100 days of lockdown

Apparently today is the 100th day of lockdown. Lockdown has been terrible for so many people in terms of losing jobs, increase in responsibilities, being stuck in abusive situations and what not.

I am privileged enough to not have to have go through any of these. After naming these things, it feels wrong to write the following, but I think it is part of validating my experience, with the acknowledgment that I am one of the privileged ones.

This lockdown could have gone terribly for me. I generally hate staying at home. Even on weekends, I would get myself to go out for a walk, just to step out of the house. When it started, there was so much despondency. What is the point of me doing HRI research when the world is literally dying in a pandemic?

But somehow things changed. The lack of outside contact, the stability and unchanging nature of my presence helped more than it hurt. I wrote 30 days of poetry. 30 days. That's insane. It forced me to accept imperfection. It made me realize that all that matters is that I wrote something, refining can come later. It made me realize that of course, there were going to be some terrible poems when you try to write one everyday, but then some good ones turn up out of nowhere too because of the consistent effort.

I am sure this contributed to my attitude to research as well. Being at home made me accept my bad days. I knew I couldn't go to a coffee shop for a change in scenery. Or go to my lab to be around familiar people. I had to deal with myself. And years of therapy suddenly worked, and I knew that the only way to deal with myself was to accept myself. For once, I just let myself be.

For months and years, I've struggled with the feeling of not being productive enough. Sure, I did accept and stood by the fact that I can't work more than 40 hours,  I refuse to work on weekends, and all the other activities I do are as important as research to me. But being only at home, post acceptance of myself, when I actually stopped fighting the feeling, I found myself eventually and naturally going back to research. I found my curiosity showing up, and the will to actually get things done, the excitement that got me to do my PhD in the first place. Yes, there were bad days where I felt really miserable and barely worked. But apparently, I felt worse than my week actually was. Tracking time has been really useful for me to have actual proof of what my contribution was. Clearly, my brain exacerbated how I was not good enough, not productive enough, and I had numbers to prove my brain wrong.

This summer has been terrible in certain ways. The year started looming with sexual harassment only to reach a place where the country was literally burning because black lives were considered insignificant. They finally arose, and so did some of the people who haven't faced such discrimination, to shout out louder even more than before, that Enough is enough. Someone said "They should be lucky we are asking for equality and not revenge." Those chilling words rang through my heart - as my boyfriend said, their request is embarrassingly small. They can ask for the whole world to burn down, and it would be fair.  No amount of burning can make up for the amount of discrimination the black population have gone through in the last 400 years. These incidents also brought to the fore how dismally native americans and hispanic/latinx people have been ill-treated over time. I thought my heart could not break any further and yet here I was.

I was ready to burn down the world. I was angry, I am angry, and this anger weirdly feels therapeutic. It reminds me that I am not apathetic. Yes I am a scientist, and especially because of that, it is my job to fight for basic human rights, to fight against the privilege I have been granted over the years, to fight for the discrimination I have gone through the years. I have found myself moving forward despite all the pain. How, I do not know. I had been stuck in the same place, going around in circles for 4 years now, so close to wanting to not live in this world, so aware of it, that I fought against it. That fight seemed hopeless. That fight felt like it did not exist.

But I now realize it did. I was always fighting for myself. I did not give up on me. For the first time, I made all those changes for myself, I accepted my personhood. For the first time, I believed I mattered, my feelings mattered, my WANTS mattered. I didn't just settle for crumbs that helped me survive. I didn't realize it but I wanted to live.

It is not that things are not hard right now. I still struggle with my mental illness. I still struggle to come to terms with it, that it may be a lifelong thing. I worry about what it means about me as a person, what it means about the life I am bound to live. Living with mental illness in your closest family that lasted for almost 2 decades does that to you.

I know I am fighting back in some obvious ways, but in others, it doesn't quite feel like it. But for the first time, I believe that I am. For the first time, I believe that I deserve to live. For the first time, I want more than I am given. It's the 100th day of lockdown and I finally SEE myself. I exist.

The year of hope: Part 2 - Ft. Antidepressants, Anxiety and Me

2018 is over. I am still alive. (Here's some context.)

And that is very telling of this year. This year has been exhausting. Physically, politically, academically and emotionally. It felt like I was dragged through this year, always attempting to jump through a hoop that was always too high.

Tried to run away but I stayed put;
Tried to stay put but my mind kept running;
So I surrounded myself with a general numbness;
That didn't help either.

And therefore, after all this struggle, I had to finally accept that I do have anxiety; quite a bit of it. I have suffered from it for 3 years at this point. It explains the perpetual mess in my room, the inertia to wash 4 vessels, being unable to get myself to take 10 steps towards the shower, the constant overplanning in my head for seemingly stupid things -- all these things that are so unlike me; and yet they have been me. I wrote about it a few months ago. I thought putting a name to it would help it vanish. Alas, that was not meant to be.

And that's when Mr. Andy Puddicombe came into the mix. For the uninitiated ones, he is the voice of the trending app Headspace, the one that makes meditation sound cool. For years, I dismissed meditation, even though I have parents who have sworn by it, even though I knew it did not have to be religious. But mindfulness meditation seemed to be the only thing that got me breathing again when I choked with panic during anxiety attacks. So, I began the "Managing Anxiety" series with the intent of finally saying goodbye to this nasty piece of shit. But in the very first few days, his words were "You are building a relationship with anxiety, you are not trying to get rid of it." Oh well, that plan was ruined. And I gave up.

But then, anger reared its ugly head. Anger I have never been familiar with before, anger I have always suppressed just beneath the layer. It's the worst kind of anger too, anger at my own self. I learned not to hate myself, not to be unkind and yet I did not know how to release this anger, which led to a lot of self-harm thoughts. Never as a real plan, but more as an outlet, just to escape this feeling of being stuck.

And thus, I was prescribed anti-depressants. Which led to more anger. But I needn't have fought it so much. I was suddenly focusing again. Not losing hours in fear. Not waking up feeling miserable. I do have productive days generally, but I don't remember the last time I could begin working sooner rather than later, when I didn't spend hours drafting a mail, when I didn't hate myself when I got to bed because of a wasted day. And out of nowhere, it was working. Now, I know that medicine doesn't help resolve all things because clearly despite it, when things started resembling a Rube Goldberg machine, it was as though I was back to where I was, running away from everything. But, at least the good days help me get by, just a little. I would give anything for that "just a little".

More so now than ever, given I am taking my prelim exam the second time in the next two weeks, after having failed the first time in May. It is hard not to deal with all this foreboding. As I said sitting on the proverbial therapist couch, I just feel like I have all this potential, all this belonging, all this love for the work I am doing, that seems to be going to waste because of the damned A-word. But I am not ready to give it up.

I was talking to a friend a few days ago about all this, who on listening, told me about positive visualization. Positive visualization is when you visualize how you would feel when you succeed at something you've been worried about, imagine that feeling in all its glory. Her unbeatable logic about doing this, is given how much energy we spend thinking of all the negative what-ifs, why not spend quarter of the time thinking the other way around? Ironically and obviously, the What-if monster came right back up. I pushed it away and tried imagining how I would feel if I did pass my prelim exam. Well, as is typical of me I have this whole speech for my advisor written up in my head about how thankful I would be to him. Here's where I wished I believed in God. Believed that they would ensure I am fine. But maybe for now, I am my own God, my own torturer, my own believer.

This is not to say that I did not have a few good days or a few good weeks.

I saw one of my closest friends, someone who knows the ins and outs and all possible details of my life after 4 years. And that I have met her all of one time ever in my life and yet she means so much to me, that's incredible. To actually take a vacation, explore places and know that we aren't terrible when we are in person together was quite the relief.

I settled into the idea that my sister is around. The couch in her very comfortably lit living room has become an unruinable haven for working, the two attempts at my prelim from that couch are attestations to that. With her around, I got to celebrate Diwali for the first ever time since I came to the U.S. My God, I could cry. Diwali defines happiness in very inexplicable ways, and to do all that I associate with Diwali felt unbelievable.

And of course, my first ever publication. It was just a workshop, and just an extended abstract. And yet it felt unbelievable. They felt so familiar, I had read and referred to their papers so many times. That workshop made me feel and believe that I belong, in this community.  That is a feeling I can't quite ever get over. I want more of this, so much more. really really really am looking forward to more of that, I really want to use that to fuel my working in the future.

I started meditation again too. Even though my mind jumps hoping for immediate relief, I tell it to be patient and to be kind. I thus learned to slow down this year, which mostly manifested itself in my music, which was beautiful. I was able to let go, get out of my head, believe that I know the notes, and just sing, without worrying whether I would reach the high notes, or how my voice would sound. I just sang. It has been years, years since I sung that way. Though bad habits are hard to break, this one seems to be on its way to be broken.

This also showed up in my relationships. I realized that showing my vulnerabilities, make things better. I am no longer scared of people leaving me. I still have pent up anger about a few people I had to leave, but it seems more like anger at myself, that I hope I can iron out over time.

I read more than 30 books this year. All because of 15 minutes in the morning with Coffee, and 15 minutes right before bed. It got me through the worst of my anxiety, provided the escape I needed, the calm I sought, and brought my second favourite hobby back in the groove.

The last time my new year's post had this title, the year bent over backwards to ensure all hope was broken, or at least attempted to. I don't want to be superstitious about titles. This is indeed another year of hope. There is this new found drive in me. Maybe it's the third year push, maybe it's having narrowed down my research problem to some extent, maybe it is that I think this problem is MINE to solve. Whatever it is, I have this drive, this thrill that I am not ready to let go. If the antidepressants continue to work, my therapy kicks in and I do pass my prelims, I can effectively channel this drive to do what I have wanted to do for so long, what I have trained for.

If it doesn't happen... I don't know. I just don't know yet. I've had bad periods and I have gotten out of them. I guess I just have to hope I will get out of this one too. The optimistic part of me doesn't want to leave this on this note, but it's how I feel.

But something certainly good amidst all this uncertainty is I am finally going home after 2 years. I know for a fact, that I am going to be doing mental zoomies like an energized puppy. I get to see my parents and experience some familiarity. That can't be too bad, right?

In some ways, this post is a lot like what it feels like inside my head. Circular, a snake eating its own tail, weird back-propagation of arrows, reinforcement - negative and positive.

But I'm done. I'm ready to break free, of these shackles, from this cycle, this circular fear and never-ending inertia.

Here's to hope and Freddie Mercury.

Woman

You're never perfect, are you now? 

Sometimes slightly fatter than you ought to be, 

Sometimes just a little too skinny with no real ass or breasts to look at, 

Sometimes too bossy trampling over frail egos, 

Sometimes not leader enough to have ever made the best of that position. 

Sometimes too showy for a place you work at, 

Sometimes too plain to ever make a difference. 

All your mistakes, big or small,  

looked into with the zooming of a high powered microscope, 

Never good enough, never bad enough, 

It's not you, it's all you. 

Even if we dismiss all of this with a wave of our hand,  

We have now internalized this. 

Never to be satisfied with our decisions. 

Second guessing every step. 

Why is it that boys will always be boys 

With a paunch, barking orders, with no implicit requirement to care, 

No implicit requirement to display maternal love to people that aren't related to them, 

And girls are taught to grow up to be the perfect wife, perfect daughter in law, perfect mother? 

Why is it always the woman 

who has to take the pill? 

Wonder if her period is just late 

Or is it something else? 

Insert an IUD, deal with a pregnancy,  

And people continue to say,  

Who asked her to go have sex,  

Who asked her to taint her body,  

As though a woman has "no control" and "all control" over her body, 

As though that visceral pleasure is too much for a woman to experience,  

Much more than she will ever deserve. 

I'm so tired of only thinking about how I look, 

The hairs that pop up on my legs and on my chin, 

Forgetting completely how I feel and who I am, 

How much more of a person I really am, 

You take away my image from me, 

and I'm still here, I'll still exist. 

Don't scrutinize every inch of weight they gain, 

Every blemish that has appeared with pain, 

Every wrinkle that marks her golden age, 

Her "turkey neck", a sign of all the years that she looked up 

 at EVERY person who came along the way, 

To tell her she wasn't right, she wasn't ready, 

While she took those giant steps in the shadow of a giant man, unnoticed yet significant. 

Let her go crazy, 

Let her have a paunch or not, 

Let her have an ass or not, 

Let girls be girls too. 

Let her come out in the open, 

Let her cry as much as she likes, it doesn't make her any less of a human being, 

Let her voice not reach the ends of a large room, but her intention to lead stay strong, 

Hoist her on your shoulders, and tomorrow,  

Tomorrow, she will hoist ten of you on hers, 

Without a word of appreciation, because she has learnt to mark her own successes. 

That's the woman I know, staring into the mirror, 

Wondering if this could really be. 

That woman is you, 

That woman is me, 

Reminding herself that perfection is just a failed pursuit in this hollow hypocritical reality. 

Post-script: 

I apparently wrote this in October 2016, and by the way, I did NOT know the existence of the term "Turkey neck". Sheesh. I think it came up as a diss on one of the women senators or journalists or someone at the time, and I was so mad at the violation and acceptance of all things abnormal, how people used physical aspects of women to demean them when it has absolutely nothing to do with their work. 

I recently read Tyra Banks' book, and one of the things she harps about, which I realize is important - whether a woman does botox or not, wears makeup or not, it's completely her choice, it is about what makes her feel good, about what makes her feel comfortable. I myself am guilty of having judged women who were more feminine in the past, because I did not own my own and I was mad at them for letting down the community, which feels so stupid in retrospect.



This self-acceptance of my physical self and my femininity is fairly new to me. This anger too is very new to me and I don't always know what to do with it. But I think poetry helps me deal with expressing at least some part of it. Maybe I will begin to make more sense of things by writing about them.