The Art of Avoidance - My struggle with quiet evasion, and using ‘work’ as a coping mechanism for my overwhelm.

When the world around me becomes too much to bear, I find myself retreating into a familiar, yet ultimately destructive, pattern. It's a path paved with spreadsheets, deadlines, and the comforting hum of a computer screen. This is my refuge, my escape, my coping mechanism and my well-worn path of least resistance. I'm not particularly proud of this habit, this compulsion to bury myself in work when my heart is screaming for attention. It is not by choice but rather born out of necessity. I use it as a shield against the turmoil that I'm not yet ready to face. It's not a proud admission, but it's the truth I've lived with for years and continue to do so. 

I'm acutely aware of what I'm doing. The moment I feel the sting of hurt, I reach for my laptop, pour another cup of coffee, and dive headfirst into projects. It's easier this way, you see. Easier than facing the raw, unfiltered emotions that I've kept at bay for so long. Instead of addressing these feelings, I block out everything around me and immerse myself in work. I know I'm hurting, and hurting deeply, but I lack the bandwidth, awareness, or perhaps more accurately, the courage to explore the root of the issue. I can't bring myself to understand ways to fix it or heal. All I know is to drink coffee and keep working until sleep or exhaustion finally claims me.

I know it's not healthy, not sustainable. But the alternative seems far more daunting. It's easier to be the reliable colleague, that friend ‘who has it together’, the go-to person for last-minute projects, the friend who is the human chatGPT than to be the vulnerable friend still grappling with complexities.

Nearly 20 years ago, I lost my best friend in a terrible road accident. The memory of that day still haunts me, a spectre that refuses to fade with time. I've never found the courage to visit his grave, to say the words left unspoken, to confront the finality of his absence. The burden of this evasion weighs heavily on me, a constant reminder of my inability to confront my grief head-on. I remember the last time I saw him, lying in the hospital bed, on life support, his hands swollen like balloons – a haunting image that echoes Pink Floyd's poignant lyrics. I couldn't look at his face then, and now, I struggle to recall it without closing my eyes tightly. The next day, they called to say they were taking him off life support. 

Recently, during a moment of overwhelming emotion – sadness, anger, frustration, or perhaps all three (I can't quite tell them apart anymore), I found myself jogging through a forest, screaming into the void. In that moment of vulnerability, memories of my friend flooded back—the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful. I clung to these recollections with desperate intensity, terrified that they might slip away, leaving me with nothing but the hollow ache of loss. However, the good part is, I realised that while I may struggle to face these feelings, they are still a part of me, a testament to the love and friendship we shared.

It wasn't the first time I'd lost someone dear to me. In the seventh standard, I lost my childhood buddy, Abhay – "Bunny" to those who loved him, in another cruel twist of fate on the road. I remember the plans we'd made, the anticipation of holidays spent together, all shattered by a single phone call. The memory of his face, partially visible on the pyre, is seared into my memory, a constant reminder of life's fragility and the permanence of loss.

These losses have shaped me, moulded me into someone who finds it easier to face a mountain of work than to confront the mountain of grief or overwhelm.

It took me years to be ok with attachment, to learn to let my guard down, to be comfortable with the word ‘best friend’. My best friend Aarti thankfully understands my twisted ways of dealing with guilt and hurt. She handles me with care, having weathered her own heartbreaks. I am glad I did not put her through a litmus test. (I guess or rather I hope I did not). 

My stunner of a best friend Aarti to the L and yours truly on the R

While I'm not ready to completely let go of my shield, I'm beginning to see the value in finding a balance. Perhaps the first step is acknowledging that it's okay to feel.

Maybe it's time to be as honest with myself as I pride myself on being with others.

However, the thought of opening up, of being truly seen, fills me with dread. I long for a comfort blanket, for the ease of being understood, for love but instead, I retreat further into my shell. I prefer to be a fly on the wall, observing but never fully participating. Whenever I sense any sort of attachment forming, I start showing versions of myself that aren't the best, a self-fulfilling prophecy of unworthiness - pushing people away before they can get too close. 

Even now, as I write these words, there's a sense of safety in the anonymity of it all. You, dear reader, are a stranger, and your empathy, while appreciated, poses no real threat to the walls I've built. But to speak these truths aloud, or worse to share them with someone I care for—that feels catastrophic.

To those reading this who might see themselves in my words, know that you're not alone. It's okay to seek help, to talk to someone, to take small steps towards healing. We don't have to face our demons all at once, but we can start by acknowledging their existence.

To those who know me or are getting to know me, I ask for your empathy. I'm not seeking pity, but perhaps a moment of understanding for someone who finds it easier to face a spreadsheet than their own reflection. I wish I could say I'm working on it, that I'm actively trying to change, but the truth is, I'm still caught in this dance of avoidance, still trying to outrun the grief that follows me like a shadow. I know this can't go on forever. They say ‘change is the only constant’. I am changing as well. I'm learning to be kinder to myself. To take breaks, to allow moments of reflection. It's a journey, one that I'm taking one day at a time. 

Perhaps, in writing this, in sharing these words with you, I've taken a small step towards healing. And maybe, just maybe, that's a start. Perhaps, someday, I'll find the strength to visit my friend's grave, to let someone truly know me. Until then, I'll continue to navigate this complex dance of avoidance and longing, hoping that one day, the weight of unresolved grief will lift, and I'll find the courage to truly live again.

But for now, I close my laptop, drain the last dregs of coffee, and prepare to face the world with a mask of composure that hides the turmoil within.

In shadows cast where silence dwells,
I yearn for eyes that pierce the veil,
To see the strength in quiet shells.

Thank you for reading. I am beyond grateful. Stay resilient. We’ve got this :)

Love and Warmth,

TID
(Tanushree Ishani Das)

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