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I was not a very nice person after that. For a long time.
People who used to know me would stare in astonishment when I lost my chill so quickly or when I shouted at them for a minor mistake. I stopped going to places that normally gave me joy—coffee shops, libraries, hangouts with friends. I barred myself away from everybody.
Except Imama.
But even she had started watching me warily. So I decreased the time I spent with her. I didn't want to see the regret and pity in her eyes. Because I knew she was extremely regretful for ever saying anything to me. Although I didn't blame her for any of it.
She had wanted me to harden my soft heart a little bit. She had wanted me to mold it into a solid rather than an easily malleable liquid. But she had envisioned my heart becoming a relaxed fist—something that could open and close easily depending upon the circumstances.
Instead, my heart had become steel. Hard. Irreversible.
I always remembered her words.
"Sweetheart, you give so much to people that they become used to taking from you."
And the one time I had countered weakly with a "I didn't want to hurt anyone." And she had said, "Instead, you allow people to hurt you!"
I knew none of it was her fault. She had tried her best to rectify my weak heart. She had been the only one to try.
But I had had enough.
I became quite unbearable, if I may say so myself. If the world battered and butchered weak hearts, fine. I would become steel. I would become what nobody would even dare approaching.
That counselor's words kept bothering me. About how she had said, "Be approachable but don't be discardable." Nobody in their right mind would dare discard me again, but I had also lost my ability to make people comfortable. I had lost my ability to be kind and approachable.
Was that what defined me, though? My kindness? I wanted to be known for my strength, for my courage. For something other than the way I made people feel.
I wanted to break free of the shackles of kindheartedness and subservience to others that had bound me all that time.
All the while, Imama's words also nagged at me. From the very first time I had asked her to come to my house and wept in front of her. When she had said that I needed to balance my seesaw. That I was entirely soft.
I couldn't help but think of how I had become completely the opposite. I hadn't balanced my seesaw, I had simply shifted weight to the other end.
