Naina Redhu

Everyone seems to have found a reason to dislike me.

You don’t like my face because it has too many acne spots.
You don’t like the flab on my tummy.
You don’t like the fact that I can make money and still take a vacation every month.
You don’t like the fact that I don’t make enough money.
You don’t like that I Tweet too much.
You don’t like that I have not been on Twitter for a whole week.
You don’t like that I post my Twitter feed to Facebook.
You don’t like that I wear only one pair of jeans all the time.
You don’t like that I did not follow your prescription even though you’re not even a doctor.
You don’t like that I went to a doctor.
You don’t like that I did not go to a doctor.
You don’t like that I don’t exercise.
And when I do, you don’t like the way I exercise.

You don’t like what I eat.
You don’t like what I don’t eat.
You don’t like my open-toed sandals.
You don’t like my closed sneakers.
You don’t like the laptop I use.
You don’t like the new laptop I have on my wishlist.
You don’t like the curtains in my room.
You don’t like it when there are no curtains.
You don’t like the blogging platform I use.
You don’t like it that I don’t drink any more.
You don’t like it when I drink.
You don’t like how much I drink.

You don’t like it that I smoke.
You don’t like how much I smoke.
You don’t like it that I’ve quit smoking.
You don’t like it when I take photographs.
You don’t like it when I don’t give you photographs.
You don’t like it when I make pictures with you in them.
You don’t like it when I make pictures without you in them.
You don’t like it that I dislike meetings.
You don’t like it that I attend meetings.
You don’t like my hair.
You don’t like the makeup.
You don’t like the non-makeup.
You don’t like the movie I took you out for.
You don’t like the food I cooked for you.
You don’t like the food I ordered for you.

You have an opinion for everything.
You can take the opinion and shove it up your arse.
I don’t give a capemoth’s ass what you like and dislike.

I am going to start figuring out what I like.

I find myself uncannily edging toward a feeling of being utterly lost.

Everything I do, say, see or believe, feels insignificant and that feeling itself seems futile. I fear that despite all this toiling, I will look back at my life and know that it was wasted. I could have done so much more and been so much more. The heightened sense of frustration is extremely unnerving. I feel like a child wanting to throw and break things, and knowing that will get me but a moment of attention jars my sense of worth like a jackhammer.

It has been building for a while. I fear the peak and cannot even fathom the decline after.