Destroying myself one breath at a time.

Sessions With Her 2.1 – 2.4

Session 2.1:- Coming back to life                                                                                              May 16, 2012


Situations don’t change people, hell! People don’t even change people – we are who we are. Or is it?

I didn’t expect to see him at all, but I did. Does it make a difference? Time erodes everything, even if you’re sure something has remained, it doesn’t make a difference because what was, will never again be and no matter how much you care, it just isn’t the same. The fact of the matter is that we were once inseparable, we are now separate.

“Back, already?” There was plea in her voice, a sadness that destroyed everything. It said, there is no hope. You are who you are and you are troubled. Forever black-eyed, a product returned, destined to make rounds of her therapy room for the rest of natural life until she dies, first.

“I could leave, if that’s what you want!” I was visibly upset, trying to tame the embarrassment.

“No, that’s not what I meant. Have a seat, I’ve replaced the couch with a new and friendlier one, I always knew how the last one made you uncomfortable and I also replaced the curtains with concrete windows, to keep the sun from entering the room.”

“You did that for me?” I spoke, sitting down on the new couch which was indeed more comforting than its predecessor, “but why?”

“You are my only client, you know.” She replied facing away.

“You are right; this is more comfortable than the one before. Plus I feel like talking now so it’s working.” I replied glibly.

“What do you want to tell me?” Her posture regained rigidity to suit the question, as if she were about to jot everything down, in bullet form no less.

“I don’t know what I have got myself into, this time around. It’s more complicated and not as easy as I, thought it would be. Apparently, these things look simple from the outside but once you manage to get in, once you’re bound by a knot, susceptible only to an equitable tear, a joy division – if you will, the things on the inside aren’t pretty,” I finished, feeling accomplishment.

“Peculiar! You always find the need to say it in so many words even when there are healthier, lot smaller alternatives.” She faked curiosity.

“It gives shit meaning, feels more genuine and in-depth. Like this one time I, explained the various titles and terms of a legal contract, sounding equally elaborate, only with double meanings and dark comedy, so much so that the whole experience felt liberating and brought out the hypocrisy of things.”

“And — you enjoy this?” She said, still faking curiosity.

“I do, I do, I…well I do, sometimes, maybe most times but it’s, all good intentioned, it’s not meant to change anything. It’s an aid to the way I speak; it’s… my way, my thing.”

It takes a few seconds of honesty to, go and destroy the brilliance of amazing moments thereby making them remain only as moments and not continuous, it’s heartbreaking. It a resounding ‘you said too much’ a ‘you revealed too much’ – that inspires guilt. There I sat, on the other side of the sleep, wondering if I should go back.





Session 2.2: – Coffee and Cigarettes                                                                                        June 23rd, 2012


People often relate to songs, particular numbers that match their living – circumstantial melody, but an entire album? What if all the sounds in a soundtrack made sense, one time or another, like Fallout Boy made sense to me? Rare phenomena, I suppose!

Two side tables stood guard on either side of the ‘therapy couch’, from what I recall, they have always been there, empty and boring, so much so that they often dissolved into the couch making me fail to notice them but not today. There’s an ashtray on one, which is helping the other come alive too and two packs of smokes – a Marlboro and a Gold Flake. There’s a red lighter, cheap, gas supported but smart like simple, efficient.

“Would you like a smoke?” She suggested, holding down a book that she was reading, “Pick a brand, whichever you fancy more at this moment.”

I pulled one out of the Marlboro box and sat down, then set fire to the open end with the red lighter and placed it on the other side table. “What are you reading?”

“Patpong Sisters,” she repeated, glancing at the cover.

I exhaled used smoke replacing it with fresh ones, looked around the room a little bit and continued, “How do you start afresh? Say, you always had it in you, waiting to come out and despite repeated attempts it never did, but you always kept telling yourself that it will surface, sooner than later and it will be momentous, like glory or some shit but here you are, years later still hoping, still waiting for it, it that never comes.”

“Maybe its not coming,” she placed the book down forgetting to mark the page and added, “can you drag it out?”

“Can I drag it out?” I didn’t understand.

“Yes, waiting and hoping is being lazy, dragging it out is more effective. Perhaps you should not wait any longer, and think about the advantages of making it happen now, by hook.”

I nodded, looked around a little bit more and killed the Marlboro. “I keep falling, I get up and try again but I keep falling, I am a cripple with poor self-control. It’s a disaster.”

“You have to beat sleep. It’s killing you and all that you’re worth. Kill something as powerful as sleep and it’s a start, a damn good start. When you wake up in the morning and wish you’d woken up earlier, you know you’ve been defeated again, don’t let them beat you, wake the fuck up!” Her tone was harsh, almost final.

“You said ‘them’, not ‘it’, whose them?”

“Fuck them!” She picked up her book again and resumed reading, like she had never stopped at all.

It took me all of 27 years to come to this point, and now that I am here why should I ever go back? Imprisoned by my own thoughts, let down by my imagination, it is clear now that it will never come unless I beat the living fuck out of it and now I have. Bruised and slightly wounded, having injured a whole fucking lot of worthless lives who are now grateful, I’m out. I will never sleep again, not as long as I have oxygen in my veins.

Fuck them. Fuck them all.






Session 2.3: – This happened,                                                                                     July 3rd, 2012


“I deleted Facebook.”





Session 2.4: –                                                                                                                                     July 26th, 2012

When I walked into her room 23 days later, there was brightness like never before. Suddenly the room was all alive and kicking like the first 20 minutes after acid starts to kick in. All of a sudden there was colour in Pleasantville and she, she looked proud.

“You deleted Facebook, I checked to make sure.”

“What, you didn’t believe me?” I was a little disappointed.

“No, it’s not that – I just had to see for myself. But I have to ask, how have the 23 days been for you? Did you think, it was too much too soon?” I could tell that she was being sarcastic, like a bitch.

“Just once, I typed without realizing that I had deleted it but then, I laughed and didn’t look back ever since.” I was satisfied with my answer.

“But today, I have more important things on my mind,” I continued setting fire to a gold flake. “I’d like to talk about the meaning of life.”

“Really?” she appeared amused.

“Yes, I would, because you see life confuses me – I mean think about it, I delete facebook only to find myself hooked onto foursquare and I have questions, like why I enjoy onion pakoras at the Aliment, or why doesn’t anybody ever see the Kanchenjunga any more  And what’s with the chief minister, huh! I make the mistake of casting my first ever vote on her behalf and she fucks me in return, what’s with that?”

“Are these questions really that important?” She was serious now, I could tell.

“Yes, yes they are. Because they have to do with my life, because I take decisions in my life, that I either approve or regret and it makes me question the fundamentals. Like money, people tell me all the time that I spend too much but that’s what I thought money was for.”

“Now, you’re being ignorant,” her voice got more controlled like a professor of English lit.

“Okay, fine, fine – I’ll stop, but ill have you know that these are important questions nevertheless,” I concluded behaving like a child.

“What’s really bothering you, Rahul?” It was the first time she had ever used my name and it made me very uncomfortable.

I sigh, look around for a few seconds and let it all out, “why am I like this with you, around you, so open so clear and I can’t be half the man I am, out there. Why am I so trapped, like in a glass fuckin’ bowl – I’m no gold-fish, I’m no fish neither. Why? What’s stopping me? Why must I resort to therapy every time I need to escape?”

“Are you breaking up with me?” She looked at me with a smirk, like she was about to follow that up with the answer to the question, the meaning of life, while I looked back at her with a smile, signalling my curiosity, awaiting a follow-up.

“The meaning of life, Rahul – is the most pointless question anyone has ever asked, like there’s one life on the planet, like as if any two lives are the same, like life gives a fuck? Death doesn’t  then why should life? You are asking the wrong, pointless question. The real question, is, what is the meaning of Rahul?”

She leaned back feeling Godly, and tapped her right index finger against the right side of her forehead.


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