Self Relective Essay

To say this semester has been hard would be an understatement, it's been pretty close to my Everest. Okay fine, not Everest, but definitely my K2. Family drama, mental health issues, health issues, it's all been there. My usual mode of catharsis, since I was child has been writing, but for the past two or three years, I just cannot seem to vent out my thoughts in the form of writing, in lieu of which I have developed other, extremely toxic and unhealthy ways of coping and venting. All this emotional upheaval is actually one of the reasons why I chose to take up a writing class again, it helped quite a bit last semester, and I was hoping it would help again. Well, it did not work out the way I wanted it, to be very honest.

The biggest difference between this semester and my last, was my lack of engagement with the course. I did try to be sincere and put in efforts in my mid-semester assignments, and I explored quite a bit. It was not my best work, that I am aware of, which is why I opted out of the one on one sessions, because I was just too ashamed of my lack luster work. Before I go forward, this is not some tactic to gain sympathy, it is just an attempt to reflect my work this entire semester with as much honesty as possible.

I had been introduced to the bizarre idea of being able to use words from my mother tongue last semester, but this semester, with more and more emphasis on breaking the one language barrier, I felt like there was quite a bit to explore. With my final assignment, while writing a multi-languaged story, I initially felt a little unsettled and conscious, but then I eased into it, realising how much more genuine and raw the emotions came across, or at least that is what I hope. I had consciously stayed clear of the subject of my grandmother's death, because of many reasons. I always felt like if I wrote about it, I would be trying to get some benefit out of it, I am not sure that makes sense, but in my head it does. Another reason was that I was doubtful I would be able to deal with the cyclone of emotions it would bring, and even though my emotions did wreath havoc, I somehow found a head space, which did not plummet me into a break down. The final reason was, that I was not sure how or even whether I would be able to put down in words whatever I went through, or still felt, but using multiple languages, actually really sorted that out. The luxury of putting my emotions in the rawest form possible, through words, was enabled by the allowance of multiple languages.

The classes with Aditi Rao made me realise how lightly I had been taking writing. Having always used it for catharsis, I never stopped to look at is as a process for some reason. My writing has almost always been sparked, or more aptly, triggered, by an emotional breakdown, but during the classes with her, with all the brain storming, it made me realise that I did not need to have my heart wrenched out to be able to produce something worthwhile, that writing did not have to be so masochistic, it could survive independently, away from all that toxicity. That of course, has been the traditionally belief that writing requires a world of pain, and it maybe does, but I do not want another toxic relationship in my life, especially with my writing, which was an anti-dote to begin with.