Category: I Am

I grew up with addiction. My father was an alcoholic—brilliant, complex, deeply flawed. He didn’t just drink; he unravelled. And in the process, he unravelled others. My mother. His siblings. His children. But mostly, himself. He was an intelligent man who became something of a cautionary tale: how talent can wither under the weight of addiction.

My family feared I would follow in his footsteps. That the bottle would become my comfort too. But I stayed away. I didn’t touch alcohol until my late thirties, and even then, only socially, at a club or an occasion. I don’t like the taste. I don’t like the heaviness in my head. I don’t like the feeling of losing control. I found other things that gave me a high—music, dance, art, movement, silence. I didn’t need a drink. Or so I thought.

But lately, I’ve been asking myself: does addiction have to look like a bottle?

I’ve spent hours on my PS5. Not minutes. Hours. I get neck pain, shoulder aches, stiff fingers. But I can’t stop. Not when I’m in it. It calms my anxiety. It silences the noise in my head. I disappear into it. Just like I used to disappear into drawing. Or writing. Or love. Intense, obsessive, all-consuming love. I don’t do things lightly. I either devour or avoid.

It makes me wonder—does addiction always have to be substance-based? Or can it be a pattern of seeking refuge? A hunger to escape, to feel something more—or feel nothing at all?

Science says that addiction is not just about substances—it’s also about behaviour. Gambling, gaming, sex, even food and love can activate the same reward circuits in the brain that alcohol or narcotics do. The dopamine hits, the compulsion, the repetition—it’s all there. Genetics play a part, yes, but so does trauma. And childhood trauma, especially in cases of parental addiction or abuse, is strongly linked to addictive tendencies later in life. Not always the same addiction. But the same ache.

Being a Gemini, I do move on. These phases pass. But when I’m in them, they feel endless. I get completely immersed, and sometimes that immersion costs me—relationships, sleep, health, time. It’s hard to tell where passion ends and compulsion begins.

I don’t know if I inherited addiction. But I know I inherited pain. I know I carry anxiety that feels older than me. And maybe this need to run, to dive headfirst into something, anything, is part of it.

When I find myself vanishing into something, I’ve started asking: Is this a passion? Or a hiding place?

Not everything that feels good is good for me. And not everything I inherited has to be my fate.

I can break patterns. I can stay conscious. I can love without losing myself.

Because healing, too, can be obsessive. And maybe that’s the one addiction I’ll allow.

There’s a certain silence that settles on you after watching a limited series about murder—not the kind that titillates or distracts, but one that lingers like a bruise on your spirit. This one told not just the story of the crime, but of the families left behind, trying to stitch together lives torn apart by a loss too brutal to make sense of. And in it, there was a scene I cannot forget.

A girl, just before she falls victim to the murderer, says goodbye to her best friend during a fight. That argument, however mundane or emotional, becomes the last memory her friend is left with. A goodbye laced with hurt—an ending no one knew was final.

It made me think of my own farewells, the ones I didn’t know were final. We never do, do we?

The last time I saw my best friend was at a Starbucks café. We hugged, and I told her I loved her very much. I meant it. She meant the world to me, and I let her know. That memory sits differently in my heart—not as a regret, but as a bittersweet treasure. Even though she later ended our friendship over a text message, I am grateful that in person, I had the presence to say what I needed to say.

But not every goodbye is as kind.

In 2021, during the harrowing COVID wave, I placed my aunt into an ambulance. She was struggling to breathe, and I was too unwell to accompany her. That was the last time I saw her alive. Later, I saw her only on a video call, silent and masked with machines. That was our final moment, and there were no words. She died that night. I couldn’t even hold her hand or see her body, because I was barely surviving myself.

And another aunt—her death still blurs in my memory. I don’t recall our last conversation. Did I say something mundane? Did I forget to say I love you? That absence of memory torments me more than harsh words ever could.

“Parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of hell.” – Emily Dickinson

Death, especially sudden or violent death, robs us of preparation. It rips away the chance to mend, to soften, to love a little more. It leaves people with echoes—of words left unsaid, of touches not given, of forgiveness postponed.

And I keep thinking about those who die in such violence—their final hours, their final fears, the last person they saw. I can’t fathom the terror. I can’t help but feel a bone-deep empathy for them and their families, left behind with broken narratives.

We walk through life pretending we have time. We part ways assuming we’ll see each other again. But life doesn’t always work that way.

“The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.” – Harriet Beecher Stowe

I wish, for those I love, I could always leave things with kindness—with clarity. That even in my moments of sadness and depression, I could still remind them of how fiercely they are held in my heart. Because if anything circumvents time and death and silence, it is love.

Love is the only constant thread in this ever-shifting tapestry of mortality. It endures the erasures of memory, the noise of regret, and even the stillness of death.

“Love is how you stay alive, even after you are gone.” – Mitch Albom

So I suppose this is both a reflection and a reminder: to say I love you more often, to forgive more freely, and to part with kindness whenever possible. Because we never know which goodbye will be our last.

And if we can’t always control the endings, may we at least live in a way that keeps our love echoing in the hearts of those we leave behind.

The song came on. Our song. “Tera mera pyar amar…”

I looked at Keshav.

He didn’t look up once.

Mum says Keshav is lonely. But then, I’m lonely too—lonely even with two men in my life.

They don’t talk. They don’t communicate.

Even Arif, whom I thought would be a cuddler, turned out to be aloof in bed.

Making love needs a time table now, making me feel completely unattractive. 

Trust has always felt like a one-sided street in my relationships.

I’ve been cheated on.

That led me to open up my relationship, in the hope of finding honesty somewhere in the blur.

But I was left heartbroken by someone I thought would stay.

He didn’t.

Then someone else came along. He looked at me like I walked on air.

He loved being with me, was in awe of me.

He isn’t anymore—and oddly, I don’t mind that.

I don’t need to be idolised.

I’ve always known that love fades, or rather, softens at the edges. The awe wears off. The gold tarnishes.

But what I miss is the warmth.

He used to hold me like he needed to. He couldn’t wait to be with me.

He was the first man I surrendered to completely in bed. I let go.

He never judged me.

But today, he snapped at me.

Called me grumpy.

I live with depression.

Every day. If people knew what it took to put on a smile and charm, they’d know it’s like clawing at rock. With people I love, I get to say I am in pain. But all I do is not smile much. 

Then I have a terrible shoulder injury. Been going through physiotherapy and I’m in constant pain. So it’s difficult to smile. Yet I do. Many a time. I’m the teaser. The fun child. It’s hard not to be – because if I am not – it would be endgame.

And some days I wonder—am I capable of being loved for who I am? Not for the home I create or the material comfort I provide. Just me.

If I were that bad, they wouldn’t be with me.

Would they? I don’t know. Even my best friend didn’t choose me for me. 

So, I doubt.

Worse—I doubt myself. Even though I know I should not.

I’ve seen love born. I’ve seen it die.

I’ve seen it change. I’ve seen it try.

I only wish we could sometimes step over our own lines to enter someone else’s comfort zone—and comfort them.

I wish I could say, “I can do it myself.”

Because I can.

In heartbreak, I somehow become outwardly beautiful—enigmatic, even.

But when I’m in love, I shine from within. The facade becomes one of comfort.

And still, this shifting—between the inside and the outside—feels constant.

We’re never just one thing, are we?

But I deal.

I talk.

I work through it.

I still think of him when I hear a song and glance his way.

I still want to be held.

And I still melt when an arm wraps around me at night.