Coming to terms with being exposed!
I started writing again in this blog and I’m sure if I put only two brain cells to work, I could tell you the exact psychological mechanism behind choosing to write in English instead of Farsi (my native language). But I refuse to give it any “logical” explanation other than my preference for some sort of privacy.
I started writing about my books, and then I forgave myself for leaving pieces of daily life behind in the reviews and about how I’m coping with losing my Baba and all of that led to last night, when I had to stop myself from writing about how my father’s death, the whole concept of him being dead, is creeping up on me again.
I feel like, by writing about his death, I’m: a) exposing myself (especially when I check my analytics and see that people actually do read this blog), and b) telling an unoriginal story about grief.
Blah blah blah… someone lost their father and now is sad. I’m sure all the word combinations have already been used to express the depth of this “absence” of feeling, this lack of existence, of this great loss. And at the same time, I’m sure that by living in a foreign country, I’ve lost the ability to poetically explore my feelings for my fellow native Persian speakers or even to string together a complete paragraph in English that conveys exactly what I feel about losing the person I lost, from the point of view of the person I am.
Probably even this post won’t make sense.
Ugh. I broke my silence, I unveiled the mystery, and now I feel like I have to write and will still end up not being understood, even when I tried.
I was wondering who’s reading my blog, but then I remembered I intentionally put the link in my Instagram bio for people to find it and read it.
I wonder who’s reading the blog, but at the same time I don’t ever want to know. I don’t want to know who you are, and I don’t want to know what you think of my writing. Whatever you’re thinking, I’m sure I’ve heard it before. This is just me exposing myself… and at some point I’ll probably accept defeat and share even more information. Most of it will revolve around losing my Baba.
I still wonder to this day, why is the world still going? How are days passing as if death isn’t happening, as if people aren’t losing loved ones? (I’ve even heard this sentence somewhere before, I swear I felt it when I was 11 and I lost my aunt)
Are we all on the same page? Are you sure you’re dedicating enough time to grasp the imminent death that will happen to all of us?
I was never dedicated enough to turn this into a well crafted story. If I had, my Baba would have been a character, and I would have been the protagonist, and you would’ve stepped into my shoes and walked the path I did, and we would have been fellow sufferers. But now I just write here and expose myself for an unoriginal pain that’s been told by many other storyteller in the best poetic way possible. At best, here you might get an idea of what to expect once this happens to you, but you’ll never understand how it feels to be me, the one who lost my Baba.
I should commit to it or let it go, I will either say it or shut up about it forever. Just like many of you did! Keeping the pain so close to you, I almost feel like I’m the only person who can’t deal with death.