Writings

Dear Narcissist,

You must’ve celebrated your birthday yesterday because, well … how could you not? You’re a narcissist.

You didn’t send any wishes my way on my birthday. That’s okay. You gave me a much bigger gift: a realization. What did I realize? That you’re a thief because you literally and metaphorically stole from me? That you’re a pathological liar because you cannot keep your stories straight? That you’re unreliable because you never keep your promises? That you’re manipulative because you gaslight women? That you have a superiority complex because you refuse to respect any authoritative figures?

Nah. I already had those things figured out. You were so obvious with them. All of the signs. They were always there. I just chose to ignore them.

Your actions allowed me to realize that I am not a victim.

I learned that humans such as yourself (ones who constantly take) gravitate towards humans like me (ones who constantly give). A leech of your caliber will suck their prey dry and move on to the next. Often times, there is more than one person at a time that you mindfuck.

My realization allowed me to forgive myself for trusting you; for being vulnerable. Because it means that I was brave.

So – thank you for that.

Forgiving myself was nearly unbearable. But I did it. Forgiving you though? It’s currently out of the question. Maybe when justice has been served and you’ve been put in your place (the fiery pits of hell), I’ll consider it. Maybe when I’ve spread the word about you and so many others like you, to prevent innocent women from being denigrated the way I’ve been, I’ll consider forgiving you.

My birthday wish for you:

May you lose sleep over your corrupt lifestyle. May you lose your sense of entitlement. May you become educated. May you put the needs of your children before your own. May you admit to your wrongdoings. May you shed your many layers of facades and lies, finding peace in accepting who you truly are (the scum of the earth). May you gain a sense of work ethic. May you give back what you have taken.

Life is a temporary thing. That’s why I’ll never allow a narcissist into my life or my daughters’ lives again. You, too, should consider that our days are not promised and that life is not guaranteed. You can pretend and pretend until you die, but you aren’t fooling anyone but your slithering self. Riding on other people’s successes does not make you successful. Stealing money from others does not make you rich. Believing your own lies does not make you truthful. You gotta face your demons like everyone else on this earth does, and put an end to being a demon yourself.

Sincerely, the best thing that ever happened to you.

Writings

Storyteller

So happy to share a blurb about me from She Said Notes (a journal for the art-interested, the feminist-minded, curated to connect the unexpected) in a piece I wrote for them! Please check it out here

Taneet Grewal’s passion for storytelling began at the age of six with many fictional/magical characters. This grew into a love for journalism in post-secondary for human rights issues. Over the past few years, her writing has centralized on mental health, abuse, and support/empowerment for females of all ages. Currently, she’s working on a few long-term projects in creative non-fiction. For now, you can read her pieces here.

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Writings

Bedtime Conversations

Annabella: Mama, are you upset?

Me: No baby, I’m just tired.

Annabella: I really hope you get some rest!

Me: Thanks, Bella! If only there were two of me….(sighs)

Annabella: (eyes wide) Two of you!?

Me: Well, if I could make a clone of myself, I would.

Annabella: (giggling) You can’t do that!

Me: But then I wouldn’t be alone.

Annabella: You’re not alone, mama, you have US.

Me: (heart glowing) I know, my love. I just mean I need another grown up to help me out sometimes.

Annabella: (embracing me tightly) You don’t need anyone but us, mama.

Me: (heart glowing. tightens the embrace. doesn’t let go.)

Writings

My right to write

Dear readers,

Many thanks for your support and readership over the years. It means everything to me.

I created this blog for my two daughters one day when I was on maternity leave, and it has since grown into something more powerful than I could have ever anticipated.

As many writers and authors do, I use writing as a form of therapy and expression. It has always been a part of who I am and it always will be. Whether it’s simply to tell a story (fiction or not), voice an opinion, or share my deepest and darkest thoughts, my ability to write is my human right.

With my words, I have a voice, and I want my daughters to know they have voices too which should never be silenced.

It’s also important to me to bring awareness to stigmas and taboos surrounding mental illnesses and various forms of abuse. Over the past four years, several women have contacted me to either thank me for what I write or to ask for advice on their own situations. This proves that what I do does make a difference.

My words are not meant to offend, disrespect or shame anyone. My words are my truth. The intention behind this website is for my daughters to know they are capable of making the world better, and so is their mother.

Yours truly,

Taneet

Writings

Vomit Journal – II

Day 382 of depression, round 5.

I’m sitting on a tall, cold, wooden chair. My feet don’t touch the floor, not even close. I’m facing a very large window, so I can actually see a bit of civilization. The sky is beautifully blue, and the clouds appear to be swimming slowly across it, like watching a snail slide across the pavement.

The wind is blowing the leaves on the branches of the trees quite forcefully, but it isn’t cold. I walked all the way here, so I know. Even with the wind, the sun felt warm on my back. I feel content about this, because I truly despise winter. Summer is almost over and soon it will be fall, and everything will be cold again. At least right now there are still colourful flowers in bloom. The leaves are still bright green. Nothing is fading yet.

I was fading for a while. A long while.

There was a generous sprinkling of magic over the summer which lifted me out of that heavy fog. Surrounding myself with family members, keeping a busy schedule, not allowing myself to stop. Always on the go. I was present. I was there for everything. I took my daughters everywhere I could. They have the photos to prove it.

Most importantly, I opened myself up to someone. After almost four years of solitude, I lifted myself up out of that dark hole and into a bit of light. And once I had a taste of that light, I began to soak it up. Every ounce of it. It was like coming out of years of underground hiding and finally feeling the rays of the sun again. Thinking, was it always this bright?

For almost a year, I’ve been kept myself wrapped in silence. In my own cocoon, only I wasn’t anticipating a butterfly transformation. One day, I decided to risk it. Break out of the cocoon and maybe, just maybe, I’ll survive out there.

I did it. I survived the summer out of my cocoon. I was a butterfly. I had wings. Every weekend, I opened myself up a little bit more than the last. I wasn’t numb anymore. There was feeling inside of me, all over me. In my veins, on my skin, in the strands of my hair.

Today is the first Saturday in many that I am alone. I sat on the futon. I wrapped myself up. I listened to the silence. Until all I could hear was the thumping of my heart under my fuzzy, pink robe. I needed to get out. So, I put on some clothes, brushed my teeth, placed my fuchsia ear buds in my ears, slung my floral bag across my back, looked at myself in the mirror, sighed loudly, and headed out.

So here I am. Avoiding silence and loneliness. Desperate for human contact, for voices other than the one in my head. The one that keeps telling me, “the light is going out, Taneet. It’s not going to last.”

Sometimes I believe all the noise in the world wouldn’t drown out that evil voice.

Three weeks ago, I looked at my reflection in the steamy mirror, got really close to it (I didn’t have my eyeglasses on) and said, “everything is fine. You are okay. Everything will be okay.” I said it out loud. I felt silly. But I did it. I figured maybe the voice coming out of my mouth will shut down the voice between my ears.

But it’s back. Or maybe it just never went away.

My hands were trembling earlier. Maybe because of my anxiety, maybe because of the meds. I just needed to get away from myself.

What would I hear if I could jump into this coffee cup? Would it only be the swirling and the swooshing of the warm liquid? Would I drown and blend into the sweetness, with only the powdered grains of cinnamon melting their way into me? Would it be silence?

Or —

Would someone place a lid on the cup? Taking away any hope of light? Making me go under? Unable to resurface?

My hands are trembling again. Its starting to get cold.

Writings

Vomit Journal

Day 261 of depression, round 5.

I’ve moved from one side of the couch to the other side. It makes the charger plug for the laptop come out though. So I might switch back to the other side.

There’s laundry on the futon, not sure if its clean. Another heap of it on the carpet. And more in the washroom. But there’s an entire hurricane of clothes in the bedroom.

How much Netflix have I watched today? I’ve lost count.

The coffee table is covered with scattered items; DVDs, toys, crayola markers, Nutella jar and spoon, water bottle, dirty plate, ice cream sandwich wrapper, etc.

Toys everywhere. Why did I buy all these toys? Where can I put them all? Sometimes I want to throw everything away.

I wept today. Wailed, actually, quite loudly. Haven’t done that in a while. Stood in the middle of the kitchen, wiping my face repeatedly, lifting up my eyeglasses, wipe, more tears, wipe, more tears, wipe, now the tissue is soaked.

My ex-husband called me. Cried more.

I’ve been forgetting to take my medication this week. Hence all the tears today. When I take them consistently, I’m a little bit numb to all the feelings.

It felt good to cry. I feel lighter.

Pain weighs a lot. It’s no wonder my muscles are always aching.

Headaches, migraines, stomachaches.

They told me emotional pain and physiological pain are connected. I guess they’re right.

I’m so tired. I’m exhausted. I’m so tired in fact, that I’m tired of being tired.

There are days I wish I could sleep and not wake up until my body is normal and my brain is new. But then I get so much anxiety about oversleeping, I get dizzy and sweaty and that tiny lump in my neck starts throbbing.

I’ve gained weight.

In my first few rounds of depression I actually lost weight. Down to about 90 lbs. All bones.

Now I can’t even find my bones in all this blubber. My daughter constantly asks me if there’s a baby in my tummy. But she doesn’t know that I’d had to have sexed someone first, which hasn’t happened in ages.

That’s because I have no love life. I’m alone. Aside from my daughters of course, but that’s a different type of love.

My eyeballs hurt. Guess they’re sore from the crying.

My therapist tells me I’m not delusional or abusive or a neglectful mother, so that’s something. But I know I’m not enough.

They deserve better.

A lot of people my age are making a shit ton of money.  They’re successful. They have their own custom built homes. Luxury cars. They take a shit ton of vacations too. Their kids have their own rooms. Happy families.

Me? I’m drowning in debt. I live in a one bedroom basement apartment that I’m renting with my two children. I listen to the well-off family above me walk across their vast living room and hear them rustling around the kitchen every morning; the blender whirs and the kids are running down the stairs, and there are two parents and a nanny. And their home is immaculately clean. I’ve seen it.

I’m a liar. I lie to people. I smile. I radiate. I hug and laugh and plan parties for my daughters. I suck.

I’m a sicko.

Someone’s knocking at the door. Oh. No, that’s just my migraine kicking in the side of my skull. I got nervous for a second; how can I let anyone in to this mess?

(Photo taken in 2005 during round 2 of my depression)