How I failed this year
By: Abhilasha Chhabra
Tags: 2020, Failure, Ruminations, Learning, Writing

How I failed this year

I know all the negations to this argument, but I have come to the affirmative (and at this moment, irrevocable) conclusion that everyone is, in fact, better than me. Better than me at breathing, at loving, at dancing, at having skin, at drinking water, at walking, sleeping, lying down, sitting up, talking, being, writing.

See, it has come to my notice, that all of these things are things that I’m failing at- so every one of you are better at it than me. This year, it changed us. Not in just the cute ways we list out – like ‘valuing people’ and ‘knowing the importance of touch’. I mean, those things happened, and let’s celebrate those- but this year, it also changed me for the worse. It made me fail at certain things more, and this is about that. Or at least the ones that top the list.

I sleep worse- I nap during the day, stay up till 4am, and completely neglect all forms of sleep health. Why? I wish I could tell you. Early into the pandemic, as me and my friend stayed locked up in our homes, a woman in our building was bothered by the sound of our AC- something she didn’t tell us, but chose to tell the police directly- manifesting into dramatic night time visits from our neighbours and the police. Am I not sleeping, 9 months later, because of that fact? Who knows. It could also be because the smell and rocking motion of delhi drivers handling Ubers every day were the only things that relaxed and soothed my clearly addled brain. It could also be the fact that I have changed rooms twice this year, and while both are filled with my favourite colours and pictures- both have felt a little more like a box than they ever have.

I haven’t loved well- the love I’ve given has come in like a weird puff pastry at a cheap college cafe. I’ve been flaky and crumbly and all overt the place. It might have had moments when it’s come together, when the masala, the filling, the dough- all come together in a bite. But mostly it’s been edgy and crusty, and I know it’s been lacking. It’s been missed phone calls, and apologies for plans I can’t make, picked fights and layering guilt on others, when I feel too burdened by the guilt I feel myself. My love has swerved recklessly, from angry to guilty, from exhausted to anxious, from desperate to demanding. My love has tried in moments to be present and caring and gifting and loving, but tonight all I see is how it’s been lacking, and tired. I don’t have whys, maybe it’s like lack of drunken hugs outside of clubs at 3am, maybe it’s because I’ve been horribly self indulgent and fixated on my problems only, maybe it’s because friends turned into screens and my eyes started watering and when that was done, my friends turned into exhausting practises of precautions, sanitisation and worry. Or maybe, I’m growing older and forgetting how to love.

I’ve written less than ever- there have been a few moments of coherence and brightness, but writing- something I have allowed to define my entire personality- hasn’t really happened. And when it’s happened, like it’s happening over here right now, it’s happened without focus (a movie is playing in the background as I force myself to get this out), it’s sometimes happened without imagination (I wrote about cute woodland creatures last year, where in the hell did they go?) and most of all, it’s happened without magic and orgasms. I’ve often said that I write to feel that rush at the end, that beautiful moment where everything comes together. The closest thing I’ve felt to that is an orgasm, but that feeling is a million times better. This year has lacked these magical soul orgasms and writing has become like sex that satisfies an itch and keeps alive a marriage. A marriage on shaky grounds of course, because the first big fight between me and my pipe dreams came in this year. A compilation of my poetry was rejected by a bunch of publishers. And a part of me wants to be inspired by this, and egg myself on beyond this brave first step I took by sending it at all- but I think it’s time I admitted that I’ve been defeated and my words? They’re starting to feel tired.

Why am I doing this? Writing down the things that I have failed at, and been bad at, in a year that’s been bad and failed us all as a whole? Am I being hard on myself, probably. But I’m not forgetting the things that I have, in fact, done- I’ve worked honestly and diligently, I’ve spent time with family, I’ve drawn boundaries and mended fences, I’ve made myself take better care of my health for no one but myself, I’ve sent and received gifts, I’ve celebrated and I’ve mourned. It’s not all lost. This isn’t a report card, but it is a confessional, it is a compilation of the many post its in my brain and it is a reminder too large to fit into my clock app. The lesson of 2020, I think, was to learn to do better. We could have done much better, much before to avoid this year being a catastrophe (including make my passport and find ways to move to New Zealand) and these are things I want to learn from, to remember, to pin up on the fridge, so when I look at 2021, I do better. There should be more here- there should be filing taxes in time, overturning governments, and delaying climate change by at least a minute. But not just right now. Maybe this is actually me being easy on myself, who knows?