I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.
Carl Jung
PHASE I: The first funeral
Initially, I used to think that the funerals were only for the dead, one life, one end, one moment of sadness and boom, everything would just eventually fade away without any trace. I didn’t realise as a kid that you could attend your own funeral, that to in pieces. The first one was somewhat insignificant. It was hardly visible to anyone (including me). I remember it vaguely; it took place when I first decided not to behave in the way I instinctively would have. The time I held back a reply because I felt it might be too much. I remember feeling proud of that self-control. Even feeling good, I told myself this is what growing up looks like, changing yourself to make others comfortable, to be accepted, to be acknowledged by everyone.
That first funeral was kind. I sacrificed a part of my gentleness to it and promised to come back for it. Well, it’s obvious Sherlock(s), I never did. After that, it became a ritual. Every time I felt something inconvenient, too hopeful, too trusting, too sensitive, I silenced it discreetly. Just an agreement I’d say: this bit of you won’t make it here, so you need to go, bye-bye V. And apparently it isn’t just me who practices this, a lot of people trade the pieces of their true self and call it maturity, a necessary segment of growing up as a part of society.
PHASE II: THE Adaptive SUPPRESSION OVER TIME
The funerals became more deliberate after that. Each disappointment I found within myself required a proper burial. Every letdown needed a token and every betrayal a victim. If any left by chance, I made sure I buried the me who still believed that they wouldn’t need one. In case someone laughed at my weakness, I buried the one who spoke without armour. I told myself it was boldness; yes, I am doing the job required, might seem hard but again, it’s mandatory. Lied to myself that I was getting used to it. However, being resilient is not supposed to feel like fading away. Between “show more strength” and “be less sensitive, ” I lost my emotional availability in the process. I started practicing emotional distance even before the immensity of it, you know, before it was even required.
Gradually, I became efficient with my grief. No more dramatic reactions, no more goodbyes to past selves, no more pleading. And the funny part is that till this date, I do not blame others for it. I was the one holding the shovel. I was the one choosing which parts of me were not too innocent to keep. And every time I left the grave, I felt less heavy yet more empty.
PHASE III: THE FRAGMENTS I MISS
Sometimes, I reflect and try to recall the exact tone of my laughter before it became so controlled. I try to recall what it was like to cry without feeling the need to excuse myself. The memories become indistinct. The girl I used to be is like a character in a book, far too expressive, far too open to have survived until now. And this awareness scares me more than any of the previous heartbreaks did.
Now it is more like the funerals are not even events. They are routines. I do not even argue anymore. I just stand there, witnessing another version of myself being laid into the grave of what’s realistic.
PHASE IV: Aftermath
I am still functioning pretty well I believe. I still show up. I still speak and smile and complete the tasks assigned to me (well most of them (Hello Nia)). But sometimes it’s obvious to people that I look like someone who has been worn down by the excessive exposure to some unexplainable things. Where there used to be intensity, now only emptiness. Where there used to be instinct, now remains only silence. But the most dreadful part, the most tormenting truth, is that I don’t know if I miss who I was, or if I have been trained not to. I wonder if I have developed or if I have simply confined myself to something manageable. The only thing I am sure about is that I have gone to every funeral, and with each one, the person inside the coffin resembled me more and more.
The past beats inside me like a second heart.
John Banville
Discover more stories on Her Campus at MUJ. More articles by me coming soon at Vaibhav Chaudhary at HCMUJ; he who watches the world and its miracles closely, noticing what slips between moments, between the infinite realities.