#lifeconfessions

Confession 002: Life has no ultimate meaning, right? So you make “meaning” of your own existence yourself. At least that’s how I see it (#pretentiouspostmodernismpost). So what’s the meaning of *my* life?

It’s not about how much money I can make. It’s not about how much success and popularity I can acquire. It’s not even about how many beautiful people I can have intimately.

It’s about the adventures that helped tell my story. It’s about the chapters that made it unforgettable. It’s about the people who, not only changed it for good, but for the better.

And even more importantly, it’s about the number of people who show up at my grieving when I am no longer a part of this world. The ones who will take pause in their day to recognize my passing with a nod of appreciation or a tear of sadness. The people who will say, “We lost a good man today...”

The ones who will tell my story as a legacy of humanity.

I used to struggle with this a lot in high school. This all consuming feeling of the need to please others, sometimes even at the expense of myself. I slowly grew into myself when I left home to attend university. I moved out and began to understand myself slowly, but it wasn’t until I picked up and moved to London where I had what felt like a life orgasm. I’m talking major breakthrough where I’ve never found so much clarity and understanding of who I was or wanted to be. Yes, being in medical school was of course stressful but the independence I felt away from everyone and everything I ever knew was nothing short of magical. I understood my limits, when I needed a break, drowned myself in travel and adventure, learned the wonders of medicine, made incredible friends, fell into a deep beautiful love, and had this overwhelming confidence of all my decisions.  Fast forward to the past 5-6months. I left London to take a gap year to pursue a competitive score on my board exam. As wonderful as London was, the school didn’t prepare me as well as I would have liked for this very traditional American exam. It was the right decision to take a gap year but I wonder if living at home for the gap year was the right idea. I feel like I have regressed. 

My parents are good people, financially support me and love me the best they can but I cant help but feel suffocated. Growing up in a different culture from my parents was always a struggle, but something I was able to better control being away from home. After 6 years of freedom and learning to trust myself some how has diminished in the span of 6 months living at home. I feel lost. They mean well, but staying here makes me feel like I can’t be who I want to be. I can’t be honest. Ever. There is too much of a cultural disconnect for them to understand me and so much I haven’t told them because of it.  I question organized religion, I have traveled all of Europe, I’m in love with a man who’s not Indian, I’ve experimented with drugs, I enjoy a glass of wine with my meals, I believe in gay/trans gender rights, and I’m happy with who i am even if I don’t fit their ideals. I think sometimes they love the me I put out: the church going, hard working, traditional Indian daughter who will become a doctor. I popped a little bit of the bubble when I told them about my non Indian boyfriend and I felt like their entire world came crashing down. What would happen if they knew more of who I am? Of course they would love me because I know how much they care, but it would be different. It already is different after popping a very small bubble. I understand it’s hard for them too, they want the best for me but who I am is outside anything they’ve ever known. I’m sure that must be scary for them.