The Journey of A Transfer Kid

As of 30th July 2020, I finished 6 years in Singapore. As I woke up this morning, I realised that Singapore is the place  I have lived the longest in my life. The feeling was so unsettling that I decided to allow myself to delve a little deeper and ask myself 'what does this mean for me?'

First, some context. In the 27 years of my life, I have -

• studied in 9 academic institutions ( 7 schools before the age of 18)
• lived in 9 cities (4 different zones of the country)
• lived in 16 apartments

The city (before Singapore) where I have lived the longest would be a tie between Mumbai and Bangalore with four years each.

The lack of identity with respect to where I belong is so ingrained that I no longer realise it. When someone asks me "Where are you from?", I just reply "My parents currently live in Delhi". Simple.

There used to be a time I used this as a mechanism that many people called "show-off". I used to list out the cities, roll my eyes as though I have to pause to think whether I got the order correct ... secretly hoping someone would be interested in my story.

Okay frankly, it was a brilliant icebreaker with the "adults". Adults like getting to know you, if you have a different story than the fellow millennials. I still remember when I landed in my first summer internship and told a senior about this and he called me the "most interesting person he has ever met". I barely worked with him all summer but I would never forget this moment. The validation that ... someone finds my story interesting.

Why so needy, Sandhya?

Before I answer that, I would request you to close your eyes for a few seconds and think of "home". What are the images that come to your mind? I am talking about non-living images alone.

Even at the grown age of 27 I am extremely attached to my soft toys. Despite my friends making fun of me (some of them a little too much), what they don't see is the reason for the attachment. Until recently, "home" was never a physical place. As a kid, when I said I wanted to go home, what I meant was, I wanted to go cuddle my soft toys and stay there silently till I feel better. Every new place I went to, they came with me. Best part is that as I grew, the collection grew larger.

When I went back to Delhi earlier this year, my mother and I were pointing at each soft toy and recollecting where we bought them. She remembered the exact location and the moment it happened, even for the ones that were bought when I was an infant. I remembered which ones I befriended the most and which ones came the most handy when I was either scared or sad.

"A physical location" never made a part of my identity. I am ethnically a Tamilian, born in Tamil Nadu (Southern most state of India). Growing up predominantly in the North of India,  I was always the "that South-Indian girl in my class" in every school I went to. Though I spoke flawless Hindi, my identity never seemed to fit with them. I spoke in Tamil only at home and naturally as I grew, like most teenagers I spoke much less at home. My Tamil always lacked the native flavour and the grammatical accuracy and well ... it was garbage. When I went down South to meet my cousins and relatives, they would make fun of my grammar (which I didn't particularly mind... most of the times) and would call me "that north-indian cousin" (eh?).

Sometimes my peers would address me based on where I moved from - when I moved from Kolkata to Meerut, I was "that Kolkata girl", when I moved to Mumbai, I was "that Meerut girl". In Bangalore, I was the "Mumbai girl"... I mean, you get the point (damn! it's just so hard to resist listing it out)

With every transfer, came a new challenge. Sometimes it was 'learning a new language' other times it was 'getting into people's already established friend circles'. Statements like "see, you are new here, so..." was used much more than "hello". 

Having always fit the definition of a good student, what my peers saw in me was the privilege of being the smart one. That's a brilliant identity to have, no doubt. But how I wished someone wanted to get to know me, better. How I wished someone did not assume that I have been so privileged to have done well for myself - "things come too easily for Sandhya"

I still remember the time when I went to a bunch of girls in my 6th school and started crying, one of the most cringeworthy moments of my life - forcing my story on them. As expected, they brushed me aside and said "do you always cry so much?" Anything to fish out some validation, yeah? 

When I look back, I don't see a girl writhing in self-pity and focussing on only what she did not have. Technically, that's what it was. 

But what she really wanted was to be heard. And I know this for a fact, as I practiced it each night as I hugged my soft toys, if people had actually given me the validation, my next step was to move on. I wanted to move on. But I was not prepared to do so until I was sure that people knew my story. 

In hindsight, what I needed to know was that in order to make your story heard, you first need to become "someone". And in order to do that, you need to move on. I had gotten the whole thing wrong. 

I look back at the last 3-4 years and the social circle that has evolved in my life and I almost cannot believe there was a time I was so lonely. I actually have healthy friendships. Me. 

What happened? 

Here is the truth I learnt:

In cases like these where people have not gone through what you have and it is not exactly categorised as trauma, most people are not interested to speak to victims. However, they love hearing from survivors. Survivors are inspiring...victims bring you down. I am not sure what's right or wrong. There are high chances that none of the teens (& current adults) had the appetite to listen to my story. After all, everyone's got their stuff. And after all, it's harder to have the willingness to invest your time and energy in a new person when they can spend that energy to try and fix the numerous things that are wrong within their existing circles and life. 

Perhaps, it is this understanding that eventually helped me move on.  I realised the following things  -

1. I don't need people to know the real me, to fit in - I can have (& still have) friends who simply like hanging out with me and have no clue about my story 
2. I can use this opportunity of frequent fresh starts to rediscover myself and present a new, possibly better version of myself (#fakeittillyoumakeit)
3. Forcing myself on people is NOT equal to fitting in (seems like a very straightforward thing but this was a hard one to understand for someone who was extremely lonely)
4. You do not need a best friend. If you have people who care (even if they don't always show), you have a win :)

5. If you cannot fit in then stand out! 

The last one helped me shape myself into the adult I am today. The thought that I can be lonely and still am capable of being awesome is what helped me get out of the slump I was in, as a teenager. 

'When I make myself awesome... people will want to be my friend - until then, I focus on becoming awesome' The word awesome entailed different things based on where I was and my age but eventually it helped to erase that perpetual bitterness and need for attention. 

I didn't even know that I moved on until a bunch of my friends in Singapore were complaining about moving houses and how annoying the process of packing and unpacking is and instead of rolling my eyes and saying "oh how cute!" (like my bitter self would have said), I could empathize and use my experience to help them optimize the process. It was liberating to not identify myself by the struggles of the past but by the choices I have made in the present. 

I also realised that at the same time I need to respect my story. Respecting my story would not mean speaking to everyone I know about it. It's about managing my anxiety pertaining to change (which I still continue to have). Moving houses, new job, new office location - all of these bring about anxiety... not the physical labour related to it, just the idea of a new start and the perpetual ache of leaving behind what I have gotten used to. Reminding myself that it's okay to feel anxious and also that I have done this before and it is going to be okay. Reminding myself that I will be able to create a home, any where I go. 

A major part of this was ensuring I have a soft toy corner in my current room to wake up to. A corner with literally no particular use-case... but a corner that makes me smile ... a corner, I call home :) 

"Please, Ma'am!"

As Singaporeans are holding their breath, awaiting this year's election results, I can't help but recall a specific incident from the previous election season in 2015. I was a student at National University of Singapore back then, new to the country, my only goal that day being 'how to optimize that public holiday in the best possible way for my studies'.

Even back in India, I did not concern myself with the politicians around me and their impact on our day-to-day lives. Well, naturally, I was from a well-off family. My father had always provided enough (and more) for me to bother myself about which leader's policies would have a worse impact on my existence. Despite being a student of economics, the only politics I was exposed to was something that's good enough for "research/knowledge", to either complement my thesis or build stronger understanding of certain economic concepts. I had never had an emotional opinion about a political party back then.

On September 11th 2015, I was sitting at Starbucks within my campus and going over the assumptions of Solow Model. After a 9-hour study session, I decided that I deserve a Dark Mocha - Grande. I walked up to the counter, like any other millennial, eyes glued to the phone, waiting in line to make my order. I was however, perhaps the only person in the line without any headphones on.
I suddenly heard someone call out to me from behind the counter, though it was not my turn yet.
"Hey, Ma'am!" his voice quivered in a whisper. I looked up to find a middle-aged man, worry spread across his face like a box of spilt rice scattered on a clean floor. His eyebrows looked as though they were perpetually folded inwards. Just watching him alone made me wonder what bad news he might bear.
"Yes, Uncle?"
"Can you please tell me the results?"
I wondered, quite stupidly, why he wanted to know my macroeconomics grade. I nodded in a perplexed manner.
"The elections..is the counting done?"
"I don't know, uncle"
"That phone...check...please"

I fiddled with my phone, still surprised of being approached this way. I did not even notice that it was my turn to order. The student behind me took his headphones off and asked roughly - "hey you done ordering ah?"

Uncle immediately disappeared into the room reserved for Starbucks staff. The girl at the counter, a part-time student, asked me what I wanted to have and rolled her eyes as uncle came back. I got out of the line and he hastily followed me to the pick-up counter -
"hey! Please... please... it's time already, Ma'am"

He swiftly ran back to the room with 4 used cups he had just picked up from the counter. I walked away nodding, with my phone and my drink... one representing a source of information he didn't have access to and other representing my 'reward' for the day. Both representing privilege.

I sat back in my chair and took the first sip of my drink. My gaze was arrested by the look he carried on his face as he went around the coffee house, clearing tables. I watched his eyes contract from time to time and at one point I saw him mumbling something to himself. It felt as though his life depended on how the evening turns out.

I took my phone out again and opened the polling page. I walked up to him after he finished clearing the last table and showed him my screen so that he could make sense of it. (I didn't know what GRC was... and frankly, I didn't care)

"NO!!" his eyes widened. "Ma'am, I am not supposed to look at the phone on duty please."

The stress on the word 'please' each time started to make me feel uncomfortable.

"Okay, uncle. What do you want to know?"

He told me his GRC, and asked me to check who won. I searched through the list and gave him the verdict. His eyes lowered for a few seconds, almost dramatically, flickered and rose towards me again. He nodded - "Thank you, Ma'am."

He walked away; his anxious pace replaced by a slow waddle. It looked like he was limping, as though I had wounded him. He moved to the billing area, taking the place of the student who just finished her shift. "Next, please?"

I walked back to my chair and continued sipping my drink. The next twenty minutes was quiet in my head as I sunk myself into absorbing the entire experience. What amount of privilege blurs your ability to understand the extent of what a fellow human is going through? At what point do you realise that your story is barely a fraction of representation of the entire population? Despite being under the same roof, you can be worlds apart.

I packed my notes and walked out of the almost empty coffee house. I tossed my cup in the bin and from the corner of my eyes, I caught uncle cry as he closed the counter. 

The Spot

What defines you?
Is it the best and worst of your past or the glories of the present? Or perhaps you like defining yourself by the very purpose you are chasing in the future.

After a long day of work (mentally), I decided to take a walk in my alma mater. Currently, sitting in the same place I did my maximum campus days "wonderings" in, I can't help but ask - Who the hell am I?

No build ups, no spoilers! Obvious answer - no one knows, no one cares. In the sense, people go their whole life leading their normal day-to-day activities without actually pausing to clarify this never-ending identity crisis. They are smart. Quite naturally this is the most twisted question of all.

Why do 'I' care? I care to ask this question because each time I sit at this stone step overlooking the campus lawn, I have felt different. I graduated 3 years back and have perhaps visited this same spot at least 50 times (I am very attached to my University - that shouldn't be a surprise beyond this). Sometimes, I have also made major detours to just spend a few moments alone in this spot. All for what? Perhaps, I like to constantly remind myself about the baby steps into adulthood...

I messed up. Or life messed me up. It does not matter...I messed up a lot and crawled in rock bottom way too many times to have the hope of getting up from this very spot. I had my first panic attack here. With the University students watching me in bewilderment, wondering whether I need help or will I harm them, until a familiar face ran through the crowd to hug me tight. I cried till I lost the ability to produce more tears and the best part is I don't even remember the trigger that caused me to break down.

I had my heartbreaks (more than one) at this very spot. I had my epiphany of how awesome I am right here. Most importantly this is the same spot that gave me hope and took it back and gave me hope again until I decided to stick with that hope since that is LITERALLY the only thing that will get me through this. `This...being life.

This is the same spot where I got my first job offer letter. I again had all the random students watch me but this time because I was jumping up and down with joy. I did see a few people with a smile that conveyed a silent "congratulations, stranger".

THIS is the spot I had my first dream-career-house-life vision. As I read the alumni websites and the success stories, I memorized their life-style as much as I memorized the way they achieved it. I drew a picture of the kind of Alumnus I would be. How I would feel when I walk back into the campus after a couple of years.

This is the spot I first made acquaintance with the then soon to be love of my life. Well, this is the spot where I learnt to be comfortable with saying cheesy things like - "love of my life". Even though the ONLY campus-memory I share with him is of me having my initial chats over texts, the only space I felt comfortable doing it out of was this. 

The interesting thing about this spot is that NUS logo that shines in bright orange above our head. Strangely to me, it was both an indication of "you are still in the security of this campus and you have no idea what horrendous thing awaits you out there" as well as "man you have grown a lot and now you are ready to step out".

I remember my last few days in the campus. Oh yes, I of course cried a lot. But something I can never forget is how I told myself that the novelty of this campus will never fade on me...as much as the novelty of my ever-evolving identity. Turns out, it is true. It is the same damn stone step overlooking the lawn with whatsoever no addition to the overall infrastructure but feels so fresh to the eyes! Turns out that every new identity brings out a new perspective which in turn brings out your ability to push forward through the mundanity and what seems like a never-ending loop of "generic millennial problems". 

Well one thing remains unaltered - my ability to ramble on for hours each time I visit here. As I look up now, once again at the NUS logo and then at the window which once used to be my room, I can't help but wonder whether there is another version of me looking at the campus lawn and drawing her own dream-career-house-life perfect plan! 

Inter-caste Marriages - Journey Towards Smiling Egos

In my middle school there were a group of students who formed a club of their own. It started out with three students. They established the club for fun and exclusivity (the kewl factor) during one of the recess breaks that we had. The club literally served no purpose other than getting together during the break time and after school hours to play games together. The group was called - ' Kool Kidz Klub' (Triple K).

Very soon the popularity of Triple-K grew in our batch. They even formed their own secret language similar to the popular P-Language; yes you guessed it right - the K-language. They formed their club rules, such as dress code for each time they met after school hours in one of their houses, the kind of games they will play and the kind of games they will never play. One of them being proficient in artistic skills even drew out a logo for the club. They fixed a date for a monthly feast out of their pocket money.

The group grew as the participants increased. The cofounders were thrilled to have students from not only our batch but also a few junior as well as senior batches joining them. By the end of the second term of our sixth grade, their membership was around thirty-five people.

The most fascinating thing about the club was that the cofounders were worshipped - even by the seniors. Barring some minor changes to the rules, the club followed the same pattern of regulations as before. Anyone who failed to adhere to the rules; say refused to wear black because it is too hot outside or refused to listen to metal music, they were kicked out of the club. You were allowed to speak to the non-members of the club but if you were seen borrowing notes from them or having lunch with them, the members frowned upon you. The ego they carried with them was so high that anything rational - like what if the non-members notes would actually benefit us, did not matter. No one dared to break the rules lest they should be disregarded by the rest. Well this was middle school after all. How mature do you think a bunch of twelve year olds could be?

Let me press the flash-forward button as I skim through the innocent childhood days to the even more innocent adulthood. Dhanalakshmi and Victor were friends. Dhanalakshmi was a beautiful girl belonging to a popular club called 'Tamil Brahmin'.  She was smart, sharp and very capable of leading her life. Victor belonged to a club named 'Malayali Christians'. He was smart, sharp and very capable of leading his own life. Dhanalakshmi and Victor found their intellectual as well as emotional partners in each other. However, when they broke the news to their respective club members they were frowned upon. They were put to shame for not following the 'no-non-member' rule of the club. They tried to convince their club members emphasising on how good their partner is for them. The only reply they got "Perhaps! But he(she) is not a part of our family and will never be. Allowing this would mean there are no sufficient good men(women) in our own community for you. It would mean,  you disrespect us and strip us of our community's pride"

 Juxtaposing the two situations I cannot help but draw the similarities between my childhood and what I see happening around me in my adulthood. The reasons I have mentioned in the short anecdote with respect to why the club members refuse this kind of union is just one part of the whole picture. Given a pen and paper to the community followers you will have pages or perhaps books full of information, myths and justifications against inter-caste marriages. Amusing enough the entire prose can be summarised to 'this is how it has always been and hence this is how it should be'. What is more amusing is when without further justification your emotional and intellectual partner is rejected with the final, assertive words - 'We know better than you do. This is for your own good.' Instead, the two perfect pieces of a jigsaw puzzle is ripped apart as each are arranged to marry the partner they barely know within their respective communities and are pushed into a room to consummate their relationship with that 'perfectly chosen' stranger. Club members smile; ego satisfied.

Sometimes I wish Dhanalakshmi and Victor were in my high-school instead. At least after I quit Triple-K I had a home to go back to.

As A Writer - Find Your Safe Spot

My Tale. My Truth. My Trauma.

As a writer wanting to spread mental health awareness, my journey has been rather funny. Only when you broach the topic on the ‘D’ word and the ‘A’ word do you realize how weak the understanding is even among your own peers. No one generally likes to hear about depression or anxiety. Nobody likes to talk about it. Most people either think that it is ‘lecture time’ or that you’re whining about your life. Lately, I have come to realize that there are a lot of people who do not intend to be rude but they just don’t get it.

One of my friends behaved exactly that way.

He said, “I don’t get it. I am a rational person. I understand that one can be sad for a while after something happens but if they remain in the dark pit for long instead of fighting to get out of it, then it is their choice. They are being a loser. I don’t get it!”

He sounded way too genuine. He is smart and usually kind. However, he said that no matter how hard he tried, (for the sake of his partner who has clinical depression) he isn’t able to connect to the core problem.

For someone like me who has, until very recently kept her trauma and mental health issues swept under the carpet, I now find it too hard to sugarcoat my words. Over the past year, my writing style has been more direct and even harsh sometimes. I can’t get through an article without my peers telling me that it is too dark and they are unable to connect to it. Some of my friends don’t even read my blog posts anymore.

They’ve said, “You are a wonderful writer, no doubts about that. But I get disturbed. So I don’t read them anymore”

This just frustrates me further. I refuse to put a floral image in place of my raw darkness just so that I don’t ‘trigger others’ or so that I don’t come across as someone that’s too aggressive and dramatic. It gets lonely when at every chance people get, they tell you that no matter how hard they try, they don’t get you.

Last night I attended a workshop that was about developing ways to express our mental health through writing. It was one of the best workshops I’ve been to this year. It began with a bunch of exercises like writing your own alien language and using that to communicate with fellow aliens, narrating your life story in 45 seconds (and then discovering which moments do we consider the key ones).

For the last exercise, we did something that I’m quite sure we’ve all done at school at some point. There were three objects in front of us. We were supposed to pick one object and narrate its life from its point of view. We could give it a name, we could make it interact with other objects in the room or we could simply look at it as a stand alone object.

Each story that came out of this exercise was beyond brilliant. One might think that each participant would have narrated their own stories through these objects (a fair assumption and possibility). Some did.

However, one thing to note is that most of us know our lives not as a story but as an emotion. I personally look at my life as a cluster of emotions orbiting around each other and around time. They are so tangible that I’ve drawn them on a sheet of paper and color-coded my emotions depending on the phase of my life.

This is what came out in the object exercise yesterday. We simply take a subset of this cluster and attach it to objects as we carve our narration. Before I knew it, bam! I’d found a new medium to express myself.

I am convinced that this isn’t any sugar coating. This is what I call my safe spot. I realized that over the past year in an attempt to get my message across to people whose ignorance frustrated me I only ended up being scarred.

I thought that the best gift I could give myself was the freedom to express. But last night I learnt that the best gift I could give myself is the freedom to say no to expressing my opinion when it gets too much for me.

To all the other writers out there, I want to say that things are bound to get intense. But, don’t let the darkness consume you to the extent that you forget to light the candles or worse, forget how to light the candles.

Find your safe spot.

Your message will eventually get through. However, the process is important. It needs to be both liberating and healing, don’t you agree?

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When Was The Last Time You Cried?

"When was the last time you cried?" The doctor asked as he shifted his eyelids from the reports to me.
Bewildered, I stared at him. It was an abdominal scan. What does that have to do with... with my cryotary system (where ever that was located)?
His sharp eyes insisted on an answer. I closed my eyes briefly to go back to the time I had last shed tears. I wasn't surprised as the voices in my head starting laughing, intersecting my thought process. What the hell is he making me do?
"5 months" I gave him a ball park.
"5 months, exact?"
"Well, maybe 8. I am not sure."
"You are not sure?"
"Doctor. I know this is a gastrointestinal issue. I have had it since I was a little girl. I have a terrible lifestyle, really. I will take the antacids you suggested and not take more of your valuable time"
He smiled, "You are polite. You have learnt well"
"Sorry?"
"Learnt well to put up a strong public face. Take my advice, Shonali - let it out. When you are alone, of course. You need not hold that poker-face up always"

I just tossed him a smile and took my leave. On my way to the bus-stop I was staring at my reports trying to figure out if there are some abnormalities indicated. The numbers looked just fine.

I jumped up the bus and took the seat in the rear side of the bus. As my usual ritual goes, I put on my earplugs, leaning towards the window and closed my eyes.

When was the last time I cried?

Is it really that big a deal? I have people all around me putting up a mask. That's as normal as it gets. Isn't it?

A while later the bus jerk stopped as I opened my eyes to watch the two new occupants of the bus walk in. They tapped their cards against the machine and took their seats around me, adjacent to each other. One of them was a girl around my age, looking outside the window, lost in her own world. The other was an European male with a heavy backpack and 'South-east Asia travel map' in his hand. I watched the solo traveler flip through the pages as he kept an eye on the number of stops that went by.

He reminded me of one the exchange students in my school days. That kid was not just smart and talented, he was the most humble people I had met it my life. I remember a certain kind of smartness in his eyes that was indeed very attractive; not in a desirable way but in a way that would make you want to warm up to him. He was my only friend back then.

Ah! There's a good start. Remember the childhood where you had literally no one who wanted to sit with you in class because you were always the "new girl" in the school? Think about that. That should make you tear up. Oh, oh, there comes my laughing inner-voice again!

I think my amusement reflected on my face without my knowledge. The solo traveler turned to face me and responded to my smile with a quick, happy nod.

I am not a cold person. I have had a "fancy" childhood, which according to my therapists I am still recuperating from. I just like to be in denial (that's what they call it). It is simpler that way. Though mind you, if I see the same things that happened to me, happen to anyone else, I would be enraged and would fight their battle as though they were mine. However, when it comes to my own past battles, laughter seemed to be the only natural response.

Listening to music was clearly not helping. I pulled out my earphones intending to stuff them back in my bag, which is when I heard the first sniff.

It came from the lost girl sitting across our solo traveler. He did not seem to be bothered with it. Maybe, she has been crying for a while and he had immunized himself to it. I realized that I was watching her more intently than I should be. She stole a quick side-ward glance at me, teary eyed, and then stiffened herself in an awkward manner.

'Look away, you idiot!' I told myself.

So this is what the doc. wanted me to do? I do NOT want to look like her.

It was funny how one part of me was judging her while the other part of me what sympathizing (empathizing) with her. I used to be a cry-er as a teenager - something no one would believe if they met me now. The name given to me in all my schools was "Shonali Shah, the cry-baby". It ranged from 'cry-baby' to 'delicate darling'. My high-school hockey coach often used the phrase Shona na Rona (Shona Don't Cry). Is it true that what we become as an adult is the reflection of what we get subjected to in our childhood? The Bullied becomes the Bully?

Her crying subsided to heavy sobs as she continued to type frantically on her phone. Maybe she is breaking up with someone. Silly people. Why do they even get into a relationship when they know that nine out of ten end up this way?

Or maybe, she is fighting with her parent. I remembered the last time I was sitting in a bus fuming with anger after having had a fight with my grand father. I had decided to leave home for good. I was eighteen then. It seemed like the right thing to do.
'Ah come on! You'll get over it' I silently communicated the message to her through my eyes. Her eyes were still fixed on to her phone.

If there is one thing I have understood from my personal experiences, it is that you are your own person. If you are expecting someone to pull you out of your crisis situation - you are either too stupid or begging for attention. You can lean on someone's shoulder of course, but never completely surrender your destiny in the hands of a person who is not yourself. As the fundamental lesson taught to me was 'survival of the fittest' - I walked around KNOWING that I am shatter-poof, no matter what the Universe throws at me. It was not arrogance. It was years and years of practice.

Getting vexed with the atmosphere around me I decided to dig in for my earphones again. I had just four more stops to go. I decided to focus my attention on the hockey game I was going to have with my pals that evening.

As I unzipped my bag, I saw the solo traveler reach out for his backpack. He dug his arm into it and pulled out a roll of tissues. Without saying a word, he bent forward and just with his gentle eyes cajoled her to take it.

She nodded. She tried a smile. She took it.
He nodded back. Pulled away his hand. Zipped up his backpack.

In the midst of the unsettling silence, fell my first tear in months.

The lost girl went back to her phone. The solo traveler went back to his travel book.

Isn't it strange? After all, it was the 'Act of Kindness' that made me cry! 

Mental Health Guide- How to Choose Your Person!

Educating a person about your mental health issue is like teaching a child to spell the word 'Onomatopoeia'. At first it looks nothing like it sounds - hence you ask them to unlearn the rules of the language they have learnt before. You teach them the concept of silent letters. You teach them how the word is ironic to its simple meaning. The child then spends the first half of his/her life hating the word and wishing that it was spelt somewhat easier. 

In short, it is difficult. The process of explaining to someone what your mental health is doing to you, why it IS an issue in the first place and why it is working you up to the point of exhaustion. More specifically, why you need help either in the form of understanding or mere words of support from them. Sometimes a gesture would do. A gentle gesture to assure you that though you are alone in this journey, you are being encouraged to go on with this race. That your journey is being respected. 

It is hard to explain why you are what you are. 

Your journey is precious. You need all the strength and energy you have got in you to channelize it entirely into the battle in hand and HENCE, it is important that you choose your people. Because even one person's - "So? Big deal" can make you feel like you have been pushed to the starting point, especially if that person was someone you thought you could trust. You do not deserve that.  

Based on the experience of some of my close friends and my own, I have categorized people into two broad categories which then branch out to two more under each.

 The first among the main categories is ignorant. It might be frustrating at first, but you need to remind yourself that it is NOT THEIR FAULT. Refrain from subjecting them to what you have been subjected to - the Superiority of knowing more than them.

Passive ignorance is when a person is not aware of the things you go through predominantly because they have not walked a journey similar to yours. However, they are WILLING to listen and understand. These are the people who listen to respond and not react or give solutions. These are the people you hold on to. They might not be able to actively help but rest assured they will never fail you. 

Active ignorance, on the other hand are the ones who realize they are ignorant about your issues but also choose to remain ignorant about it. There can be variety of reasons why - inability to process so much information, too worked up with their own troubles and trying to find their way out of it, do not want their peace to be disrupted (though they sympathize with you). They might trigger strong negative emotions in you at first. Until you finally realize that they are fighting their own battles too- it might be nothing to do with their mental health and perhaps far less in magnitude than yours but it IS their personal battle. Do not make that judgement (you never know) and hold on to that rejection to be heard. When you fall, they WILL be there. They just cannot be your person. And that's okay!! 

Now we enter the interesting category of people - the arrogant folks. The perfectionists. The 'ME' and 'ONLY ME'. Lack of emotional maturity. Sometimes hard to notice the difference but they TOO are divided in two sub-categories.

The passive ones live ONLY BECAUSE of that lack of emotional maturity. They are meticulous in the way they think and work through their problems and believe 'all problems have a solution without any exception'. If there is no solution, FIND ONE otherwise you are not strong enough. The reason why I call them passive is because they do not know they are being arrogant. They have a unidimentional vision who have not seen much in their life. They were the part of the cool gang in their high-school, had a bunch of friends who have supported them all through, made their way out of their insecurities using their problem-solving things (which is great by the way). But only because they were able to. The nature of problems were such that they could weave their way out of it with nothing but reasoning. They CARE. They want to help. However, their inability to curb that arrogance down often end up in them starting their sentences with - "If I were you ..." Well now, that's the point. You are not me and heaven knows whether you would have even survived this far if you had to walk my path. For people belonging to this category - forgive them. Acknowledge that their intent is to help you (though it feels like each time they do they end up in blowing their own trumpet). They are not just strong enough. Remind yourself you have your people. It helps! 

The active ones are the ones whose only intention is to tell you how awesome they are and how weak you are - "Oh grow up..." , "What now? Depressed again?" 

I am not going to waste my time in writing about them. Word of caution: if you spot them, chin up. Look in their eyes and give them your best smile. Not a happy one. The proud one. (Though a little too dramatic, I sometimes repeat the lines of Sia's 'Titanium' in my head when these people are around me. It helps to keep their germs away from my soul)

Next time you are acquainting yourself with someone new and you want to get close to them, immediately try and put them into one of the four categories. It helps to choose your people this way to minimize damage. You might be wrong at first so it is indeed about trial and error. You start with little details about yourself - just a peak into your darkness. If you think they are strong enough to handle that, you get your cue. Sometimes, people have a way of surprising you. Someone very special to me, recently made their way from passive arrogance to passive ignorance and eventually out of the recipient space to become my person! It's beautiful to watch that happen :)

In conclusion, this is certainly a hard battle that you fight. In the process of looking for support do not attach a part of your soul in too many people's hearts. When they break it, it will be too hard for you to assimilate the pieces back together. One thing you can try to make yourself feel strong is the 'Superman Stand'. My obsession with Grey's Anatomy has helped me pick up a few good examples. Before performing a complex, life-changing surgery on a fellow doctor, we see the chief neurosurgeon place her hands on her waist, chest and shoulders broad and head held high. The theory she mentions states that standing in this pose for a few minutes strengthens you to a large extent, helping you go on with your battle when there is no one else to hold on to. I have tried it - it works remarkably! 

Keep in mind, there will always be a child who despite all efforts wouldn't be able to spell Onomatopoeia. Some others who won't care to learn it in the first place. That's their problem, not yours.

Be proud. March on. You are nearly there!