By Meghna Yadav
She was not okay.
She had known this for quite some time now. According to one of her theories, she should have known all along, but then she had another theory about how all her theories were merely desperately erected veils for her to hide behind when she was too scared to accept the truth. So she felt that it was okay that it had taken her time to realize that she was not okay.
Some said she needed therapy. But landing in so much trouble in the first place that she needed therapy: that had always been one of her secret romantic desires. It was this aspiration for circumstances that badly warranted a therapist, coupled with the fact that as a teenager she was prone to all sorts of hormonal phases, which made her decide that she would not see a therapist. She did not need therapy. What she needed was new perspective. She needed to get laid.
She decided not to think about it and just do it. Then she thought about how she had decided not to think about it. And then, she thought about it. Or at least she started to, but got stuck at who she would do it with, which had been her first matter of concern. Sure, she was using the loss of her virginity as a ticket out of her sexual frustration and hopefully, out of an impending psychological disorder, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be with someone special. “Your first time should be special.” Wasn’t that what every x, y and z with an opinion on love and life held as their motto? People with a diverse range of views on promiscuity all believed in making their first times special, by losing their virginity to somebody they cared for, at least at the time.
She had known this for quite some time now. According to one of her theories, she should have known all along, but then she had another theory about how all her theories were merely desperately erected veils for her to hide behind when she was too scared to accept the truth. So she felt that it was okay that it had taken her time to realize that she was not okay.
Some said she needed therapy. But landing in so much trouble in the first place that she needed therapy: that had always been one of her secret romantic desires. It was this aspiration for circumstances that badly warranted a therapist, coupled with the fact that as a teenager she was prone to all sorts of hormonal phases, which made her decide that she would not see a therapist. She did not need therapy. What she needed was new perspective. She needed to get laid.
She decided not to think about it and just do it. Then she thought about how she had decided not to think about it. And then, she thought about it. Or at least she started to, but got stuck at who she would do it with, which had been her first matter of concern. Sure, she was using the loss of her virginity as a ticket out of her sexual frustration and hopefully, out of an impending psychological disorder, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be with someone special. “Your first time should be special.” Wasn’t that what every x, y and z with an opinion on love and life held as their motto? People with a diverse range of views on promiscuity all believed in making their first times special, by losing their virginity to somebody they cared for, at least at the time.
It made her physically sick when she thought about
all those people walking around the planet believing in the grand
extraordinaire of their first times. All those people who sat in mall food
courts and talked about so and so’s latest boyfriend, all those people who
spent their days going around paying bills and watching TV, all those people
who would have the world define them by their clothes, all those people who did
not live for moments, and all those people who would find her weird and in need
of help. All those failed lives that could not be saved, partly because they
didn’t know that they needed saving, and partly because nobody can be saved. Or
at least that is what she wanted to think; nobody can be saved, not even her.
She wanted to stop thinking about all those people who had sought and found
what they called freedom but who just could not do whatever they wanted,
whenever they wanted. Even she couldn’t. Did that mean she was a failed life
too? As long as she thought that sex was her way out, she was.
She was not okay. But she liked it.
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