The War Of The Metas

Metathesiophobia is the irrational fear of change. Metamorphosis, on the other had, is transformation. Both essentially are derived from μετα, which is Greek for change. But what if you are forced to face them together?

I’m not a person very conducive to change. I live life in a very deliberate, planned way. Yes, sometimes plans do get derailed, but for most part, I have a situation assessed and under my control, even if seems otherwise. As I’m fond of saying, I have a priority list of priority lists. So, when faced with unexpected circumstances, people, emotions, I tend to retreat and cocoon myself in layers of apathy and loneliness. I’d like to say I did this voluntarily, but I didn’t. I hated every second of it. I preferred living a life filled with stretches of crushing hopelessness, and no perceived way out, rather than trying to change anything. Most people called it laziness, and I started believing that too.

It’s only now, when I look back at the time, that I realize it wasn’t laziness. It wasn’t lack of will to change. It was fear. There are times you get addicted to a certain sense of immobility. It’s almost thrilling, watching yourself sink into proverbial quicksand, and not doing anything about it. Imagine a disaster unfolding before your eyes, like a child walking off a ledge, and instead of reacting, you just sit there, watching, with morbid fascination. These are fairly visceral images, but they convey, to an extent, the immobility I felt. It was almost disassociation, the way I removed myself from the happenings around me. I wasn’t a participant, but an observer in my own destruction. This time affected my grades, my emotional well being, and I put on a lot of weight. I’ve always been a heavy girl, but a combination of many factors, including, but not limited to a sick wish to see how far I could stretch myself, saw me going up to 130kgs.

This phase, of course, was that of metathesiophobia. Soon after, I was unwillingly pushed into metamorphosis. A bad winter ensued, and I was given an ultimatum. Lose weight, or die by thirty. That really rankles you, being forced to evaluate your own mortality. An inspirational story should ideally follow here, with me being my own hero and saving myself. But fairytales and heroics are precisely that, fables. I whined and groaned, but somehow managed to bring myself down to a 100 kgs. Now, this isn’t about my weight loss, because that’s a tale for another day. But it’s about what forcing yourself to be better, even under external duress, does to you.

Suffering makes people kinder, and empathetic. They become better people for they have experienced things they shouldn’t have, and they understand the unfairness of a world where imperfection is isolated and castigated. Sadly, I’m not people. Pain and the wisdom it brought with it ended up being weapons. I became a caustic, bitter person. I’m not proud of the things I’ve done, but I did do them, and they’re a part of me. I shunted away people who genuinely wanted to help me, and be there for me. Hurting people is very easy when you see yourself as the victim of circumstances. It narrows your vision down. All you can see is what was denied, not what was given. Living like this is, to put in in kind terms, poisonous.

I’d like to think I’m accepting my fallacies and moving on. And, to an extent, I am. There’s only a limit to which a person can continue hating the world. Slowly, it tires you out, because there are far too many good people around and you can’t deny their existence, and the effect they have on you. I’ve been blessed with some astonishingly brilliant people in my life. Friends, who instinctively know what my weaknesses are, and where my hubris lies. People like these are the ones that pull down the walls you’ve built around yourself, brick by brick. They hold your hand and push you into using the same bricks to create a gateway to let positivity in. I know that sounds very cheesy and slightly farcical, but it’s true.

There are times when only what breaks you can build you up again. People hurt, people build. It’s a cycle as old as every one of us. But where does self-recovery figure? Am I always going to be at the mercy of someone’s whims and fancies? This would equate to my biggest strength being the biggest chink in my armor. Where does this leave a person, exactly, is what I wonder. Are you supposed to maintain a comfortable distance from people so as to make sure no one has the ability to hurt you, or are you supposed to cling to people and risk the possibility of them deserting you and leaving you stranded on a island built of insecurities and self-doubt? I can’t seem to figure out a middle ground. Is it my inherent broken-ness, or is it the story of everyone’s life? That’s a comforting thought, really, thinking of everyone simply winging it. Sometimes, I feel as though everyone got a manual to life and how to survive it, and I missed distribution day.

Coming back to the metas in my life. I think my real metamorphosis begins now. Physical attributes are fleeting, but I’m taking baby steps towards reconciling what I can be, and what I should be. I remember fighting with a friend of mine, and he asked me a simple question. ‘If you met you, could you tolerate yourself?’ That stopped me for a moment. Could I? How could anyone? Now, three years later, if someone asked me this question, it’d stop me again, but I think the fact that I can look inwards and not feel utter disgust represents some progress.

The process of evaluating yourself is one that requires a lot of courage, and I’m not a very courageous person. So, bear with me. I think I’m getting there, and even simple evaluation leads to some inherent evolution. I have a feeling it shows, if you look closely enough. Maybe one day I’ll answer the question with ‘I think I’m pretty damn awesome.’

Stay awkward

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Harnidh xx