in London. And so, despite the bad vibes, I viewed them. The dam broke.

If there is one thing I envy about them. It is that they’ve moved on, totally, fully. And it’s maybe because they have something to build now—a family, a dream to work on. While I still flail aimlessly, sometimes confused with what I really want in life. At night, it's all I ask from Him. That I be granted peace and that He helps me find happiness whether I end up being alone or with someone.

When I told her how that video made me cry. How I went to the office loo three times just so I could let the tears flow, the secret friend, the progenitor of this sadness/sickness remarked how all along she thought I’ve moved on pretty well, I like the way you lie. But it doesn't feel that I am lying at all, I’m just coping the best way I can. Living and making do with what is possible, what I can still gain—not from him, mind you, but from the present, from what is still ahead.

Most days I do well, with the work and the little ventures, but there are nights when I find my mind flitting back. And I’d scold myself how stupid I am, how people are now happy and why I can’t for the life of me, be totally happy too.

I have read enough books, witnessed enough lives, listened to enough stories to know it is irreversible. This ennui of life. How certain things stick with us, despite our hopes to forget. How sometimes when it’s bad the best way is to lie. To fake the good vibes. I go with that. A little lie won’t hurt if it spares people from my drama. If it helps make me better.