I Tried. And Then I Didn’t. And Then I Just Was.

I tried.
Been trying.

It’s washing me away. Every day, every second.
There’s a thud — and then some more — every split second.
Magnitude of a 9.4?
Don’t know anymore.
But my bones do. My breath does.

I tried to get out.
Find a safe space.
Cancelled a few times.
Ran it like a loop — a countless, million times.
It still looped.

Then, I tried to be there. For the world.
The world I grew up in.
In the language I was taught to speak fluently — love, empathy, care.

Random people — unwell.
So I poured a little of what was left back into them.
And then, what was left… left me.

I tried being there for them.
Emotionally, in my head.
Spoke to the so-called own.
Planned the big move.
Tried to be useful again.

And, goddammit — validation.
I realised — it never leaves you.
Even when you hate it, it claws at you in silence.

I’ve had some random people — who met me yesterday — question my life. My family. My worth.
Not literally.
Metaphorically.

And mine — my own — when I dared to speak about me,
they talked and teared for the world.
Not for me.

I reached out — to figure out whether I should do the one thing I hate:
Mangalore.
Fucking Mangalore.

I thought — if I could get his tests done, like I used to —
I’d finally get something back.
A nod. A welcome. A simple How are you?

Too much to ask, isn’t it?

But when it came to me — just me — I was shunned.
Shut.
A third shower to overcome the humidity
after an hour-long property discussion and small talk.

I was told not to.
“No need to be there :)”

I’m not welcome.
No matter how many times I say I’ve made my peace — I haven’t.
I’ve just memorised the script of being the outsider.
The not-needed one.
The “you think too much” one.

These walls — the ones I pay for every month —
They throw me away, each second.
But at least they don’t pretend they don’t.
At least they’re honest.

And if even the walls can see it,
Why can’t you?
Why can’t they?
Is it so hard — to see it in someone’s eyes?
In a laugh that cracks like glass?
Doesn’t the body speak its own language?

But I guess…
No one lives for the ones they’ve lived for.

And then — between sobs,
when gratitude awkwardly sat in my lap like a misplaced cat,
I read something Sandra Bullock said.

It said:
Anxiety and gratitude can’t function in the same space.
The heart can’t process both at once.
So, when you’re anxious — look for gratitude.

So here I am — torn, tired, uncertain —
and yet, yes, grateful.
For the uncalled ones.
The no-agenda people who reached out because they could.
Not because they had to.
Not because I was useful.
But because something about me felt worth not letting go of.

To her —
the one who won’t give up on me.
Saumya.

I’m grateful.

To the other one,
who I cancelled on fifty times this morning.
I couldn’t bear to sit through lunch.
It wasn’t you.
It was me.
And you still made sure I breathed.

Even in the Bangalore fumes.
Even in the dust.
Even in this ache I can’t quite shake.

I don’t know what the next moment holds.
But I’ll be here — for now.

I’ll go by seconds.
Maybe minutes.
But I’ll stay.
In this little island of breath I’ve buried myself in — I’ll stay.

Tomorrow may bring wisdom.
Or wreckage.
Or maybe more of this unbearable in-between.
But maybe, also — more gratitude.

And that might be enough.