The story of my blog

Disclaimer: This post should have actually been the first post on this blog. This post is about why I started this blog. In fact, this post is more about my current existentialist crisis. So forgive me if I sound like I’m ranting and rambling. And forgive me for using the word “post” four times in just three sentences.

Anyway. Here goes the story of my life.

I am in my bed. It’s midnight and I’m unable to sleep. I’m feeling uneasy, like something heavy was pressing down on my chest. And then I’m feeling scared and tearful. I want to go away and hide. Somewhere. Anywhere.

Rewind to the time when all I thought about was homework, food and the cute guys in my class.
I am ten years old and I fall asleep instantly as I place my head on the pillow. I fear nothing, except probably maths. I am a good student. And an ideal daughter.

Fast forward a decade and am packing bags to leave for Paris. I have been given a scholarship to study in one of the best schools in France. My parents have agreed to pay for a part of my expenses and the student loan will take care of the rest.

I have made myself and my family proud.

As my plane takes off, I have butterflies in my stomach. My dream is coming true. The tears shed by my parents down at the airport are fast forgotten.

The year passes by in a whiz. New friends, parties, travel and discovery.

Fast forward again to September. I am glad to be back to Paris after the summer vacations. And then, I fall in love. He’s funny and kind and generous and smart. But he is also French. Parents panic. I get defensive. They feel betrayed. I think they just don’t understand me.

Rewind to the vacations. Mom had said she had found the perfect match for me. I had cringed. I have always dreaded arranged marriages. But it is quite the norm back home.

Fast forward and December arrives. Classes are already over. Shit!

Then, I land the internship of my dreams. All of a sudden, I’m paying my own rent, enjoying this new-found financial freedom.

And then one fine day, it dawned on me. The terrible truth.

I was now on my own in this big, bad world. I had become, in the true sense of the term, an adult.

And that is exactly why I was twisting and turning in my bed the other night.

Being an adult means that I have to shoulder the expectations of my family and the society. I am “expected” to find a well-paying job and settle down with a suitable boy. ASAP.

Being an adult means that I can no longer call home the house I grew up in. It shall now be uniquely and exclusively my parent’s home.

Being an adult means above all, that I have to now take my own decisions, make my own life choices. And if those choices hurt somebody, I have to take the responsibility for it.

I realise though that my loved ones shall always be around to support me and guide me and I feel lucky to have such a lovely entourage.

I also realise that I am a bit of a drama queen and that other people have a lot bigger problems in their lives.

But I need to vent. I need to talk about my experiences, share the lessons I learn and ask questions to young people like me. And this is why I decided to blog.

There you go.

I am feeling a little naked now