Throwback: Tale of a Broken Heart

Written on October 1, 2008

Photo by Nadia Jamnik on Unsplash

Now, what exactly made me choose that title? Frankly, I'm not so sure, except for the fact that everything's pretty much broken heart material pour moi right now. Where do I begin?

Maybe from the last post. Remember what I said about being hung from the yardarm? Very nearly happened. I guess it was stupid to think I could get away with it. I was caught and screwed for every bit of the time I took off. So what with my grandmother's lectures about cutting classes, and the nuns' horror at what I'd dared to do... And that too, a girl. Quel horreur!

One of these days, I will bomb Brilliant Study Centre. And then news analysts all over the world will zoom in on my blog and go, "OMG, we should've seen it coming. I mean, look, it was all over her page!"

I can only hope I'll be unavailable for comment. The microphones of World News may never recover from the filthy diatribe I'd give them.

Anyway, at the moment I'm recovering from a week's worth of depression, a direct result of my one hour of internet. And also the fact that I don't seem to be making any deep friendships ici. I mean, doesn't anyone know just HOW difficult it is to not talk to people about how you feel? But to be able to open up, you need someone who understands you, thinks the way you think, talks the way you talk. Someone who shares your perspective. And so far, in the three months since my Big Move, this factor is STILL missing in my life.

Worst of all, I find that I don't even feel like talking to my old friends. Why? No clue. I'm just so bloody depressed I can't think about anything besides the questionable expansion of my waistline, and the bloody nuns. Even though I know that the next time I get to come online will be in November, I still can't bring my self to click 'Compose Message' and make small talk with someone who used to be the essence of me. I still cannot bring myself to forget that the last time she needed me, I failed her. And that by remaining in this hell hole, I'm failing her every minute.

It hurts to even think of Dubai, of all that I left behind. If someone were to ask me where I lived, I'm sure I'd respond, automatically, sub consciously: Al Amiri 1, Apt 208, Karama, Dubai. And I'd rattle off the locations of all internet cafes, Baskin Robbins, and bookshops in the vicinity. And also tell you how much time it would take to walk to the nearest movie theatre (40 minutes). And warn you to take a bottle of water with you. Especially in the heat.

I'd tell you which buses go where, and the timings of the masses at my church: St. Mary's Church, Dubai. I'd tell you which masses are crowded, and which choirs sing when.

I'd give you my life on a platter. Only, it's in Dubai.

My only home. My only life. My only roots.

When Dad called last week, the dam burst. I howled like a ninny. Thank goodness everyone had gone downstairs for rosary. I begged and blubbered. Told him he didn't have to take me back to Dubai - even my childlike optimism could accept that. But anywhere was better than the stifling customs and horrible conservatism of this place. Anywhere.

I paid no heed to the fact that there might be some stick-in-the-mud crone downstairs on the extension. All the pain, the fury, locked up for so many months just came rushing out like a torrent.

And it might have had some effect. He told me on the phone yesterday that he was working on it. Dare I hope? No. I'm alien to hope, to faith. Too many betrayals have taken their toll. I'm not the kind to shut up and take the shit. I fight till defeat. And then I die in blazing glory. Like Rani Durgavati, Princesse Padmini, the Rani of Jhansi. It's so easy to pretend I'm an Amazon princess leading her warrior tribe of women in a last assault against the merciless and brutal Roman Army. Like Boadiccea when she lost... Do you know how she died? She took her own life. Cleopatra, too. Every example of strong, proud, women princesses. Living for what they believed in. And dying for it.

Man, I am cringing so hard right now. The temptation to censor this rubbish is the strongest ever.

You know, this whole survival thing wouldn't be so difficult, if only someone showed me they cared. If only someone would notice just how sick I feel. If only they could see the knife that twists in my heart every single time I think of Dubai. Of how different things might have been. If only I hadn't been so stupid. That's what it comes down to, in the end. Foolishness. How could I have thrown away everything that made me tick?

Anyway, it's time to wind up. And like my friend Loboguy says: "Do you miss sanity? I do, sometimes." So, anyway, gotta run. Or I'm gonna find myself cleaned out. No bus fare home, ohdearohdear. So, Cia0. Thanks for reading so patiently this here my rant. ;)

An immortal salute to proud queens, and to Dubai, the City of My Heart. And to those that, all over the world, show that they care.