I had a friend. Whom I loved very much, perhaps a little blindly. Many things should have told me that it's foolhardy to trust someone that implicitly, but I soldiered on, regardless. This friend meant a lot to me, sometimes she gave me the courage to be myself, sometimes she stood up for me when nobody else did, and sometimes she didn't. She's in many way the anti-thesis of me: gorgeous, smart, articulate, and an immense amount of fun to be around. I think we had fun together, though I do not know what her take on that is (I can be a dreadful bore). But, hidden amongst all the being-tight-buddies-ness were these sudden moments when she wielded the power to make me feel like as small as humanly possible. I didn't have the language to describe what I felt, until I read this article, recently. She, it turns out, was incredibly adept at 'jellyfishing', a concept described thus:
"The thing about Rebecca is, she's a jellyfisher. You have a conversation with her that seems all nice and friendly, then you suddenly feel like you've been stung and you don't know where it came from. You'll be talking about jeans and she'll say "Yes, well, if you've got cellulite jodhpurs, you're best in something really well-cut like Dolce and Gabbana"- she herself having thighs like a baby giraffe—then smoothly move on to DKNY chinos as if nothing had happened."Each time I brought it up, I felt silly and a little stuffy, because I was taking offence at what was ostensibly a joke, or a lighthearted statement. I guess jellyfishing hurts you when you're insecure about yourself, and she seemed to have the unnerving knack of picking at my deepest insecurities. I do not know whether she did it deliberately or she didn't even realise what she was saying. What I do know is that it hurt, and despite my raising it as a concern several times, it didn't stop. It was something I could deal with alright, when I was happy and engaging with the world around me. But this one time, when I was low, working on depressing material (district court rape judgements), and feeling entirely alone in the world, I think it broke me. And I always thought that was an incredibly dramatic phrase, until I literally felt something inside me snap and understood what it meant. I figured I needed to get away, and I did; you know, for all the hungama people make about break-ups, the whole losing a friend, one who has possibly seen you through several break-ups, thing cuts just as deep, if not deeper. I didn't just lose one, I lost three (and I don't even know why). At one shot. And it felt like my world was collapsing around me.
For a year, I refused to acknowledge the existence of any problem. I laughed with other friends and acquaintances about how lazy I am, and how hard it is to get me out of my bed. But I could not express to them the absolute torture of lying in bed, listening to an alarm ring endlessly on, but not be able to will myself to get up and turn it off. I withdrew from friends, because I felt drab, and boring, and whiny, and being around people just seemed like too much effort. Nothing excited me: not the papers I was writing, not the events happening on campus, nothing. But I went through the motions of daily living, because my ego could not come to terms with admitting to feeling so hollow and fragile. I had been hurting myself since I was around thirteen, and just when I thought I'd finally got out of that phase, it all began again. I never cut myself; prolonged, invisible pain was more my forte; I'd bludgeon myself with something neither too blunt nor too sharp, until I bruised, or sustained a surface cut. Sometimes I'd sit in class, squirming in pain and discomfort, and those would be the only things I'd feel; every other emotion and sensation was a strange haze. Sometimes days would go by, without me getting out of my room (except to go to the toilet) or meeting anyone. And the more I pushed people away, the more they, well, allowed themselves to be pushed away, I guess.
Is it depression, if you've steadfastly refused to go to a psychologist and the only word you have for what's in your head, is your own? Maybe it isn't. But this one day, as I sat somewhat talli in my room, idly contemplating suicide and thinking that jumping off the hostel roof is kind of daft, 'cause one would only break bones, not die, I realised I had a problem at hand. I didn't feel like I deserved to live, or that there was any need for me to. I'd lost count of the number of nights I'd fallen asleep sobbing for no reason whatsoever, and woken up with sticky eyes and a blocked nose. And I decided to damn my ego, and talk about it to people who mattered to me.
That sounds a whole lot easier than it really is. How do you explain things to people when you don't understand them yourself? If you're even remotely aware of society around you, how do you justify your completely irrational, and self-absorbed, anguish in the face of the relative comfort and privilege of your life? How much can you whine about how tatti you feel, without boring the person before you to tears? I've never really talked about my emotions and insecurities with many people before, and now that I'd begun, I felt like a dam had burst and I simply could not stop. At around the same time, a friend and colleague got drunk and asked me why I pretend to be super-human all the time; why can't I be vulnerable. Does somebody have to 'show' vulnerability to be granted the right to be perceived as a human being? Aren't we all vulnerable, by default? But the deal with feeling as fragile as I did, then, is that pretending to be super-human is no longer an option. Somebody I am working with made a passing (and lighthearted) remark about the demons inside my head being a cherished addiction. And, to my intense surprise, I found myself furious and hurt at the same time, railing against him in a reaction that was grossly disproportionate to the remark. For days after that, I dreamt of hurting myself and they were pleasurable dreams, you know, the sort that said, "Go on, Ninni, do it; you need to feel the pain; you deserve the pain." in the most lulling sort of tone. Once, I woke up and did just as the dream suggested. I hated the effect that one little statement could have on me. I talked about my reaction to it, with a trusted friend and my parents, who unanimously called me a drama-queen. I sort of agreed with them, and felt sheepish. When you think about it, though, it puts you in quite a bind, doesn't it? If you don't express vulnerabilities, you're pretending to be super-human; if you do crack when you're feeling vulnerable, then you're a drama-queen. Ab karey bhi toh kya karey?
But people can be so immensely beautiful. Sometimes, support comes from the most unexpected sources, and in such doses that you wonder what you've done to deserve it. People who wake you up in the morning and wait outside your room until you pick up your lota and go to the loo. People who're willing to work with you despite knowing that you're as whiny and prickly as humanly possible, and little bit clingy. Old friends who tell you you're not alone, and they've been in your place too, and that things get better. And as I talk to people and am honest about how I feel, I realise that there are just so many others who've lived through this in the time that I've known them, but we'd never really have spoken about it until I brought it up expressly. Having refused to talk about it for a whole year, myself, I can totally see why. Describing things in your head can be a very risky venture: people have the annoying tendency to tell you to 'stop being lazy', 'get a grip on yourself', and that it's 'all in your head' (well, duh). Perhaps some part of this is because we do not talk about things in our head the way we talk about fevers and loosies, and more conversation will dispel myths regurgitated by people who mean well. And for those who resist your gentle nudges towards sensitivity, send 'em a copy of 'Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows' with “of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real,” highlighted in neon pink.
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Was that an abrupt ending? Well, sorry, I ran out of things to say and the energy to attempt to say 'em well. Maybe I'll revisit this post later and end with a flourish. Maybe I won't. Meh.
