And So I Speak…

Image by Irina L from Pixabay

And so I speak – as do many others – because we have nothing to lose but the clarity of our conscience if we do not use our voice when we have people who value what we have to share and care enough to listen to us – especially when we have a platform to speak about things that matter to us.

I speak because I have been there and that is not a nice place to be.

I speak because I have done (and continue to do) the painful work of healing from the trauma and lessening the scars of those harmful encounters over time – that remains work in progress…

I speak because I am deeply unapologetic about making guilty folks squirm and be called out if it will keep vulnerable people somewhere, somehow, a little safe.

So, some pointers – and this is just a tiny list – the exhaustive everyday extra ideas just happen…

1. When someone shares a personal experience of assault / molestation / discomfort / bad gaze, etc., believe them – better to believe them instead of disbelieving them and putting them in harm’s way and allowing for a creep to be encouraged because the ‘claim has no basis and no witnesses.’
2. Men, please remember that while you may be a ‘good & safe guy’, not everyone in your circle might be. If the women & children in your life – your daughters, sisters, spouses, partners, girlfriends, women friends, employees, etc. say that they feel odd about someone – create distance between them. Instruct them not to allow your friends into your house if you are not around.
3. While women and children are the more vulnerable population, sexual assault, harassment and on-going abuse can happen to all genders and people of all ages and abilities / disabilities.
4. There is no particular type or look for people who can be abused… or a shape or look for people who can be abusers – It is a fine balance to learn to trust and to be vigilant. It is important to teach ourselves and our children the importance of trusting our instinct and our intuition. Children as young as 5 know the creepy feeling of a hand that gropes even if they don’t know how to explain it. I say this because I was 5 myself when I ‘learnt’ that the hand wasn’t a good one – that the touch was not something I wanted.
5. Believe your children – listen to them – Keep the channel of communication open – Always – To continue the previous point, I was 5 – and I did not tell my parents. I had great parents, but I don’t think I believed I could tell them something like this. I don’t remember what I thought, but I dealt with this alone…. because the person was a relative. I was 5 – yet, I felt I was going to be blamed.
6. Do not gossip. You were not there when it happened and if you were, you witnessed a crime, an abusive incident, a power play in action. If you don’t want to get your fingers dirty by assisting with the investigation, then do not enjoy the pigfest of rolling in the mud! Give the survivor the dignity of privacy and the space and compassion to grieve and process the assault. Go watch a movie, eat a tub of ice cream instead of giving in to the urge to gossip!!
7. Don’t crucify the victim – Most times, it is the victims – the survivors – who end up facing the harsh consequences of their own terrifying experiences – whether they report it or not. They lose jobs, or are made to leave their jobs, they are gossiped about, slut-shamed, victim-blamed, etc…. while the abuser gets a mild rap on the knuckles (if at all), identities are hushed up and predators are let loose in our communities, to enjoy the benefits – social or otherwise… Do what is right, not what is popular.
8. Facilitate healing from the trauma – Scars run deep and can sometimes take decades, if at all, to heal. The pain and ugliness of the experience (and potential consequences) last for a long time affecting other relationships, even with oneself, leads to potential substance abuse, mental health disorders, sexual difficulties, physiological disorders, etc. If you can facilitate or encourage therapy and counselling, please do that.

There is so much more to talk about this… but for now, I just needed to get this out of my system.

Such issues are not essays that need an intro, body and closing statement. I don’t need to lay context to explain the gravity and deep level of disgust that we feel when we talk about this issue that women have faced for generations. The conversation just needs to go on.

If you need help to understand the vocabulary of these conversations, if you feel that such conversations are sexist, vilify all men, or do not understand the idea that survivor stories need to be centered and privilege needs to be decentered – please read this article.

I will have continue to have these conversations and do what I believe is right – no matter how strong the resistance. It is my way of modeling who I am, staying authentic, and doing my bit to leave behind a safer world for our children.

I want to set an example for my daughter – for what shit she ought to absolutely refuse to take…. and for my sons to know exactly how they should NOT behave with other women – other people. I hope I succeed in that, at the very least.

I am here to remind the people around me that there is always a way out – maybe just a millimeter of breathing space is available to us today, so…be…it… TAKE that space, we will make more space tomorrow...

Remember, always, that you are 1000% worth your existence. You matter despite the pain you may feel today. My heart hurts for the pain we feel for no fault of ours – some of us feel more than others – but, courage exists too.

Remember, you are not to blame.

Remember that it takes courage to survive despite the pain of trauma, abuse and deep-cutting betrayal from people we thought would be kind to us – and/or keep us safe.

And remember, that showing up to courage is an even bigger gift you share with the world around you.

You are loved, you are precious, and you matter.

Part 1: The Need to Talk About Women & Child Safety

Part 2: The Shared Responsibility to Protect The Vulnerable

The Shared Responsibility to Protect The Vulnerable

Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay

Perpetrators very often go scot-free due to many reasons. Their position in society and the overall silence of the bystanders around such matters being primary. The largely deaf ear and blind eye towards quiet sufferers, scared voices, especially of children, can be excruciatingly painful. The resultant slut-shaming and self-damning guilt of survivors with questions and comments like, “They must have asked for it!” “What was she wearing?” ,”Why was I there in the first place? It’s my fault being there at that time..!!“, etc, are enough to avoid reporting the incident altogether. The victim – no, the survivor has already been judged… and continues to live chained in relentless agony.

As a community, we are taught to shy away from difficult conversations and in the process end up shielding criminals while putting more vulnerable people at risk.

We have a moral obligation and shared responsibility to care for the most vulnerable in our community and to ensure our communities are safe for everyone to live wholesome lives. We need to go above & beyond our discomfort with hard questions and actively create safe spaces instead of engaging in whataboutery with respect to a handful of mistrials and misuse of resources. We have history speaking of centuries of oppression against women and the marginalized, yet to challenge the creation of change, we want to hang on to the flimsy excuses of a handful of instances where a man was framed.

Then there is the matter of privilege of one’s gender that is simply not acknowledged and the Not-All-Men trope is announced with much gusto.

I have known some brilliant men in my life – kind, compassionate, caring, respectful, gentle – really lovely men who embody genuine masculine energy – not toxic patriarchal assholery. They also have their flaws, who doesn’t? They are not perfect – I do not claim them to be… but they acknowledge the privilege they have in the real world. And then there are those who flinch so hard at the thought of equitable spaces and the conversation of the right to safe spaces for all genders. One would think that giving someone their right would mean taking someone else’s. The classic quote of equal rights not being pie always comes to mind.

While #NotAllMen is a legit idea, what we tend to disregard is that while not all men as culpable, ALL MEN do enjoy the benefits of male privilege and patriarchal investiture. On that note it is a moral duty of ALL MEN to stand up to the creeps in society who give them a bad name instead of getting offended when we share our stories and engage in whataboutery and misplaced defensiveness with #NotAllMen. Stand up for what is right!

At the same time, it also makes me wonder if the vehement resistance is due to their culpability in similar crimes themselves! Are they scared of being outed? Are they so aware of their misdemeanors and past sins that they just worry about being caught? Or are they just scared that with more education of the society and heightened vigilance, their pool of easy prey would now start to dwindle!?

The thought is scary – but it is also a dangerous possibility.

Part 1: The Need to Talk About Women & Child Safety

Part 3: And So I Speak

The Need to Talk About Women & Child Safety

I’ve been having many conversations on Women and Children’s Safety in India of late. Interestingly, I wasn’t prepared for the level of resistance to many processes and initiatives to keep women and children safe or even to initiate the conversation. The excuses were usually the cases of the misuse of law and legal resources by women that are highlighted to undermine the genuine trauma, PTSD, abuse and violence faced by the majority of victims and survivors.

As a community, however, we do not speak openly and compassionately of such matters – leaving those who suffer to languish in misplaced shame and devoid of the support of family or friends.

This is a long discussion, but some key thoughts I’d to share:

1. Sexual harassment is not just groping, physical assault or rape. Unnecessary and uncalled for lewd comments, leering and ogling, making suggestive actions etc. are all forms of harassment that make the target of such behaviors feel uncomfortable and violated. Also remember, there can be no tangible proof for such behaviors.
2. A victim of such harassment will very often not complain because of the shame they will experience and that they (and their body) will be treated like an object for public discussion – without empathy or sympathy.
3. The perpetrator will often cockily walk away with the ready and self-exonerating statements like, ‘If I made them feel uncomfortable, they should have said something to me and I would have stopped. They didn’t – actually, THEY were flirting with ME – They wanted to sleep with me.“… No, it doesn’t work that way. The space created was not a safe space… and the responsibility is not on the victim to educate a creep of misbehavior when their primary objective is to get away from a threatening space and a dangerous person.
4. Victims are usually hesitant to report incidents because they feel the onus of showing proof is on them. How do you prove that a lecher’s behavior, especially when no one else was around, made you uncomfortable? How do you prove that you were molested if there aren’t any cameras to capture the deed? And then, who walks away with their head held high?
5. Present day teenagers and children are most vulnerable as they appear to be more aware with facts. Sadly, having to deal with pedophiles while they are still learning their way through adolescence is a terrifying ordeal to endure.

Part 2: The shared responsibility to protect the vulnerable.

Darlings: Thanks, but no thanks

Social media was full of ‘Darlings’ reviews. For awhile I didn’t even know what the movie was about, so I really didn’t bother until a dear friend shared that she was triggered by it and stopped watching. I took her experience to heart and knew that the plot would bring up stuff for me too. A few weeks back, my partner watched it and my knee jerk response was that I won’t watch it and I guessed that I’d feel sick. He agreed that it would be reliving the trauma.

Last night, I thought of giving it a try. I mean, I would always switch it off, right?

I was being lured to by the harrowing theme of you know, maybe, just maybe, after all these reviews, the movie might be showing a real scenario and somehow, just somehow, I might feel that certain experiences would be validated? I still don’t know what my reason to watch it was, but I watched it. But you know, sometimes, those things that you should avoid have an allure that entices you to take one bite, one tiny bite, and no harm done? I was feeling all that…

I looked at the movie cast and thought, ‘Well, if Shefali Shah is in it, the plot must be dark enough to be real.’ Let me see what this is about.

Six minutes and ten seconds into the show (I’m guessing intro credits included), I had to pause. My jaw was tight, my breathing was shallow, my mouth went dry and my gut clenched. I felt physically ill and could feel the bile rising in my throat. I had known that giving this movie my time would be a bad idea.

A very bad idea.

To set the record straight, my review of this movie is based on having been there and with the wisdom, clairvoyance, clairaudience and clairsentience of hindsight. I didn’t even need to know the theme of the movie to know what was going to happen in the first few minutes. The disrespect and the absence of value for her space, effort, time was blatant. He unceremonious and remorseless manipulation of her feelings by dangling the carrot of marriage and babies and a home… a future together… it. was. all. right. there.

Yet, she stayed.

And there will be a zillion A-holes making wise ass comments like, ‘Why is she still staying with him, then?’ Placing the onus of the survivor… sigh! Making it her burden to explain how maybe she still thought or believed that this was a hiccup that all relationships go through? Or was it to feel guilty about expecting a happy ever after? Or maybe a happy till tomorrow? Was she to be held responsible to hope and seek a loving, secure relationship?

This story was also compounded by multiple themes – almost making it an excuse in some places. He is an alcoholic. Alcoholism is a disease. He needs our pity & our sympathy. He needs her support and care to get off it. Well, if it means a couple of blows, punches, broken ribs and a miscarriage – well, this is between the husband and wife…

Sorry, but I cannot write this in coherent order. There is no beginning.. and I sense myself going in loops.

I found the humor grating. I didn’t laugh at all throughout the movie. Not once. My daughter came to the room twice to tell me to please stop watching it as it was clearly upsetting me. I didn’t watch to carry it to the next day. I would allow the poison to be drawn in one go.

That humor, was not funny. I found it insulting. I found a mentally agitated young woman’s desperation being churned as fodder for gaping bystanders to shake their heads and say, ‘Look at the stupidity she is doing! Why can’t she just leave him?’ The humor and the ridiculous music downplayed trauma, grief and brutal fear for one’s life into a rubbish piece of badly written jokes. To me, they were not funny to me.

The humor downplayed violence, mental anguish, trauma, miscarriage, suicide all that to feed an audience of bystanders who didn’t really know or care about what happens behind closed doors.

What they did show well was manipulation and gaslighting, even if it fell on deaf ears. They showed well the trembling of her hands when he bit on the second stone in his rice. They showed well the reflexive clasping of her throat when she knew what was coming. They showed well the brutality of an abusive and violent person. They were also spot on in showing how an abuser would work towards isolating his ‘prey’ from social and financial support.

The most hard hitting scene for me, was when Hamza hits Shamshu, his mother-in-law, in the cab – abusing the family of the victim is brutal and often not expressed well. I can only hope the message reached a fair number of minds.

But, in my very honest opinion, they failed miserably at showing the effects on Badru’s body, mind and spirit. There was a tendency to not showcase her grief and instead center on his abuse instead. The abuse was centered – the abuser was centered. It is typical, isn’t it? To shy away from uncomfortable truths of a woman’s experience of pain and horror?

This was perhaps a teachable movie – to raise awareness of a cornucopia of social issues – I don’t know… To me, it lacked. Just by educating the masses about Section 498A, one doesn’t really push the needle that required public outcry and a movement that motivates society to care for its members.

I felt for Badru – she was just a child trapped in the clutches of a monster. She’s right to take charge of her respect in her own hands, but the philosophy of greatness and the higher moral ground is a psychological nightmare. I can’t think how it can happen overnight – I’m glad it did, but… it just watered down the reality of domestic violence, intimate partner violence, violence against women and gender based violence.

It also misplaced the story by setting it in a lower income chawl with lesser educated individuals of a certain community. Violence occurs in all segments of society. Worse stuff gets perpetrated in upper middle class and wealthy society units. There the façade to save face for Page 3 insets is strong, the walls sufficiently sound proofed, gated communities provide the anonymity and isolation sufficient to get away with ‘this is between husband & wife, we will sort it’

Like I said, I feel a bit incoherent in my ramble. Trauma doesn’t resolve itself over night. It rewinds itself at various times and we learn and unlearn over and over again.

I don’t have a textbook conclusion to this post today… it just is a visceral outpouring. The movie was a trigger and I am still experiencing the effects of giving it my time. To those who have given it rave reviews for the effort of highlighting this issue, well… I don’t know… There must be better ways. But if those reviews were coming from a third person, unaffected place, then I really think they must rethink their ‘position’ before dissing off those of us who found the movie triggering, belittling and insensitive in many ways.

Now I need to recover from this movie. This is why I hate watching TV…

The Perverse Joy in Shaming..

Yesterday I addressed a group of womxn who had registered for my session and logged in from across India & other countries to hear me speak. Some 240+ registrations I think…I absolutely LOVED the hour I had & shared about dysmorphia, self love, acceptance, sexuality, ageism, parenting with body acceptance and, of course, an attitude of unapologetic radical kicka*s self love. I chose to speak without a script because conversations reach the heart only when they’re had in spaces encouraging vulnerability, integrity, community and unflinching authenticity – values that The Curvy Yogi is built on… values, without which, my identity would tremble.

The image below is me just as the session was starting. I loved the way I looked – it wasn’t just the lighting – it was how I felt because of a number of factors and a number of things that happened earlier.

The inserted comment in the image arrived earlier yesterday – one of many others. Receiving hate mail & harassment is not acceptable but in many unfortunate scenarios it is also normalized as ‘to be expected’. To be honest, I don’t get lots and I’m very grateful for that, but sometimes some come in for a number of reasons.

Why do I share it here today?

Because in view of the conversation I led last evening, this comment asks me, “Do you accept this label (& slur)?”

My answer: “No, I do not.”

1. I’m not a cow – I have 23 pairs of chromosomes which, when I last checked, still make me human. I’m also a woman with all the right stuff in all the right places – more of me to hold, more of me to love, no?

2. I’m fat, yes… so? Do I walk with a filter so people cannot see the curves where they are? People ‘choose’ to like, love, accept me as they’ve seen me because they’ve seen me, because they’ve interacted with me… and for those very reasons. Also, I’m pretty awesome all by myself too!

3. I love cows! They’re big and graceful, have great eyelashes, give to the ungrateful milk industry and drop poop wherever they want to without even batting an eyelid. I mean, seriously!

So, folxs, I know a fresh introduction about me is overdue, but here’s a sneak preview either way: I may have lost a titanium implant but the steel and iron that reinforces the gold, platinum and diamond inside laced with oomph, power and chutzpah, hahah…. #LeavingTheRestUnsaid

Also, fyi, to clarify, the comment didn’t come during the session or from any of the super awesome hosts & participants. It was completely exclusive of this session.

Boys & Body Shaming

Earlier this week, my son was shamed. Not ashamed – he was shamed…. To be more specific he was body shamed. Even more specific he was body shamed. He is 10. He was shamed on the playground, by a child 4 or 5 years older than him – a young teen. It would have passed as a ‘simple playground thing‘ between kids, but it didn’t…. because someone was sensitive enough to notice my son’s body language and called to alert me.

Hey, Avi! You’ve lost weight, huh?!

Read these words not as a compliment (which it never should be!) but laced with sarcasm, accompanied by sniggers from sidekicks of the one saying it. Avi had not shed any weight & Avi knew it. Avi had also refused to go out to play for many months during the pandemic because he was healing from his fall from 10 feet and because he was aware of kids, his own friends, who were openly mean enough to comment on his body because of it.

But this incident of the explicit sarcasm from a teen had cut deep, because the otherwise loud & boisterous child, slid to the edges of the play court and sat aside waiting for the sniggers to subside.

There are many ways in which parents can help to mediate and make painful episodes of bullying (yes, that is what this was) into teachable moments. And so, while I was livid, I was also not going to sit back on this one.

What was I out to teach?

• I was out to teach my 10-yr-old that although I don’t interfere with playground scuffles, I knew when to come in & do the needful.
• I was out to teach my 10-yr-old that bullying is wrong and his hurt is valid – that he was wronged. There’s no other way to see it – it had to be acknowledged.
• I was out to teach the teen, who may have been allowed to believe that a few laughs at someone else’s expense is ‘cool’, that it is not quite so.
• I was out to teach anyone who would pay attention that the scars of emotionally hurting someone with a comment about appearance, height, weight, skin tone, acne, hair, no hair, boobs, no boobs or whatever the eff people take pleasure in commenting about…. that those scars ran deep… very, very deep. And that the person inflicting them took responsibility for causing such lasting trauma, were held accountable… and were taught to do better next time.
• And I was out to teach a quick lesson on recognizing bullying patterns in our own children – especially when we ourselves refuse to accept that this is indeed what it is.

But he wasn’t physically bullied, was he? I mean, my son only ‘said’ this to him, right?

Right. If you’re asking whether Avi was physically bullied, then no, he wasn’t. But we’re not discussing physical abuse here, are we? The words that were used were painful. And emotional abuse, name calling, shaming are all different expressions of a-b-u-s-e!

Did anyone see you / hear you talking to my son? Or did you take him aside to explain to him?

Yeah, I am aware of how it may look when our child is being ‘chastised’ / ‘admonished’ in public – especially when they have really done something wrong. But, yeah, if it makes you feel better, I took him aside for the conversation. Unfortunately, what he said to Avi was said loud enough for everyone else to hear and laugh at.

You have older kids, you know this is the age where teens watch TikTok and Instagram and YouTube and prank others. They don’t mean any harm… it is just a joke.

And that is where we parents come in. That is where we help the teens understand that laughing at someone else’s expense is not funny! It isn’t fucking funny in the least sense! How would it have felt if someone would have bullied the bully instead by making remarks about his looks, height, teeth, pants or whatever else? Hurting someone else by making remarks about their body is not done! Why are we even having this conversation, again? Defensiveness, especially clubbed with patriarchy, is something that gives boys the permission to misbehave because, ‘Boys will be boys’, no? No! Boys will be taught how to be better human beings, how to be respectful and how to be decent. That. Is. It.

I hope Avi is not still hanging around there! He can go play with other kids too.

Yes of course, while I was thankful for the concern – and they were trying to be genuine, I know them well enough for that. But Avi was definitely not going to be taught to run away from older kids who may be bullies!

Anyway, I’m not sure what the conversation was between that parent and child, but the next day Avi came home after a soccer game to say that, “Fat body, small di*k” was muttered to him. Only this time, Avi took it differently and I didn’t bother calling anyone anymore.

Sigh! Bullying is bullying. Shaming is bullying. Body shaming is bullying. Victim shaming is bullying. Slut shaming is bullying. And it starts in our homes…. and then it seeps into our playgrounds where young children start to explore power dynamics – knowing how to exert it and, for some unfortunate ones, to know what it feels like to carry the scars of traumatic playground experiences!

In recent years we have had more than enough media attention given to the case of bullying and body shaming. We usually consider this as a ‘female’ worry. As you can see, it isn’t necessarily misogyny at play here, but toxic masculinity and patriarchy. Even boys can be body shamed. Anyone can be body shamed – and sadly, anyone can be a bully.

Our boys are allowed to believe that bullying and abusing others is a way to secure power (even if the said custodians of power and totally ill equipped to wield it!) Our boys are allowed to center themselves – especially if they are the only sons and more so where the women in the family are as patriarchal as the system. This is often explained away with excuses like, ‘boys are rough / aggressive’ and other similar cliches. Even if boys are rough, are they not to be taught to be kind & recognise the difference between rough play & hurtful, abusive behavior?

Body shaming and bullying are gender unbiased.

While I raise a daughter and two sons, my effort to raise a young woman totally in charge and with agency over her body, her appearance and her sexuality, I realise that the effort is equally required towards my sons & raising them to be young men aware of their bodies, strengths, weaknesses, with agency over their bodies and the humility to recognise their privilege as males in a patriarchal society.

The politically correct thing that schools do to educate children about bullying – in many ways is not doing enough because real conversations and opportunities to develop empathy are not happening! When kids are not given an opportunity to listen to hard truths from the words & voices of their peers, how on earth to we expect them to care? Children need to face the effects of their behavior towards each other. They should be taught accountability for harm caused – intentionally or unintentionally – and counselled appropriately towards making better choices next time. The future of our society & our world depends on it.

We cannot sit back and assume that our children are beyond reproach, guilt or a shadow of doubt.

And worse, how do we expect their parents to care when we stop realising that it takes a village to raise a child? When we allow our defensiveness to be at the fore in deflecting the pain (and anger) of another child or parent when they bring it up to us, do we not realise that we not only perpetuate the harm, but also quite likely ensure that our own offspring is being allowed to continue behavior that may lead to something worse if left unchecked?

I am angry & I am hurt – on behalf of my 10-year-old who had to experience shaming. Now I have to work doubly hard to ensure he doesn’t retaliate in the way hurt children usually do. Hurt people hurt people, right?

But no… it isn’t easy and it isn’t nice. But these are our children. Growing up in our homes in our communities. We can turn around hurtful moments into teachable moments…

Or….

Never mind….

Just in case anyone’s wondering, unless we are actually raising, feeding, financing, contributing towards another’s life, it really doesn’t become our business (let alone our right) to comment disparagingly about anyone at all! And even if we did raise/feed/finance/contribute, disparaging comments & hurtful words, are in very simple words, being abusive – verbally abusive. This is never about ‘good intention’ or ‘health’ – it is, very simply, off limits!

Suicide – and Why I’m Still Alive

Yesterday marked sixteen years of the birth of the person who is responsible for me being alive today – my son.

2002 and until late 2003, I was hit with the most traumatic and lowest of low moments of my life. I came face-to-face with a shade of ‘humanity‘ that I never knew existed.  I thought Bollywood was all drama & hype and was naive enough to not consider that those Indian dramas could have been inspired by real-life stories in real-life homes with real-life families.

So, yes, I was in for the roller coaster ride – only, no restraints, no seat-belts.

The word is insidious – to me, it was the backdrop of over a decade of living in an abusive relationship – where the abuse itself slowly crept in and wrapped it’s tentacles around me even before I saw it coming. One by one, those venomous tendrils wrapped themselves around my life – restricting movement, interaction, job prospects even, stifling relationship with my family, with myself, denying money, denying books, denying purchases & clothes… and controlling the essence of who I am with the tantalizing taste of 85% bitter sweet chocolate. 70%  is the recommended minimum amount of cocoa beans to in healthy dark chocolate in the range of 65-80%, so you see, my threshold to withstand bitterness was slowly being raised (until, perhaps, such a time when I would fail recognize the sweet from the bitter, the healthy from the unhealthy, the safe from the unsafe.)

I had just moved to a new country. Back then, the Internet was limited. I wasn’t working. I was raising at baby and keeping home single handedly with no help. I had no friends and my family wasn’t around. International calls were expensive and I was answerable for any call I made because someone else was paying the bill – and that someone else was ‘not my father‘.

The isolation… phew….

Those months were the worst, most horrible, devastating months of my life – the memory of those months still brings a chill down my spine and I can vividly recall the color of the walls, the feel of the sofa covers, the harsh brightness of the fluorescent lamps because the warm-glow lamps that I would have loved, the ones that made me feel warm & nurtured, were, well, a strict no-no.

I feel my chest constrict as I type this now, I feel my breath shorten and my throat clamp – but this needs saying. I lived in a prison of fear. And living in a prison for fear for years at a stretch is not just sheer agony – it is hell. And guess what? I didn’t even know that I was courting the Devil.

Abusive narcissists have a way of fucking with your head. A head that was sharp & brilliant & fully capable of slaying an army with sheer wit and smarts, is rendered putty and slime all in the garb of a idolized version of what society feeds us in the name of love and family values and traditional concepts of marriage – (in my case Indian Catholic and all that schmaltz)

The shame associated with acknowledging a mistake – that the man you fell in love wasn’t the kind-hearted, nice, fun-loving, accepting, open-minded, genial personality you thought he was – but behind closed doors, transformed into a monster who thrived on passive aggressive humiliation, anger and control issues and carried a vengeful, spiteful, vindictive streak so thick and pulsating that it would cause palpitations at the thought of asking him, “Can we go out to dinner?”

Day by day, a piece of me was hacked away – emotionally, mentally, financially, spiritually, physically….. my sense of self, my identity, my purpose, my value, my significance, my beauty, my presence, my strength – everything was hacked and torn away, little by little (insidiously)… without logical reason (personality disorders can’t be logically explained)

….until I was left numb.

Numb.

That’s the word.

By August 2003, I was suicidal.

And I didn’t know what to do.

I didn’t know who to speak with and I didn’t know how to voice and put the intangible abuse into physical sense so they would believe that I was sinking. I was dying and I truly believed that the only escape was to bring an end to the seeming madness – the incoherent shouting in my head – the disbelief and the prospect of having to live in this lock-up indefinitely was harrowing. My emails to my sister were perhaps the only way I could ease a bit of the pressure within. I can’t remember if I emailed by mother. I was too scared to tell my father, although maybe that would have been the best thing to do.

To this day, my sister remembers those years to be the most painful – she says she would never ever want to read something like those emails from me ever again because they were dripping with pain and reeking of helplessness – both qualities she had never seen  in me.

If you’re wondering why I didn’t get out, the answer is that at that time, ‘getting out’ didn’t even seem like an option! It was always there, and perhaps would have been the best and safest exit, but I didn’t even see it as a remote possibility – I wasn’t conditioned to think of life beyond ‘till death do us part‘, perhaps.

Sucks, I know…

So one day, when my head felt so heavy that it felt like a zillion wasps were buzzing in my head and I was trying to remember what it felt like to love and be loved, and randomly had images of my family, my grandmother, my uncles and aunts and friends and cousins …and looked back at 25 years of being cocooned in a family and community that raised me from infancy to adulthood…

And still the buzzing in my head overpowered all those flitting images with the heavy darkness of perpetuated abuse and isolation.

I found myself on the red, Persian rug in the living room with my baby playing on the mat in front of me – thinking, “Today I end it all.“

The irony of sitting in the living room contemplating ending my life is not lost on me.

I mentally said my goodbyes to everyone and was all set for my final do svidaniya (Russian for ’till we meet again’), when Ash crawled up into my lap and held my face in his baby hands, looked straight into my eyes and planted a drooly kiss on my numbed out face.

No words exchanged.

Nothing.

That one moment felt like an iron hook had been baited – right at the center of my soul, but it felt like I was hooked at my navel. And I was yanked out of a deep, dark abyss where I was free-falling.

And all I heard was, “You can do this! I need you and you are not all this. This is not you.”

He saved me that day.

He’s the reason I am alive today.

He’s the reason I wake up every morning thankful for adding value to my life and to those around me. He’s the reason I chose to start finding choices. I called my endocrinologist immediately and booked an appointment – he was the only one I knew – and was referred to a doctor who immediately got me on a protocol for depression.

I started looking for a job – my morale was so blast-fried, I remember looking for roles that were entry-level jobs despite my profile at my previous designation. Also, I had no support in the job-hunt, so that made it harder!

My baby came with me to interviews when no one was there to baby sit him. He came with me in his stroller after I had taken the public transport for the first time in my life in Dubai and Sharjah to walk back home because, hey, someone’s mother didn’t think I should work until the baby was 6! And because I was going back to work against everyone’s wishes, no one was going to pay for my transportation to work and no one was going to pay for a nanny.

I was on my own.

A month after that near-miss moment on the Persian rug, I got a job. I started rebuilding myself – my sense of self, confidence, self-esteem, independence, worth and value… one step at a time, one day at a time.

Abuse is fucking real. Suicide is fucking real…. and the crazy carousel that runs non-stop in one’s head without pausing, making life look like there are no options is bloody, fucking real. It is all real to the person going through it. Even if that person has perfected the art of showing everyone that she is one helluva strong woman. And even if it doesn’t ‘seem’ to everyone that it is real, it is!

That is why mental health is such an important topic to be aware of.

Truer still, when that strong woman had the only option of putting on the ‘strong woman’ cloak because no one else around her offered a hand to lift her out of it. Or the people she reached out to, refused to believe that the person they knew – their friend / colleague / son / brother – could do the heinous things she said he was doing. I mean, what does it matter if he doesn’t want her to be associated with her family/ friends anymore? She was married to him now! Right? It should only matter for her to make things work for the two of them….  for HER to make things work….

So people saw the tough and strong woman – the warrior – when in fact, they were only seeing the armor – the thick, strong, metal armor. The armor that they would bounce against when they came charging at her. Her inside, though, was still numb and very vulnerable.

The coping strategy was working, but the healing was still a long way off.

So I faked it till it could make it.

And now that I’m ready to make it, taking off the armor is hard.

But, while I work on that, the bounce back brought me to face a number of questions and fine-tune a number of things that I do – as part of my work. The understanding of the what just happened to me (and this did not happen overnight) and the why has taken years to process – I’m still unraveling the story…. but it’s allowed me to slowly start looking at my story, and try to make sense of it… and while I’m alive, and still making sense of it, helping others make sense of theirs.

So here’s my bottom line.

I’m strong today but I know what it felt like to be weak, broken, shattered, humiliated, alone and isolated once. I know what it feels like to put a mask on to benefit the rest of the world because they would rather see you happy that face the discomfort of having to pull you out of the crap, let alone see you wallowing in it. I know what it feels like to think that ending one’s life may be the best way out (and the ‘let’s deal with karma in the next life’ idea).

I also know that reaching out for help is not always easy – or responded to. But, still, I promise, reach out .. do reach out.. miracles always exist. And for the rest of us on the other side of the fence, please keep your eyes, ears and hearts open. Abuse, suicide & living the trauma behind this is not always a logical ‘if-then’ representation. It doesn’t always make sense, but there is a pattern… It is, insidious.

Believe them, open the doors to safety and help someone see outside the dark box that they are huddled in.

Because, really, there is always a possibility of life beyond the darkness – a life worth living.

I Do Cry

I’m not a big crier… have never been one.

But I always love a good cry – and usually enjoy a good tear-jerker.

Tears are cathartic – and cleansing – a good way to just let go of a lot of pent up crap. And yes, I get it, and all that is good… but…

I’ve also learnt the hard way that letting go of long-repressed emotion and tears in front of someone who doesn’t know how to hold space, or respect the vulnerability of the moment… or worse, who doesn’t care, is far more hurtful than holding on to those tears.

So I don’t always cry.

And in the process, people like me do get this glorified title of being a tough-cookie, a rock-solid go-to-person, who doesn’t melt in a crisis or is so strong that being weak is not an option.

Well, I just said it…

Being weak is not an option.

But being vulnerable is.

But, being vulnerable in the hands of someone who doesn’t know how to handle the vulnerability of a really strong woman is disastrous and dangerous – fatal even!

So, I generally prefer not to cry…. it’s a coping mechanism… unhealthy, I know… but, well, it worked.

Until I realized that it would be harder to cry in the safety of my home – harder to cry in the place where I should feel safest to cry. I had to keep a strong front in front of my children and hold down the fort for them.

But…

I also realized that my home was the place it was most dangerous for me to cry. It was the place where being vulnerable was not an option. It was a place where keeping my back bare could have been the most riskiest thing to do.

In the process, when the emotions would threaten to overflow, I realized that physically moving out of the house would give me an opportunity to tear up – cars and cabs became my safe space to cry – because no one would see me. Earlier it was my driver who held space and allowed me to discreetly vent, but after he was let go, cab drivers became my silent witnesses. Most times they just allowed me the privacy of their backseat, other times, they grew distraught at not knowing how to react or what to do – sometimes making me laugh at having them worry if people would think they had done something. (No, I wasn’t bawling or moaning… not my style… ever!)

Anyway, that was my makeshift modus operandi. And it worked

Until the big heave happened.

And I froze, of sorts…. not knowing how and where to release this huge load of worry, fear, apprehension, grief, terror, whatever…

I was talking about it – attempting to share – but there was too much vocabulary going on.

So I shifted gears and moved to simple sentences – cold, simple facts.

And nothing happened with the facts…

Until something stirred when I, dry-mouthed, sensed the space in a conversation that allowed me to without preamble, shakily, speak my truth. Yes, they were still small sentences, cold, simple facts…. but the words came tumbling out.

There was no need to say anything, yet I did. There was no compulsion to speak, yet I spoke. There was no bias and no obligation, yet I was heard. And a few tears threatened to spill – (in public!!!) and I didn’t seem to care! I grumbled, I voiced my betrayal, I voiced my expectations and I voiced my shock at having been betrayed of and for those expectations.

And finally, little by little, that vulnerability was making it’s way out just by having someone be there, hold space and just be.

Phew! I cannot even begin to fully fathom and express how precious and special such people and such moments are. But I do recognize that in that taking, I had opened up a gateway to give back just as much.

You know who you are. And I know who I am.

I am strong.

I am vulnerable.

And…I do cry… a little more sometimes.

Thank you for checking in on your strong friend.

Hands Off My Boobs!

When I was in my early 20s, I had opted for a professional bra fitting. What happened in that fitting room, without a measuring tape and the attendant who cupped and fondled her way (with a perfect poker face!!!) to offer me one the best fitting lingerie I’d ever purchased till then will, I guess, remain to be a confused-but-wtf-just-happened kinda memory for some time to come.

Fast forward to present times, as an advocate for women’s safety and a knuckle rapper for all things ‘sexual harassment’, I guess it’s a normalised idea that men touch inappropriately. I’m saying this because, as it turns out, my ‘girls‘ seem to have caught the attention of mixed preferences! And while I know it is a violation of personal space and a sexual advance regardless of the gender of the violator, I didn’t know how to react, let alone respond at the time.

Having a woman sneak up behind you and grab an obvious handful of bounty, in broad daylight is, well, clearly not done. It wouldn’t have been ok even if it wasn’t in brad daylight, just to be clear. Advocating for equal rights and sexual identity / preference does not mean, you get off on me. Sorry… no way, Jose! Your preferences do not mean I oblige per convenience – especially when MY preference is clear. I’m into men – and even then, I decide who gets close enough to cop a feel

(and please – that is not an open invitation to attempt!!)

Here’s what my thoughts were over this: I was caught off guard. I felt numb, of sorts… I definitely did not like/ enjoy it… I was surprised. I almost equated it with a little child inadvertently putting their hand on me…. but I know the woman intended it. It was not a joke. Even if it were, I wasn’t laughing.

Anyway, I’ve figured out a way to address this and I shall do so in my own time. But until then, folks, if you don’t like the attention, speak up. Your personal space is your own.

As for me, a little caution never hurt anyone.

Standing up for Me

A few days ago I was challenged. I was challenged for expressing my anger and upset. I was challenged for my audacity to stand up for an unfair blame. I was challenged with anger and angry abusives. I was challenged by being questioned for my sensitivity to a remark that apparently I should have allowed. And I was challenged for not accepting the anger that was directed at me for showing my non-acceptance of that abusive behaviour.

I was challenged for saying ‘NO’

So let me be honest here and say that the incident began as meekly as most arguments – arising from a ridiculous matter – but seeing it take milliseconds to escalate into a barrage of verbal assault was nothing short of abnormal. There was a serious dysfunction at play here – and matching it with any shade of normal attempt at pacifying was just not available.

I was agitated – physically and emotionally – and I was shocked. For a brief moment, I couldn’t understand what was happening until I started recognizing a pattern – that was using every trick it the book to abuse the hell of me and attempt to ridicule, insult, humiliate and make me look lesser – and validate whatever the f**k was going on in that person’s head. (trust me, we don’t want to go there .. not yet)

And suddenly, even though I could see this pattern and a trained part of me was telling me that it wasn’t about me, the ugly truth is that it was very, very hard to be neutral and demonstrate all that big-hearted compassion we all strive for in face of it. It was near impossible to get past the immense hate balls that were being thrown on me – when the argument wasn’t even about me to begin with. Simply put, it was easier to retaliate and give back in the language the other person seemingly understood.

But every time I tried to calm myself down and breathe in some quiet – believe me I tried – I was dragged back to perpetuate the scenario over and over again and refused my time to disconnect and get out of that space – leaving me no opportunity to even slip into a corner in my head that was meant for ‘peace of mind‘

Surprisingly, though, I found myself remaining rooted in my values and upholding the boundary that was being ruthlessly violated in those moments.

So here’s what I did.

I called out the behavior. I called out the crap that was absolutely unacceptable to me and I very clearly said that I was NOT going to accept it any more. I refused to lift my head and look at the person in that state and I told them exactly why I was not going to look at them. That I wanted no contact until that person spoke decently, respectfully and maturely.

More importantly, in the face of abuse, I found myself refusing to ASK for basic courtesy and respect – instead, I demanded it as a basic right that I was not going to throw at the discretion of someone who clearly did not value another person’s sense of respect – let alone, self-respect.

In short, I bloody well stood up for myself.

As I’m looking back to that day, I can again confirm that I have no regrets about what I said. Yes, it was anger that prompted me to say the things I did, but I meant them. I meant it when I called out the behaviour and I meant it when I said that I was done with that relationship if staying in it meant that I had to put up with immature insanity. Caring about someone does not come with a defacto ‘Get away scot-free’ card that allows you to be abused and mistreated. Neither does it come with any clauses that ask of you to be mindful of being considerate but have your own respect and boundaries violated senselessly.

Many Indian families (even my grandmother) have this rubbish idea they use to have their unruly, misbehaving kids get away with bad behaviour – they often refer to their children as having a harsh tongue but a soft and loving heart. A bigger pile of BS, I haven’t heard in this context. Nasty is nasty,  rude is rude, being mean is being mean – and these people were unfortunately raised with the idea that their bad behaviour was pardonable because their parents believed in the goodness of their heart. Good heart, I agree, because I know this person, but no – it does NOT give anyone any permission to be so rude, mean and harsh and cover it with any other band-aid psychobabble.

Uh-huh – sorry – might have been there, might have done that, might have given folks the impression that it was OK – but the buck stops here! Not happening again – ever!

And just as surprisingly, I was told one thing that made me sit back and think over the days that followed.

I was told that I had changed.

At face value, my change might have been one that said, “Hey! She’s not putting up with my tantrum like she used to! She’s changed! I don’t like this version of her.”

So I thought about it.

And the more I thought about it, the more I peeked into my heart for any feelings of remorse or guilt at how I had maintained myself. I questioned myself over and over again to see if I had missed something and if my anger was, in fact, misplaced and unjustified. Was I wrong to have voiced my dissent? Was I wrong to have stood up for myself? Was I being a hypocrite with all my ‘spiritual’ take? (Yes, I was called out for being a goody-two-shoes with all my meditation crap & for having you folks read and like my blogs/ article – yes, you guys came in too!)

And no matter which way I looked at it, I felt no guilt, remorse or fear. I felt grounded and calm. I didn’t find me justifying to myself (or maybe I did at some point, I don’t know), but I recognized that I was speaking from a place of calm and deep-down genuine love for this person. I hated what circumstances had done to this individual’s sense of balance, self-worth and to some extent, I hated this new person who I really didn’t recognize – I guess change affects everyone either way – but regardless, I was not ready to trade in my changed status of self-respect and self-worth for anything.

I remember being mocked at for saying, ‘I valued those who value me‘ and this sentiment inferred as if I were only thriving on the adulation of those who put me up on a glorified pedestal. Yeah, that would be fun… only, I’m not that famous yet (but I’ll leave that invitation open). But here’s the thing, why, WHY would I want to hang out with people who would not value me? Why would, why should anyone??

Little by little, I started moving away from the ‘what just happened‘ phase and started easing into the understanding behind why and how I had changed.

Some years ago, I recall sharing with a dear friend, Mubeena, about this so-called wisdom that people were saying I had. I remember telling her that I questioned this wisdom, because I wasn’t entirely sure it was mine entirely. It was wisdom that I had read in books, scriptures, articles, courses, seminars, conferences, and such experiences and then at various times through applying life experiences to understand the karma of it all and, then, maybe somewhere somehow it became mine. That day, Mubeena held my shoulders and said that she believed it was mine. I hugged her for being my friend and left the inquiry for another day.

This morning as I was watching my tea infuse (I think I mentioned in a previous blog how this tea infusion time is my mental space time), it dawned on me out of nowhere that this wisdom I was trying to apportion was, is, collective. No one owned it. It was for everyone.

I realised that awareness and enlightenment come to us in various forms – written text, spoken words, experienced moments – and yet, what we make out of it, how we embrace it makes us who we are. At the end of the day, me moving myself outwards and upwards was my responsibility – as it everyone else’s for themselves. Whether they chose to see it and shift was their business, me choosing to shift was mine.

That is how and why I had changed.

The books I read, the teachers and mentors I followed and learnt from, the philosophies I subscribed to, had all slowly seeped into my behaviour – my way of being – and were now reflected in my responses, so different to the reactions of the past. Don’t get me wrong – I’m no saint and I have my fair share of reactions (ask my children!), and I’m your contemporary woman with contemporary tragedies and catastrophes, but I had changed.

And, best of all, I am happy and proud of what I have changed into. If this is the kind of example I am working on setting for my children, if this is the kind of grounded woman I aspire to inspire in others, if this is the soon-to-be-40 year old woman I am turning into…

So be it.