Ritu Lalit's Blog, page 8

Silence

New Age gurus often talk about silence in glowing terms, as something good for the soul and stuff.  Is it really?  Is there really silence in this day and age when we’re inundated by communication, verbal and non verbal?

Silence …

I have known silence in its myriad forms and shapes.

There is that silence, that kind of hush just before dawn breaks.  It is a silence of promise.  It is like the still moment says, Tarry, wait.  I bring you a gift, a fresh new day to live.

There is another silence, that of the spent moment after a storm ends.  The winds whistling through the trees are too tired and calm down.  The rain stops and thunder no longer roars.  It is a silence that brings with it a promise of peace and renewal.

There is yet a different kind of silence, that I mercifully haven’t faced for a long time.  That of a class after a teacher has asked the very question we hoped she would not, and we stared at her blankly.

There was a silence that I welcomed when the family was young.  It followed the slamming of a door when the boys went out to play.  It always brought a smile to my face since I had about an hour of Me-time which was so rare those days.

There is a silence, that of passive aggression.  It happens when a person pointedly gives another the cold shoulder.  It is cutely annoying.  It is like this person says, “I’m not going to argue with you because deep down I know I am being unreasonable.  If I argue, I’ll lose.”

Then there is that silence, accompanied by a studied unconcerned look that I have seen a person wear when his/her sibling or spouse was bragging or telling a whopper.  Whenever someone is drumming the I – ME – MYSELF drum, you have to watch the sibling or spouse.  It is non-stop entertainment.

And there is this silence of a giver who is unable to voice a need or demand.  He or she does not know how to articulate a need.  It is one of the saddest things to see.  The eyes speak but the words do not form.

There is the PREGNANT PAUSE silence, which comes just before something awful is said.  Honey … (pregnant pause)  I maxed the credit card.  Methinks it’s the lull before Mortal Kombat begins.

The poignant silence of a bereaved person, a silence accompanied by tear-filled eyes, it is a silence that I have encountered more times than I wish I had.  It is something I’d rather forget.

 

And the worst silence of them all …

That in which the heart feels empty

Food does not taste good

No company lifts your spirits

No entertainment works

Silence of loneliness,

of absence of hope and love.

A lone stooped figure sitting on a bench in the park,

Gazing emptily into space, waiting for death

 

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How I gave up smoking

Oh come on!  It is not hyperbole or a sweeping statement.  Someone told me writing How-To kind of articles is good for making money, and I had to try it out.

Moving on …

Wait.  Before I start this post, let me weed out the readers

PTB aka Powers that Be comprising of parents, authority figures and sundry gods and goddesses, with utmost humility I would request you to kindly leave.  I have a hard enough time as it is, dealing with much loved but non-authority figures who think they are the PTB, to actually deal with the genuine article.
Doctors, psychologists etc. who would love to debunk my tested and successful (so far) method of kicking the butt.
Big Tobacco for the same reason as above
Judgemental people who would turn up nose and tell me it is a lousy habit. I know it is but I enjoyed smoking all these years … I know goddammit!
Jealous and unsuccessful kickers-of-the-habit.

If you are still reading, wow!  Thanks.  Very pleased.  Much obliged.

Every year I go through the same ritual when cigarette prices get hiked.  I curse, using ethnic Punjabi words that would put a street urchin to shame.  And I try to cut down and then slowly get back to the same old routine of smoking.  Every year …

April went by and May came along.  Not only was the price of a packet of 20 cigarettes at Rs.230/- pinching my pocket, I found that they tasted awful.  But I still reached for a cigarette when I wanted to think, when I visited the loo, after meals, sitting on the balcony watching folk walk past, when I stared at the stars at night … in short, every time I wasn’t actually doing something with my hands.

I did not smoke while driving my car.  I did not smoke while cooking or during my morning walk.  I did not smoke at my office desk.  I did not smoke while …

I don’t know, but there must be plenty of situations when I did not smoke, like in front of the boss (PTB).

They say it takes a village to bring up a child.  That may as well be true, but it takes a city, a pharmacy and a whole lot of technology to help you quit smokes.  I met this guy at one of those interminable long boring religious rituals.  The ceremony went on and I caught him staring at the door longingly.  Hoping he wanted the two things I did, I whispered, “You want to go out and smoke?”

He glanced at his Iphone and muttered, “Just 15 minutes more.  You want to?”

I nodded.

No, it wasn’t a sleazy offer, it was an unhealthy one.  Sleaze is healthy, youthful and infinitely more fun.  We went to the roof where he offered me a smoke, lit one himself and only after that was done did we introduce ourselves and we made polite conversation.  In that order.  When we moved on to our second cigarette did I ask why he checked the time when I asked him if he wanted to smoke.  Apparently, he had been a chain smoker but had now learned to time himself.  He gave himself a gap between cigarettes.  He was proud of being able to go 40 minutes before he lit one.

I said nothing, just stared at my second cigarette while he lit his third one.

While I cooked my paleo low-carb meal, using healthy organic ingredients and spices I grind at home, I laughed at the irony of it all.  I put in so much thought into what we as a family eat four times a day, when I was going to cancel all the health benefits the moment I lit up a cigarette.  And it never stops at one cigarette does it?

A few weeks later I tried my first nicotine gum, and threw up.  Chew a couple of times and let it sit under your tongue, the friend who introduced me to them suggested.  Park and chew, she said.  She omitted telling me that the thing tastes bad, catches the throat and often the person chewing it gets nausea.

Well, one lives and learns.

Through trial and error, I have discovered that I have parking space in my mouth for just half a piece of gum.  More than that I can’t park and chew on grounds of overpowering nausea.  I even tried E-cigarettes.  Bad idea.

Around this time I discovered the world of Audible and audio books.  The first book I downloaded and listened to was a fantasy called The Name of the Wind by Patrick Ruthfuss.  Admirably narrated by one of the finest voice actors of our times, Rupert Degas, it caught me.  Spell bound, I listened in a daze, pausing only to work.  Even while I worked I found myself longing to get back to the book.  I had headphones on while cooking, I plugged on an ox cable and listened to the book while driving.  No distance seemed too much, I wanted to drive at any hour of the night or day.  Four days and five nights I listened to the book, tearing myself away with great reluctance to do whatever I had to without headphones.

I was hooked.

Strangely enough, I forgot to smoke.  Or rather I found myself not taking ciggy breaks at all.  Whenever the urge hit me, I parked half a gum in my mouth.  I’d pause, chew and park, return to audio book or back to chores I need done before I return to my audio book.

I haven’t bought a packed of cigarettes for the past month or so.  Maybe I’ve kicked the habit.  Or, more likely I have replaced cigarette addiction with addiction to gum and audio books. And the clock on my smart phone.  Hmm, it is 45 minutes since I paused my audio book.  Let me chew and park a bit of gum and plug on my head phones.  I need to get back to Kvothe.

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Chopping Vegetables

Chop, chop, choppity-chop,

Cut off the bottom

And cut off the top;

What there’s left we will

Put in the pot;

Chop, chop, choppity-chop

We had this as a basic verse of the poem, and then the teacher would point at a kid who’d yell the name of a vegetable and then the whole class would chant …

Chop, chop, choppity-chop,

Pick up the potato cut into half

Or carrot or beans  or whatever

Cut off the bottom

And cut off the top;

What there’s left we will

Put in the pot;

Chop, chop, choppity-chop.

This picture is just for illustration purposes.

 

That was then, when chopping was done by my mother, the maid or whoever we’d hired to get mundane chores done.  I have a confession to make, I can cook, I enjoy cooking.  But only if I don’t have to chop.  The moment I have to peel, chop and grind stuff, I get upset.  I find it boring.

And two days back my food processor broke down.  I rushed it to the repair man with the promptness of rushing a dearly beloved to the ICU.  Two days, the guy said.  I grovelled.  I fell to my knees.  I even wept.  (Yeh kuch zyada ho gaya) but you get the gist …

*** Enter doleful sarangi music ***

I do have a maid for the mundane chores, but the one we had was a pain.  She was rude and incompetent.  Make that QUEEN SIZED rudeness and incompetence.  She acted up and between me and junior son, we sacked her.  And had the food processor been fine …

Anyhow.

Make kadhi for one meal, I told myself.

Cook dal and bharta for another meal.

KFC and Mcdonald for the remainder.  The sons are young and can digest anything …

True to the plan, I cooked kadhi for dinner and then slept.  My subconscious worked.  I woke up early next moring with another plan!

I could grate stuff, use the slicer, do stuff you know …

Because I had back up.  I had a new fangled grater with various blades for various function.  I had bought it along with a hand winch operated food chopper that also had multiple attachments!

I’d ordered the stuff while I watched Teleshopping one day.  My natural penny pinching self took a sudden nap and the dastardly deed was done!  I clearly remembered the woman dressed in a pretty dress with cap-sleeves.  She’d smiled a perfect smile showing even teeth and batted eyelashes that looked artificial at a hunk.  The hunk had smiled back at her and moved a handle on the top of the dome of what looked like a transparent burger-shaped dome.  He smiled widely as confetti shaped cabbage rained down to the floor of the dome.

There was a message there I think, but I can’t understand it  ….

Another promo showed a salesgirl put capsicum, tomato and onion into the machine, one by one.  Within moments and a few twirls on the handle, some adjustment, she brings up perfectly chopped vegetable, squeezes a lemon into it and sings “Voila – we have salsa.”

I think a sudden craving for salsa got me to pick up my cellphone and order.  Easy salsa.

Son Senior always admonishes me for taking short cuts.

I found the machine still in its pack in the pantry.  I had not even removed the tape and opened the box.  Ripping the packing off, I took it out.  

Shock no. 1 : It did not have a power cord!

Damn!  What does not have a power cord?  Da fuck!  Hazy memories of watching quantities of cabbage being shred at some trade fair I’d visited decades ago surfaced in my mind.  

Okay, I grunted and rolled up figurative sleeves, peeled onions and dropped them into the transparent vegetable jar of the machine.  I grabbed the handle, put it into the slot numbered Gear 1.  Then I yanked it.  The onions shifted, but they did not slice or shred.  I checked the attachment which said Easy cut and shred.  I checked the slot, Gear 1.  

Shock No. 2 : I looked for Gear 2.  I did not find it.  Not 3 either.  The chopper went from Gear 1 to Gear 4.  

I grinned.  Cool! I thought, donned figurative Aviator glasses and jammed Easy cut and shred into Gear 4.  

Bring it on, baby!  I chuckled and gave the attachment a whirl.  

“I do not believe you,” Chopping machine said and let the attachment go mid way and skeeteer to a halt.  

Oh no!  I could not let the piddly machine win, could I?  

I grit teeth and applied muscle power to the cranking of the attachment.  I had paid the price, I had even rescued chopper from pantry, I had put it to work, now I wanted results damn it!

20 minutes and innumerable cranks later, I had one roughly chopped onion, nowhere near the tiny sized pieces my food processor gave me in 2 minutes flat.  My back and my arms hurt.

I decided those onions were perfect for boiling along with chicken for soup.

And I pulled out more onions and peeled them.  I even chopped some vegetables using the homely peeler and a knife.  What’s more, I did it faster than the vegetable chopper.

That was Shock No. 3

I set lunch to cook feeling tired before I reached office.  At lunch, I rang up the repair man who told me he’d drop in the food processor in the evening.  Phew.  I rang up home to inform them that the food processor would be delivered.

“Stay home.  I don’t want him to  say that he could not deliver it because the door was locked” I said.  “And tell the maid to pack up that stupid yellow coloured extinct technology food chopper,” I added.  “Nearly pushed my arm out of its socket!”

“Really?”they said.  “We sliced onion rings for salad in it.  Even tomatoes.”

Shock No. 4

Meanwhile, the muscle ache has subsided a bit, or maybe it’s been overshadowed by the ache of injured pride.

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50 Shades of Confusion

My Inner Goddess …

My Inner Goddess does not understand why 50 Shades of Grey worked.

Tsk Tsk …

My inner goddess is picky and objects to women getting tied up and whipped.  Clearly my inner goddess does not get off on pain.  And my inner goddess hates bad and lurid prose.

So when Rubina Ramesh asked me to do a guest blog on 50 Shades, my inner goddess made me agree.  Here is the link to the blog post

 

 

 

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Farmville, my style

The sons keep pulling my leg at the simple pleasure I derive from growing vegetables in my little patch of land.  They say I’m playing Farmville.  Well at least I get to eat the produce which is pesticide free.  It also makes me feel connected to the earth and I swear okra or spinach freshly harvested tastes divine.

The desi troikaof Nimbu-Mirchi-Currypatta were the first plants I started with

Since they were kind and generous, I added spinach.

Winter was very encouraging.  I harvested spinach, carrots, radishes galore, so now I have added summer stuff like tomato

 

Okra

Bitter gourd or karela

Gourd

Pumpkin

Tinda.  Did you know its called apple gourd?  I love stuffed tinda.

Turai

And my sons are threatening to leave home if I keep shoving summer vegetables down their fussy gullets.

Sigh … Parental life is fraught with such problems.  Its a no win game.

 

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The parent-child conundrum

Dear child

I carried you for nine months, fed you, watched over you, let you fall at times, but always rushed to help you up. And then it took me all my strength to allow you to wriggle out of my arms and walk again. I cooked, I cleaned, I washed. I told you bed time stories, even though my own eyes were heavy with sleep.

I fought for you, defended you – even though you were being an obnoxious bully, and then I hauled you inside our home and punished you.

I built your strength, your self esteem.

I nurtured you.

I made you strong …

And you used that strength to walk away from me, to put a distance between us.

An aged parent

 

 

Dear Parent

I am your child and I may not remember the sacrifices you made then, but I love you for them.

I came into this world as you did.

To work, to learn and to explore – again as you did.

I am not an extension of you, even though your features are stamped on mine, even though your traits are ingrained in me.

I am me, with all that ME encompasses, flaws, virtues, strengths and weaknesses.

You can search and find reflections of you in me, but they are something we share, like my infancy.

I belong to the world now, to the family I create. I belong to my friends and I have my own work cut out for me.

Let me fly, let me sail, let me run.

You gave me strength and nurtured me for this.

And yes, I know that if I stumble and fall, you will be there to help me up.

Even though your eyes and strength fail.

Even though your wrinkled hand and bent shoulders will barely be able to support me.

I know, deep in my heart, that I can count on your support, till your dying breath.

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Terry Pratchett’s Discworld

Discworld is not unlike our own world – except for the fact that it is a flat disc carried on the back of four elephants which ride a giant turtle through space.

I was a teenager when I stumbled upon and into Discworld and I was hooked.  I was a Punjabi girl who lived in Imphal, Manipur where north Indians were outsiders or Mayang.  We did not fit in.  I was young enough to want to fit in, not realizing that it was practice for the rest of my life.  I would never fit in, and I just had to get used to the idea.

So I spent years living in Discworld, a world in which magic is the natural rule, it is not used as an escape but it is the way to deal with life and all the problems.  It’s a world where Science and Scientists are treated the same way proponents of magic are dealt with in our world, they’re ridiculed.

Oh how I loved this world – its better than any mush Disney could churn, simply because there is no mush in this world.  Nothing ‘magically’gets okay with a wave of a wand.  It is not a world inhabited by beautiful fairies and helpful pixies, oh no.  Wizards live in towns, in a university where the highlight of the day is lunch.  They barely tolerate weirdos who experiment with electricity and if I remember correctly, there’s some mechanical gizmo run by ants.

Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg and other witches live on mountain tops and villages.  They have power, hold the entire rural area in their thrall.  Why?  Well because they do not appreciate the stupid magic work of the wizard but practise HEADOLOGY a rather killer brand of common sense and astuteness which would put politicians to shame.

Terry Pratchett had a rather unique brand of wisdom, a view point which actually made sense.  And his brand of common sense was something I have carried with me ever since.

His talent came through in his characters, wise, eccentric and beautifully etched characters.  His writing was witty and captivating.  

I never thought I would do an obituary blog, but then I am bidding farewell to the creator of my childhood world.  Thank you Terry Pratchett and Discworld.  The real world is so boring.

He had Alzheimers

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India’s Daughter aka Beti

Opinion is sharply divided on India’s Daughter from the time she is conceived.

Is she a girl?  And should be allowed to live?

I think Beti is born with more propensity for controversy than Sh. Jesus Maharaj.  Or Martin Luther King.  Yayy woman power!  She also has a starring role in the Beti Bachao or Save India’s Daughter campaign

Eat your heart out, Mohan Bhagwat Ji.

And then Beti takes her tiny first steps.  She claps her tiny podgy hands, pokes those little fingers into various crannies and child unfriendly sockets.

Opinion is sharply divided – should be allowed to do so?  Isn’t that un-ladylike?

And then there’s a certain school of thought that just nods and winks.

So just ignore, let the little tyke stick her hand in a socket, get electrocuted, what say?

Oh come on!  What do you think India is?  Saudi Arabia?!  So, please shut up your face and get her bangles and anklets.  Let her make music as she moves, and more importantly, we can keep a watch on where she goes and what she does.  So she giggles, chortles, plays and runs around in the compound and lives.

So we send India’s Daughter to school and college.  She learns and makes friends.  Gets a personality and a life.

Say what?  What have you done?

Because, after all she has no place in society

 

Damn!

India’s daughter did not get the memo. Levis, Wranglers, Gap and Zara, bless their materialistic souls.

They must have hijacked the memo.  Tanishq played a part too, I bet.

So rape her, teach her a lesson, show her what society thinks of her!

After all such things are said often by ‘respectable men’

1. DG Police, Andhra

2. Asaram Bapu

3. Netas from ALL parties

She won’t make a noise, come on!  She knows what can happen if she does.

Guess what?

The society did not get the memo either!  The protests after the rape had its fair share of men who supported the women! And guess what?  The movie that our enlightened Lok Sabha banned was also made by men and women.

Idiots!  These men don’t understand, they after all belong to India, not Bharat.  Our Bharatiya male honour is at stake.  After all most of us have echoed similar sentiments in various guises.

Damn them.

So ban the film.  Silence it.

Has banning ever hidden anything ever?  Has it solved any problem?

And can you ban India’s Daughter?  Can you ban all women, all Betis?

Will we, the citizens of India, who live in towns and metros, who go to work, study and play with people of the opposite sex allow you to?  You can’t ban all of India’s Daughters, Mr. Home Ministers.

India’s Daughters won’t let you.  And India’s Sons will stand right next to her and support her in this. Admit it Sirs, you are out of sync. The mindset that you feel is prevalent belongs to perverts.  Ban it.

Kill the mindset, kill the rapist, destroy the culture that you are trying to conceal.

Hats off to you Javed Akhtar, sir!  I agree.

 

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Superstition and the modern mind

 

 

No I am not talking about the Hindus-invented-it-all brigade.  That school of thought which says that Hindus invented everything from space ships to the numeral zero, from transplant of fetus’ to  plastic surgery is on a self-aggrandizement trip.  They’re not superstitious, they just indulge in wishful thinking.

I am talking about the eager brigade that wants to collect superstitions.

I don’t speak during rahu kalam, says one.

Really? says the other, I don’t travel south.  If I have to go southward, I’ll first go west and then make a turn.

I don’t eat meat on certain days because they belong to the Lord says the third.

Another pipes up that she never cooks during her periods because it can infect the food.

The eagerness with which all these superstitions are shared make me smile.  I put it down to quirks but then I learn from Facebook that one should not get hair cut during periods, the body is weak, hair limpy.  (sic) And 80% of those who bathe during the first few days while menstruating will die later on during delivery.

I feel compelled to debunk some beliefs so I say, “How do you know what time is rahu kalam? and Why?”

“From the internet of course, and no one should not speak during rahu kalam because the shaitan enters the mouth, causes the person to say all sorts of things that make trouble.”

At the risk of sounding like a nerd I say  “You’re falling into a trap.  Fear is to be avoided, all these superstitions lead to fear.  The name Satan is derived from an older word ‘Shaitan’, which is still used within Islam. It’s original meaning is ‘the serpent within’.  When a person lives a life led by fear a part of the brain called the Amygdala hijacks the whole brain. This part of the brain is the reptilian portion and as such knows nothing other than survive at all costs. It is completely incapable of empathy or any other human emotion and is absolutely selfish.  When a person is in the grip of Amygdala hijack they in effect become ruled by ‘the serpent within’ and for all intents and purposes become Satan.  You know that we have a part reptilian and part mammalian brain, right?”

Wrong …

Eyes glaze over, there is a moment of silence.  One of them says, “Which website gives you the rahu kalam?”

Notes are exchanged, along with superstitions. I am warned of all sorts of loss of health and wealth if I don’t follow certain rituals.  I try to accept all such advise with equanimity,(they mean well) but the mind still wonders.

For the first time in centuries information is free.  It is not the property of a privileged few.  We just need to google everything.   We live in the age of internet, science and medicine are making progress every day.  We live in the age of new discoveries, most of which are beneficial to mankind.

By rights everyone should be rational and should debunk superstitions, right?

Wrong …

We use the internet to learn more superstitious rituals.  We collect them and share them on whatsapp and FB.

We fear …

We fear knowledge

We burn libraries, blow up the Bamiyan Budhas, do everything to suppress knowledge.

We fear…

We fear food,

The slimming industry is a multi dollar one.  It has put out so many confusing half truths about food.

We fear vaccines …

Our babies die. Our brain shuts down when a doctor tells us we have a health problem.  We kneel in front of that human and accept blindly what he/she tells us.  We make a deity out of the doctor.  We could google our condition but no, we are willing to be scammed.  This happens so often.

We fear the world

The religious industry benefits from it.

We fear growing old

The beauty industry laughs all the way to the bank.

May be we should still wear skins, carry clubs to brain our prey, live in caves.  And be deeply suspicious of fire.  We should see Gods in thunder and lightning, in sea storms.  Our reptilian brain does hold sway, the serpent within can understand fear and loathing, not tolerance and understanding.

Here is a gem that was sent to me on FB

Yes we fear half of the human populations and we will suppress it.

 

 

 

 

 

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Always Err on the side of Compassion

Always err on the side of compassion …

I don’t know who told me that.  It was around the time I was severely depressed.  Depression happened to me when no one knew what depression was.  I had two kids, a bad marriage, an absent husband, hostile in laws, no job and no friends.  Yup, that was pretty much all.  I may add two unsuccessful suicide attempts to the mix and self blame

“Stupid bitch!  You don’t even know how to end it well.  Can’t you get anything right?”

I was upset and was falling deeper into the morass, visiting tantrics, astrologers.  That is when I discovered meditation.  Maybe it was one of my gurus who told me that. And then to get out of the dark reality that I was living I began reading.  Mindfulness techniques, behavioral tricks, chemicals that make the brain happy, sad, angry and what not.  You know what they taught me?  They taught me a whole lot of stuff that looked awesome in theory.  I can have an informed discussion about what causes a person to hate or cry.  I know what chemical can trigger a panic attack or the tell tale signs of a tantrum waiting to occur.  It does not make me happier.

Always err on the side of compassion.  A simple statement that stayed with me.

I tried to apply it to everything in life.  In fact it has become my mantra.  Like all important things in life, it sounds easy but is so difficult to practice.

I have a friend who wants to diet, she wants to lose some weight.  She thinks she is dieting.  “I hardly eat anything,” she says every time we meet.  We met for coffee last Tuesday after work.  I ordered a black Americano and she ordered a cheesecake, a vanilla latte with extra cream and then we went and sat outside where she smoked five cigarettes while we talked. She was angry, depressed – the usual.  Kids who did not want to spend time with her, an indifferent husband, a lonely life.  I wanted to say “If you stopped smoking so much, gave up the sugar and cream, found a hobby you would be so much more interesting.”

I was judging her.

I was not erring on the side of compassion.

It is so evil and powerful, isn’t it – to judge.  Makes one feel like a powerful and angry god, withholding love and approval.  It also makes the judgemental person negative.  The negative feeling stayed with me, it made the blob of butter I put on my baked sweet potato seem like a huge slice of butter.  It made me feel worthless.  It caused me to skip my yoga session, “Oh what’s the point?” I said to myself.  And then I promptly accused myself of being lazy and pathetic.

Always err on the side of compassion.

My neighbour’s son is a brat.  Among the things he loves doing is peeing on my rose bushes.  Don’t ask!  I guess he’ll grow out of it and point that water spout in the toilet bowl some day.  Not that I’m holding my breath on that happening any time soon.  No one else in the family is that tolerant.  But then they haven’t had kids yet.

“Can you believe his behavior?!?  What a bad parent his mother is!  Why don’t you take it up with her!”

One of the women I met when I used to go for my meditation sessions wailed “Never mind walking a mile in my shoes. Try thinking a day in my head.”

The mother is young, barely 24 years old.  She is already carrying her second baby.  And she has no in-laws or support.  “He’ll soon get bored of doing that,” I said remembering the time I was that young and had no support to fall back on.

I got depressed that time.

Mind you, all this happened when we did not have treatments for depression, no anti depressants, no therapy.  Gosh!  Therapy was for the insane, not for people like us!  Isn’t that attitude so condescending and patronizing?

Suddenly, I was on the receiving end of so many unfair judgments and assumptions. When people asked how I was, I just lied and said “good,” because I was sure they wouldn’t believe me if I told them the truth. The truth was that all I wanted to do was sleep and not wake up.  15 hours, 20 hours, 40 hours of sleep and I would wake up wanting more.  Nothing worked.

I go and give time to certain self help groups, not enough to brag about, but some.  People have depression classified now.  Gluten free diet, leafy greens, yoga, running, anti depressants, meditation and therapy.  Oh wow!  Truth is that you can do everything right and still be depressed.  You can do everything wrong and still be depressed.

Psychomotor retardation can still happen.  It is the visible slowing down of physical and mental activity.  Or it may not, there are folk out there who are highly functional, with demanding jobs, family responsibility and are still depressed.

I don’t know what works for others.  I know what works for me.  I try to cast aside any judgment and validate others.  I try to get outside myself and help others believe in themselves.  I try not to break others down.  I don’t want to.  There are many in the real world who love doing that.  It may work for them.  It does not work for me.  For me compassion works.  I want to build others up.  And when I reach out and am kind to others, I find I become kinder to myself.

The blob of butter stays a blob.

Missing a work out session does not make me pathetic.  I can go for a walk that night instead.

And the compassionate me is happy in my own company and does not need validation from friends and family.

I stop being a needy bitch.

So I try to err on the side of compassion.  Whether it is in real life or in the virtual one.  Considering how the two overlap, the lines are blurred.  I find that the real self does show up on FB and Twitter too.  It should, we do upload significant slices of our real life virtually.

20th Feb was the day of #1000Speak for Compassion.  I am late but I am raising a voice for tolerance.

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