The Stuff Heroes Are Made Of

//go on a library date//

Dear Ramya,

Have you ever felt the feeling of loneliness? That sickly thing that crashes into you suddenly, be it a 2 AM morning or that 4PM lazy afternoon? That thing which twists your insides into a mess?

Do you hear that voice too, Ramya? A voice that makes you feel the most alone in crowded rooms? That voice that tells you that you're never good enough?

Do heroes like you hear it too?

I remember that voice lurking in my head day in and out.

I always thought it was my humility talking, telling me that I didn't deserve praise, that I didn't deserve rewards or money or fame.  It told me that I didn't deserve happiness. 

 I couldn't make friends.  Every time I tried to, I would act impulsively on my insecurities and they would leave me. Every single time. But I mean, who wouldn't? Why would anyone need to be my rehabilitation centre? No one could guess whether I was angry or sad or happy, because I didn't know myself. 

It was like my mind wasn't mine at all. I was a puppet. Controlled by whom? I don't know either. I would tear myself up for answers but with no use. 

Feelings were lost to me. I was messed up in an amalgam of emotions and I taught myself to repress it every time, because I was scared someone would find out my secret. I was scared someone would find out that I was broken beyond repair. Who would want me then? 

Who would want a broken doll?

I was always jealous. It was a side effect to that voice. I desperately wanted somebody else's life and hated mine. Small insignificant things would make me hate everyone, the very things that made me like them. There was this one quote, I remember -I am an invisible man, because the world refused to see me. And it struck me, that when I looked in the mirror, that's what I saw- nothing. There was this vast void inside myself and I didn't know what to fill it with.

 Over years, I grew more and more sick of myself. random thoughts would come trickling in, whispering. I was driving the other day and something whispered, run over the bridge. I was cooking and it whisperphered, put your hand on the flame. 

But I wouldn't. 

I couldn't.

I wasn't brave enough to kill myself, too.

I was a coward.

I remember the first time you came to the library. I was reading TFIOS( the only acceptable way to cry in public without anyone judging you).

 You dropped right next to me and handed me a tissue.

"First time?", you asked.
"Yeah", I lied.

"The story isn't that sad", you shrugged, after a moment's thought. 

 I wanted to kill you. 

 "I mean I'm not sadist, it's just that I think living is harder. Their story is not sad, it's inspirational. It tells us that with numbered days they found their own infinity. But us, with infinity we choose to number our days. We number our thoughts, our actions. We restrict ourselves, you know. Maybe we all need a deadline, like you know, death, to truly come alive."

Bridge to Terabithia was fluttering in your hand.

'Sadness precedes happiness. Maybe we're all supposed to have broken hearts just so we realise that there are things worth more than the pain. People who are worth the fight, you know? Those tiny, tiny fleeting moments that make us realise life is worth it. Maybe you just need to find that one thing."

I wish that that moment was the single life-changing moment of my life, so I could blame all my happiness on you.
But no.

I hated myself for a long time after that. I would keep pulling my skin apart, my hair apart. I was headed down a very rocky road and I was broken before it even began.

The change began when I started noting physical symptoms. I was trembling and hyperventilating constantly. I became distant. I turned even more into a shell. I was snapping at everyone left and right. I was running out of spaces to cut myself.

 I knew I was broken, but I refused to acknowledge it.

What use was I for, anyways? Who would want this mean psycho now? Who is going to miss me if I die?

So I decided, screw it. I'm going to die. I spent days researching how to die with the least expensive materials. I decided the date and time too.

Wednesday, May 3rd 2017, 3 PM. Just like that.

I was clearing my library dues a month before the decided date. After the heated argument over some meagre thing with the librarian I stepped outside in a fit of rage and did not notice the speeding car aimed straight at me.

However, someone else did.

He started barking at me like crazy from the entrance of the library and only after I turned to see the commotion behind me, the car whizzed by me in a speed that made me drop my bags. 

It took me only a split second to realise what went on.

I could've died. 

But the funny thing is, I didn't want to.

I stood there, speechless, when the librarian pulled me into a tight hug. "Oh my God, you're okay, oh my God...", she trembled. I let her pull me closer. I fell back into her.

So this is me, a month later.

 I went to a psychologist who held my hand and told me that there really was something wrong with my brain. She told me that other people have it and that it's okay to be broken. We all can be fixed.  She told me that it was all going to be okay. She told me that she could help me with it and that Im going to become myself again, my real self, not the sick one.

I'm at the library daily. I keep using books as an excuse to see the librarian, who I began to find really cute when she's not fighting. She has the most caramel eyes I've ever seen and I would graze over old titles to find a book that match her eye colour. She has a small dimple on her right cheek when she blushes. I see that dimple every time we make eye contact. We walk my dog, Arlo, the same one who saved my life, after her shift everyday.

You died on that very same day. 

Life works in funny ways, don't you think Ramya? I was a dead person, who learned to live from you.  Look where that got you.

I doubt if you even remember me. But that doesn't matter anymore. You were a part of me. And i lost you. The Ramya-shaped void aches in my heart, even though we've spoken for no less than 3 minutes.

But I'm going to let that void be. 

I'm not going to try to fill it up with anything because I need that hole to let light shine through. It's okay to feel a little bit imperfect and empty sometimes. 

Only then will the darkness make sense.

love,

Radha.