That independent woman
That independent woman depression stories

mymusings Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   2 years ago
I am that girl. I put on a blouse and a pencil skirt. The skirt complements my waist. I tie my hair neatly.
By Musings of a Little Girl

That independent woman

by Musings of a Little Girl

I am that girl.

I put on a blouse and a pencil skirt. The skirt complements my waist. I tie my hair neatly.

My kohl on point, pouts back at my lips. They are covered with the neutral shade lipstick, after all, anything loud for a huge corporate office was a big no-no.

There is something about heels when they tik-tok while you walk. They announce you're arriving. They announce someone's arriving. Isn't that powerful?

I draw eyes as I walk down.

She passed by me. Her bodycon is perfect for the meeting she has with the client today. I want to compliment her, but I don't. We didn't smile at each other too. We tried, but we didn't.

Professionals. Cold.

Work takes a huge toll on me. But it's okay. I chose this life and I work hard. Well, to be honest I didn't choose. Dad didn't leave much of an option when he bought her home.

I wonder if I would be able to have that kind of an influence over a man. But I wonder if I would want to have that kind of an influence over a man. Children need their fathers. I needed mine.

Would she understand this? She will after she has her own babies with him. Maybe, she will then. I expected she would be a little considerate as I had only dad to myself.

Maa could not live much. 27 is quite young an age to die. I am 27. I am not even married yet.

Well, marriage. Will that happen for me? I guess it will. After 4 failed relationships I have my doubts, but I guess I will. That's why I am working you know. I have to work to save money.

To get married, you need money.

Are you coming up with the shit of progressive families in India? Oh come on! A lavish decor, unending dinner spread, thousands of gifts in the name of shagun and jewelery would cost me a bomb.

I'll save. I'll get myself a bridal trousseau too.

I am working hard for all of that.

In this crisp, presentable outfit of mine, I answer multiple calls, make several reports, liason with the management to achieve effective, efficient and optimal solutions to business problems.

I learnt these fancy words early in my career. I was smart, I worked days and nights to get here. I have come a long way from earning 10$ a day.

Not that I am in the executive committee of an organization but from 10$ a day to 30$ a day! Isn't it progress?

I pay all my bills on time and wear the best brands. I am wearing a nice perfume. And of course I cannot compromise on branded make up and skincare. My skin has to look youthful.

I have to look pretty. Presentable. Attractive. You see, this is what sells, your skills, your personality. I have to sell myself. No I am not a whore. I sell my skills.

My bad, didn't put it quite right.

It's 10 PM at night, my deliverables aren't done yet. This is endless. My toes hurt from the heels I have been wearing all day.

My lipstick has creased. Eyeliner intact, invested in a waterproof one. I am on the verge of breaking down. I am not complaining about the hardwork I have to do, I love my job.

I love my skirt and my blouse.

It's hard to go back to that empty room in that towering building. I have decorated it well, but it stinks of the loneliness that lingers there. I wish maa was there with home cooked food.

The chef I've hired cooks sumptuous delicacies. But he doesn't feed me with his hands. I don't have my dad's lap to sit on and observe the thick hair on his arm. But I'll have to go back.

To come back again tomorrow. To work, to earn.

I am taking the bus. The fares are cheaper than the cab. Yes I did say my toes hurt, but five days of money I save by walking, will get me another blouse. Another skirt.

I am that independent girl, who earns well, pays her own bills and is a feminist on Instagram.

I am that alpha woman who cries about her ex boyfriend but posts Ariana Grande's - Thank you next on my Insta story. I am socially active. Butterfly, they say.

Just like the woman who would be walking back to her home scared of her husband who rapes her every night.

Like the woman who would be walking back to her home to cook for her ailing father.

The woman who would be walking back to her home after having sold her body to 10 different men today, her daughter's school fee is due next week.

The woman who would be walking back to her home, stopping by the pharmacist to buy medicines for her brother battling cancer.

I am just walking back home after a long day at work to an empty room and a cold bed.

I feel so small that I work hard for that wedding trousseau. I don't have an abusive husband, a child to take care of. A family to fend for. I have just myself.

Is that sad? I have just myself? Is it?

Lesser than if I was married to a rapist or living in a brothel, or watching my brother die everyday.

This makes me softer. I smile. I am content. I unlock that house with the empty room and a cold bed. But I have food. I will post, I'm a mess by Bebe Rexha today on Instagram.

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