The following paragraphs of this post were written almost a year back, two years into recovery, a few weeks into my first turning to help. It was incomplete (intented to be completed and published as a blog) and doesn’t have boundaries and form. But it reflects a phase of my life, or more the pain that was with me. So I dare not edit it, add/erase anything. Much of the pain reflected here has either been resolved, eased up, forgotten, or buried under more beautiful memories. I hope they will not return. I believe that over the year, I have grown stronger. And I hope, “hope”, this beautiful emotion, will not again be forgotten. These paragraphs surprised me, for I had forgotten the pain to such an extend. It is both good and bad, bad because I will be less able to guide those suffering my same fate, without knowing what they are feeling. I thank the good people who were around me, my friends and my Professors for helping me get up and start walking. I’m aiming to run and sommersault now. The following piece isn’t too easy to read. It reflects a lot of pain.
Depression is not just darkness. If you were to be thrown into darkness, you surely look for some light, and maybe find it. Depression is having forgotten that light exists. And you are never thrown into it. You slip in, slowly, unsuspectingly. And by the time you are at the bottom of this black hole, you would have forgotten what light is. For some time, there will be a disturbing feeling within. The frustration of missing something important, and that dies down too.
I, a girl in a middle class family, grew up in a much mediocre, 21st century family, of parents, and no one else. Basically, I was cared for and everything taken care for me. My family was dysfunctional. My parents always fought. The last two years of their life, they barely spoke to each other. It was easier for them, in that stress filled environment to just do everything for me, including making my timetable for school, instead of having to take the pain to wait it out, very patiently, till I learnt to do it myself. They are proud to have done a good job- of what, I would ask! Being good people doesnt spare you the flak for mistakes. I, a girl in a middle class family, didn’t have many people in my life, except for the kids in my school, whom I was not allowed to meet after school hours. I’a growing teen,was glued to the TV, obese, and had no lifeskills, because I was always under curfew, never even allowed to go to a shop 500m away from home, at 17. Being practising Hindus, my parents taught me from a young age, to not have an ego, which equates to not think of myself and my acheivements as great, not to think of myself as capable, and basically, not to have a good self esteem, and to be afraid.
I, started slipping into depression at 16, when the fight at some intensified. At nearly 18, I joined a college run by a charitable, Hindu institution headed by a godwoman. I was gone for good over there….
In a matter of months, I developed anxiety, concentration and memory loss, an even worse self esteem, and anaemia. The place was poison. The emotional torture unbearable. My parents and everyone outside: idiots! Ignorant fools! To not see what’s going on inside, to not understand their child’s suffering! I, came out scratched, torn, coulourless, identity-less. And then there were bits and pieces lying on the ground, that I couldnt make sense of. Because my mind was gone by then, into that abyss.
*ഒരു കടുവാക്കുട്ടിയുടെ കുഞ്ഞെഴുത്തുകൾ * 