lucky

My name is Meera Lakhani. People call me Lucky. I’m part south Indian, part north Indian. Then again, if you’re from India, you would have known that the minute you read my name. Lucky is just a dead giveaway. Who has heard of a Sindi/Punjabi named Lucky… err... everybody?

I am bipolar. I still don’t quite know what that means. For me, it just means that most people don’t stick around in my life for very long. My parents could be called an exception, in several cases at least. But they know even less about me than I do. Which is difficult.

I’m in the earlier half of my 20s. I don’t know why I’m trying to be vague about myself… maybe it just seems safer. People say the Internet is a dangerous thing anyway. Anyway, my best friend is a dog I rescued when she was lying on the road, bleeding. I named her – wait for it – Cecilia. I don’t know why. It’s a very un-hip, infra dig name, I know. But around that time, I had read an oft quoted quote by some chap named Cecil Rhodes. Something along the lines of what Robert Frost said.. miles to go, so much to do.. I can’t remember now. But I was inspired. I was young, in my teens, and had just been officially diagnosed with my manic depression [I realize that is different from bipolar disorder in the eyes of some, I really don’t care. Either way, I’m sick.] I found Cecilia on the road and my heart broke. Literally. I broke down in the middle of the road, called some people, took her to the vet and helped her.

My doctor told my parents it was a good sign I cared for animals – gave me something to be responsible for. Little did they know that it would be the *only* thing I’d ever be responsible for. My dog, I mean.

I lost my job as a secretary to a fat, overpaid, snarky executive recently. I spat in his face. And I didn’t have the nerve to tell my folks. I knew I’d do it during my next high or low. So the last few days have been spent driving around, sometimes with Cecil in the seat next to me… just looking. For I don’t know what.

Then one day I rescued an animal from being beaten to death by humans and though I’ve been taken my meds regularly and all that, though it’s been a couple of months since the last “incident” [that’s what my parents called my highs and lows, my psychotic breaks] I began to think I was going crazy.

I started seeing crows everywhere. Yes, I’m sure. And I haven’t told my psychiatrist about it yet. They’ll all think I’m nuts again.

It’s like they’re watching me. So, I started reading up on crows. And I realized how smart the bloody birds are. I thought about it incessantly but couldn’t figure out for the life of me why they were following me around. Then I remembered. They’re scavengers. They can probably smell death a mile away. So maybe I was dying, or maybe they know I was so screwed in the head that I would die soon. I’m not sure.

And so. I have drawn up a list. Or rather, I intend to. Of things to do before I die. Not very original, yes, I realize that. But who cares. I’m dying. I get to be unoriginal, clichéd in the face of my mortality.

I thank the crows for again giving me a reason to wake up in the morning. So I can accomplish whatever I can before Death [I picture her from Gaiman’s Sandman. Pretty cool character, huh?] comes for me. So I’m ready when she comes. *cue for maniacal laughter that I’m not too good at*

Cecil and I are gonna be ready. Or something.